CABINET CYCLOPÆDIA. (continued 4)

His troop of comedians did not long survive him. The theatre had been shut on his death, and not reopened till a fortnight after; when his widow, in contempt of decency, filled a part. She became manager; but was speedily deserted by the best actors, and soon after the use of the theatre was transferred to Lulli. Madame Molière applied to the king, and obtained the use of another; but within a few years this company no longer existed: amalgamated at first with that of the Marais, and soon after with that of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, there remained only one company of actors in France, called the king's troop. Molière's widow soon after married Guerin, an actor; her career was not reputable: frivolity and misconduct long deprived her of the public esteem. She continued to act till the 14th October, 1694, when she retired from the stage with a pension of 1000 livres. From this time she partly redeemed past errors by leading a perfectly respectable life till she died, 30th November, 1700. Of Molière's three children one only survived, a daughter. She was placed in a convent by her mother; but, resisting her wish to take the veil, she returned home. A grown up daughter interfered with madame Guerin's arrangements; and Molière's orphan child was unhappy and neglected. Unable to induce her mother to make any arrangement for her marriage, she allowed herself to be carried off by M. Claude Rachel, sieur de Montalant, a widower with four children, and forty-nine years of age. Her mother was soon reconciled; and they all together went to live at Argenton. Madame de Montalant died in 1723, at the age of fifty-seven. She had no children; and not only does the posterity of Molière no longer exist, but even the many descendants of his numerous brothers and sisters have left no trace—and the family of Poquelin is extinct.

LA FONTAINE

1621-1695

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

Jean de la Fontaine was born on the 8th day of July, 1621, at Château Thierry. Some of his biographers have maintained his pretensions to nobility with a silly zeal. His father, Jean de la Fontaine, was master or keeper of the royal domains in his district, which appears to have been an honourable charge. The youth of the poet gave no promise of his future success. He was remarkable only for his dulness, and a certain easy tractable good nature. His teachers pronounced him a well disposed but hopeless dunce; but his father, a very zealous and still more undiscerning admirer of poetry, resolved that he should cultivate the muses,—and poor La Fontaine laboured with all the complaisance of filial duty. His efforts were vain. He could not produce a rhyme,—he who afterwards rhymed with so much felicity and abundance,—and who alone, of all the poets of his country, before and since his time, has, by the disposition of his rhymes and the structure of his verses, completely vanquished the monotony of French versification.

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

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

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

Between the lyric spirit of the poet, and the energy of the declaimer, La Fontaine's dormant faculty was suddenly excited. For some days he could think of nothing but the odes of Malherbe. He read them, recited them, spoke of them, with an unconscious and comic disregard of time, place, and persons. He commenced immediately writing odes in imitation of his great idol; and the happy father, on beholding his first essay, wept for joy. But if La Fontaine had written nothing else, or if he had always adhered to the same model, he would have left only the proofs of his own mediocrity, and of his father's want of taste. The choice of Malherbe was as unhappy a mistake of his peculiar genius as his previous destination had been of his character. That poet's forced thoughts and lofty diction are directly opposed to the simple graces of expression and imagination which characterise La Fontaine. He fortunately discovered his mistake, and the secret of his strength, chiefly through the advice of a judicious friend. This was a man of cultivated mind, named Pintrel, translator of the letters of Seneca. His name and his translation would doubtless have sunk into oblivion, were they not thus associated with the early studies of La Fontaine, who, ever grateful to the memory of his guide and friend, republished the forgotten translation.

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

It is a curious fact that, as La Fontaine became more conversant with those antique and eternal models of true beauty, he disrelished the French literature of his own time. He went back from the age of Louis XIV. to that of Francis I., preferring the simple and undisciplined manner of the one to the civilised, fastidious, and artificial system of the other. The mere English reader will understand the nature and the justice of this preference, by imagining an English writer, of the reign of Charles II., discarding the wits of that reign for the redundant and unadulterated literature of Elizabeth or Henry VIII.; and they who understand the ancient classics in their spirit and genius, not in external forms, will not be surprised by their producing this effect. The true antique is simple and indulgent, as well as elegant, noble, and governed by rules. It should not be forgotten, or lost sight of, however, that at this period the French literature of the age of Louis XIV. had not yet reached its distinctive character and excellence. The Balzacs, Voitures, and Cotins, with their conceits and mannerisms, had not yet been banished by the force of satire, and the example of better taste in Boileau and Molière. Boileau had not yet written his satires and art of poetry; Molière had not yet dissected, and exposed on the stage, the verses of an admired court poet of the day.[47]

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

Wholly ignorant of the Greek language in his youth, he was too indolent to acquire it at a later period. Translations, and the help of a friend, named Maucroix, who aided him in his studies, like Pintrel, supplied this defect,—as far as it could be supplied. La Fontaine, in return, associated Maucroix, a good scholar, an indifferent poet, and a true friend, with his own immortality, in his letters and minor poems. It may be observed, that, when he resorts to the Greek writers, he seizes their spirit with a justness which would imply a knowledge of their language. This is ascribed to his early intimacy with Racine, who was the most accomplished Greek scholar of his country, and explained as well as translated several portions of the Greek classics for the use of his friend. La Fontaine chiefly delighted in Plutarch and Plato. His partiality to the former may be easily conceived. The lives of Plutarch were calculated to charm his indolence and his imagination. There is something not quite so obvious in his choice of Plato. But the attentive reader will discover, in his fables and tales, traits of observation and ethical philosophy the most profound, as well as ingenious,—worthy of Plato, or of Machiavelli,—yet so happily disposed, and so simply expressed, as to appear perfectly in their place. The abbé Olivet mentions his having seen a copy of Plato once possessed by La Fontaine, and noted by him in such a manner as to betray the source of many of his maxims and observations.

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

La Fontaine continued some years at Château Thierry, obscure and indolent,—neglecting his charge, his family, and his fortune,—reading his favourite authors, writing verse, and translating Terence. The preface to his poem of "Adonis," and its being composed in heroic verse, for which he had an early predilection, would imply that it was written during this period. Most of his other earlier verses have been lost through his neglect of the manuscripts; but, judging by some early pieces given in his posthumous works, their disappearance is scarcely to be regretted.

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

The latter, having no alternative, drew in his own defence; and, with his superior address as a military man, disarmed the poet at the first pass. He now obtained an explanation. "They have told me," said La Fontaine, "that I ought to fight you, because you go to my house to see my wife." "My dear friend," replied the captain, who was past the age of gallantry, and, having neither family nor occupations, sought, in his visits, only an escape from ennui, "you have been abused, and I slandered: but, to set your mind quite at ease, I will never again cross your threshold, grievous as the privation is to me." "No, my friend," rejoined the poet, "I have satisfied them by fighting you, as they advised me, and henceforth you shall come to my house more frequently than ever." This anecdote is scarce reconcilable with the maxims of one who reduced the question of conjugal fidelity to the following dilemma:—"Quand on ne le scait pas, ce n'est rien—quand on le scait c'est peu de choses." But it has passed without question in every biographical notice of him.

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

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

La Fontaine, they add, accordingly, like the husband in Belphegor, took occasion to absent himself as often and as long as he could. Others, again, assert that the lady was gentle as she was beautiful, and that her husband bore testimony to her good qualities of temper expressly, as well as to her taste, by submitting to her his poetical labours. It may be said, that the neglect and absences of such a husband as La Fontaine form no presumption against the conjugal temper of his wife. Some anecdotes related of his negligence and distractions startle belief. Despatched by his father to Paris, on business the most important and most urgent, he met a friend, dined with him, went to the play with him, supped with him, took up his lodging for the night in his house, and returned to Château Thierry next day. "Well, you have arranged every thing satisfactorily?" said the father. La Fontaine opened wide his eyes in astonishment. He had wholly forgotten the matter till that moment! Going to Paris on another occasion, with papers, upon which depended his private fortune and his public charge, he was overtaken by the postman. "Monsieur," said the latter, "has dropped some papers on the way." "No, no," replied the poet. But the other, knowing with whom he had to do, or having discovered from the papers to whom they belonged, requested him to examine his saddle-bags; upon which he remembered, for the first time, that he even had papers to lose. In his reveries and distractions, he was unconscious not only of the lapse of time but of the inclemency of the weather. He loved reading and musing in the open air. The duchess of Bouillon left him one morning, with a Livy in his hand, pacing up and down between two rows of trees. On her return in the evening she found him still pacing and reading in the same place. What made this the more extraordinary was a heavy fall of rain in the interim, and La Fontaine having all the time had his head uncovered.

He probably owed, and the world owes it, to his acquaintance with the duchess of Bouillon, that he did not pass his life idly and obscurely at Château Thierry. This lady was one of the celebrated Mancinis, nieces of Cardinal Mazarin. She inherited her uncle's ambition, sagacity, and love of intrigue: she shared with her sisters wit, gaiety, and the graces; and, with her family, a taste for literature. Whilst living in court disgrace at Château Thierry, some verses of La Fontaine happened to meet her eye. She immediately had the poet introduced to her, and soon became his friend. She had, it is said, the merit of discerning not only his genius but its peculiar bent. La Fontaine had yet written neither tales nor fables. She advised him to devote himself to simple and playful narrations in verse. His first tales in point of time, and some of the first in point of merit, are said to have been composed by him according to her suggestions, both of the matter and the manner. He is supposed indebted to her for that grace and delicacy of perception and expression which he combined with so much of simplicity and nature. He lived in her intimate society, and that alone must have been a great advantage to him. The conversation of a woman who knew the world, loved poetry, and judged of both with discernment, must have been the best school for one so simple and inexperienced, yet so ingenious and inspired, as La Fontaine.

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

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

Their breaches of court discipline subjected them frequently to mitigated imprisonments,—sometimes at their own seats, sometimes in a convent, where the offence demanded a more serious lesson of penance and reform. Having been on one occasion consigned to the same convent they amused themselves by putting ink into the holy water. The nuns, who on their way to matins and vespers dipped their fingers in the font, and crossed their foreheads with the sacred lymph, on meeting in the chapel, beheld upon each other's brows, with surprise and terror, the dark signs of reprobation.

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

Soon after his arrival in Paris he formed that union of friendship between him, Molière, Boileau, and Racine, which death only interrupted. These celebrated men appreciated his genius, before it yet received the stamp of public admiration, and always regarded him with affection. Boileau and Racine, indeed, amused themselves with his simplicity, and treated him sometimes with a certain air of protection. The conversation happening to turn one evening, at a supper party where they were, upon the dramatic probability of what are called stage whispers or "asides," La Fontaine said it was absurd to suppose that what was heard by the whole audience could escape a person on the stage. A discussion ensued, as it commonly happened when any question of art or literature was started, even in the highest circles,—so different from modern fashionable life. "Don't you think La Fontaine a great rogue?" said Boileau, to his nearest neighbour, aside, but loud enough to be heard, and laughed at by everybody except La Fontaine, who was thinking of something else. The argument, as well as the laugh, was immediately turned against him; but most illogically, for the fact proved not the reasonableness of "asides;" it was evidence only of La Fontaine's distractions. "Let them laugh," said Molière, "le bon homme will take a flight beyond them—(le bon homme ira plus loin qu'eux)." This prediction has been verified; La Fontaine's reputation has been uniformly spreading and rising, in spite of the disposition, even in France, during and since the latter half of the last century, to detract from the age of Louis XIV. It is worth remarking, with reference to this anecdote, that, of all the poets of that age, he and Molière alone have maintained their pre-eminence undisputed through every change of taste and time.

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

The most imperative of all motives, however, the want of money, sometimes sent him to Château Thierry, for the purpose of selling part of his estate, to provide for his expenses at Paris. His improvident practice, of consuming the principal after the interest was gone, "mangant son fonds aprez son revenu," as he himself expressed it, together with his wife's want of economy—for in this at least they perfectly agreed,—would have soon left him destitute, if he had not become known to the celebrated and unfortunate Foucquet. That prodigal financier and magnificent patron, upon being made acquainted with the genius, character, and wants of La Fontaine, settled on him a liberal pension, to be paid quarterly, on the condition of a quarterly quittance in verse; and this condition he religiously fulfilled. His pension, or rather his gratitude, dictated to him some of the most beautiful of his smaller pieces. He celebrated and ministered to the fêtes and gallantries, and sang the groves, gardens, and fountains, of Vaux,—that princely residence, which Foucquet adorned with all that wealth, prodigality, and the arts could produce; and which, it has been supposed, contributed not a little to his ruin, by provoking the jealous or envious pride of Louis XIV.

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

Foucquet provoked, not only the displeasure, but the personal jealousy and vengeance of Louis XIV., by rivalling him in princely magnificence at Vaux; and in gallantry, it has been said, by making pretensions to the royal mistress La Vallière[48]; yet had La Fontaine not only the generosity to adhere to him, but the courage, for such it was, to solicit his pardon of Louis XIV., in an elegy full of touching pathos and philosophy. Alluding to the fickleness of fortune and court favour, he says:—

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

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

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

He joined in the universal pæan of the day to Louis XIV. His tale of "Psyche and Cupid" is disfigured by episodic descriptions of the magnificence of Versailles, with a due seasoning of compliment to the great king; but he continued unpatronised, even after the death of Colbert, whose injustice to La Fontaine is a stain upon his otherwise illustrious memory. The neglect, or, it may be termed, the exception of him by Louis, who was so munificent to other men of genius, has been accounted for.[49] That monarch admired and rewarded only those talents which ministered to his pride or his pleasures—to the splendours of his court or government. He had a taste only for the grand, the gorgeous, and the adulatory. Boileau owed the royal favour to two indifferent odes much more than to his satires, epistles, art of poetry, and Lutrin; and Molière, to those court ballets in which Louis danced, rather than to his dramatic chefs d'œuvre. Louis XIV. had the same distaste for La Fontaine as a poet and Teniers as a painter; and, from the same principle,—he could not admire humble subjects, treated in a true and simple, however charming, style. He would not condescend to understand the language of "Jean Lapin" and "Maître Corbeau." La Fontaine offered him incense in his way; but it was not of the kind acceptable to the idol; and he continued neglected, even when, in an evil hour, he sang the revocation of the edict of Nantes. La Fontaine was also in bad odour with the intriguing devotees of the court; and Louis, a weak bigot, with all his arrogance and pride, may have been indisposed towards him on this account, from their suggestions or his own.

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

It appears to have been his fortune to be indebted to the discernment and kindness of women. Among the persons uniting high rank to a taste for literature, with whom he became acquainted at Paris, was madame de la Sablière. This accomplished and kind-hearted woman, perceiving La Fontaine's utter inability to regulate the economy of the simplest household, relieved him of all care at once by giving him an apartment in her house. Here he passed twenty (the happiest) years of his life, relieved from all anxiety,—his wants supplied, and his humour indulged, with the utmost attention and kindness. Some of his pieces are dedicated to his benefactress, and he has celebrated her name in verse, but with reserve and delicacy. Madame de la Sablière had the good taste to control the poet's expression of his feelings in their particular relation to each other.

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

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

La Fontaine added considerably to the number of his fables and tales, and wrote several dramatic pieces, whilst he lived under the roof of madame de la Sablière. His dramas, chiefly operas and light comedies, with an attempt or two at tragedy, are below mediocrity. He wanted the dramatic instinct. There are scenes of easy graceful dialogue, but strung together without art or interest. Some were written by him in partnership with the comedian Champmélé, husband of the celebrated actress of that name, who played in the tragedies and figures in the life of Racine, and in the letters of madame de Sévigné. It is told of him that, whilst sitting in the pit, during the first performance of one of his own operas, he fell asleep! But this is too much, even for La Fontaine; and it should not be forgotten, that an opera was the cause of the only satire he ever wrote, and of one of the only two quarrels he ever had. The celebrated Lulli obtained his easy promise to write him an opera on the story of Daphne, teased him until it was completed, and then capriciously adopted the "Proserpine" of Quinault. La Fontaine, now an old man, or, as he called himself, "un enfant à barbe grise," a child with a grey beard, knew, for the first time, what it was to feel personal resentment, and wrote the satire entitled "Le Florentin." It is merely a narrative of the affair between him and Lulli, in the manner of his tales. But he was soon and easily reconciled; and he complained afterwards that the little gall in him was stirred by others on the occasion.

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

He certainly wrote fewer tales henceforth; but it is doubtful whether this did not proceed more from indolence than the promise of reformation. The private sittings of the academy, also, "diverted" him, as he expressed it, during those hours which he before consumed in diverting himself with writing verse. His becoming a member of the academy led to his second and last quarrel, and in a manner truly worthy of La Fontaine. This authentic fact goes a great way in establishing the credit of other anecdotes deemed untrue or exaggerated from their improbability. The French academy was at this time engaged in its great undertaking of a dictionary which should fix the French language. The abbé Furetière, then a popular writer, and one of "the forty," announced a dictionary of the French language in his own name. He was immediately charged with pirating the common stock. A ferment was excited in the academy, and throughout the republic of letters in France. Furetière, publicly arraigned, defended himself with keen and virulent personalities, and, after several discussions, was expelled. La Fontaine was one of the minority in his favour, and meant to give him his vote; but unluckily, in one of his usual distractions, dropped his ball, by mistake, in the rejecting compartment of the balloting-box. Furetière would not pardon the blunder, and attacked him bitterly. After an exchange of epigrams, which did credit to neither. La Fontaine thought of the affair no more; but was never reconciled.

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

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

The stories of his careless apathy, and absences of mind, are numberless. Meeting, at a large dinner party, a young man with whose conversation he seemed pleased, somebody asked his opinion of him. "He is a young man of sense and promise," said La Fontaine. "Why, it is your own son," said the questioner. "Ah! I am very glad of it," rejoined the father, with the utmost indifference. He had forgotten that he even had a son; who fortunately had been taken charge of and educated by others. La Fontaine treated religion with the same indifference as all other subjects, however serious. Racine took him one day to an extraordinary service, on one of the festivals of the Roman catholic church. Knowing that the service would be long, and apprehending the effect upon La Fontaine, he gave him a small bible to read, as a preventative against sleeping, or some other indecorum. The book happening to open before him at the lesser prophets, his attention soon became wholly absorbed by the prayer of the Jews in Baruch. It took the same possession of his imagination in his advanced age as the ode of Malherbe in his youth. His first question to everybody was, "Have you read Baruch? Do you know he was a man of genius?" This was his common expression for some time to all whom he met, without distinction of persons, from a buffoon to a bishop.

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

The humour and fancy which abound in his tales, and his reputation among the men of genius of his time, made him an object of curiosity. He was sought and shown in company as "a lion," if one may use that ephemeral term. A farmer-general invited a large party "to meet the celebrated La Fontaine." They came prepared to hear him talk like "Joconde," or tell such stories as "The Matron of Ephesus." Poor La Fontaine eat, drank, never opened his mouth for any other purpose, and soon rose, to attend, he said, a meeting of the academy. "The distance is short: you will be too early," said the host. "I'll take the longest way," replied La Fontaine. Madame de la Sablière at one time discharged her whole establishment whilst La Fontaine was residing in her house. "What!" said somebody, "have you kept none?" "None," replied the lady, "except mes trois bêtes[50],—my cat, my dog, and La Fontaine." Such was her idea of his thoughtless and more than childish simplicity. It will hardly cause surprise that such a man never had a study or a library. He read and wrote when and where he felt disposed; and never thought of being provided with any other books than those he was immediately using.

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

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

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

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

His state soon became so alarming that he was called upon to make a general confession, preparatory to his receiving the sacrament. Certain reparations and expiations were to be previously made; and father Poujet, with all his logic and adroitness, had some difficulty in obtaining them. The first sacrifice required of him was, that he should abandon the proceeds of an edition of his tales, then publishing under his direction in Holland; the publication of them in France having been prohibited since 1677. He readily consented for himself; but wished to make over the profits to the poor, as more consonant with humanity, and more grateful in the eyes of God, than yielding them to a griping rogue of a Dutch publisher. The priest convinced him that "the wages of sin" could not with propriety be applied to the service of God and of charity. He gave up the point; and such was the satisfaction caused by his conversion at court, that a sum, equal to what he should have received for his tales, was sent to him in the name of the young duke of Burgundy, "who thought it unreasonable that La Fontaine should be the poorer for having done his duty." According to some accounts, this would appear to be the same donation of fifty louis already mentioned; and it is most probable. The devotees of the court were much more likely to reward the conversion than relieve the distress of La Fontaine, at a time when the tone was given by père la Chaise and madame de Maintenon.

He was next required to consign to the flames, with his own hands, a manuscript opera, which he intended to have performed. The sacrifice was not consented to without some qualms of authorship, even by La Fontaine. The last condition was the hardest of all,—that he should ask pardon of God and the church, publicly, for having scandalised both in the publication of his tales. La Fontaine, with all his indolence and simplicity, and enfeebled as he was by sickness and age, resisted the demand of a public reparation, in spite of all the arguments and artifices of the confessor. It was agreed between them to appeal to the sorbonne. A deputation of three doctors accordingly waited on La Fontaine, and took part, as might be anticipated, with the confessor. They argued and disputed, but the poet still held out against making satisfaction publicly. An old nurse, who attended him, seeing the pitiless zeal with which they fatigued and teased the poor poet, said to them. "Don't torment him, my reverend fathers; it is not ill-will in him, but stupidity, poor soul; and God Almighty will not have the heart to damn him for it." They, however, did persevere, and gained their point. A deputation from the academy was called in to witness La Fontaine's public reparation, given as follows by Nicéron:—"It is but too public and notorious that I have had the misfortune to compose a book of infamous tales. In composing it I had no idea of the work being so pernicious as it proves to be. My eyes have been opened, and I confess that it is an abominable book: I am most sorry that I ever wrote and published it; and I ask pardon of God and the church for having done so. I wish the work had never proceeded from my pen, and it were in my power wholly to suppress it. I promise solemnly, in the presence of my God, whom, though unworthy, I am going to receive, that I will never contribute to the impression or circulation of it: and I renounce, now and for ever, all profit from an edition which I unfortunately consented should be given in Holland."

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

There was, however, nothing very surprising either in Pelisson dying like a sinner, or La Fontaine like a saint. The former, from being a huguenot, became a convert, and a maker of converts, a pensioned abbe, a courtier, an author of "Prayers at Mass," "Amatory Verses to Olympia," "a Treatise on the Eucharist;" there was nothing extraordinary or inconsistent in such a man dying, as he did, "unsacramented." It was equally within the range of probability that La Fontaine, never an infidel, always tractable and simple, and now beset on his bed of sickness by learned and skilful disputants, should make so devout and edifying an end. It should not be omitted that his conversion made the fortune of father Poujet: he immediately became a fashionable confessor, or spiritual director, and obtained church preferment.

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

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

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

La Fontaine died in 1695, and in the seventy-fourth year of his age. Upon undressing his body, after death, it was found that he mortified himself in a shirt of sackcloth. The apartment in which he lived and died, at the house of madame d'Hervart, was visited as an interesting object for several years after.

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

La Fontaine had one tone in which he was pre-eminent; but sang in more than one without producing bad music. The poem of "Adonis" has great beauty. It should be regarded, he says, only as an idyl; and it will, undoubtedly, be found one of the most beautiful of that class. But it had the further merit of being the first accomplished specimen of heroic verse in France; for Boileau had not yet given his "Lutrin." The mythological tale of "Psyche and Cupid," in which prose and verse alternate and relieve each other, continues to be read, notwithstanding the modern unpopularity of the divinities of the Pantheon. He is indebted to Apuleius, but only for the fable and main incident: the episodes, description, and manner of narrating ("manière de conter," as he calls it), are his own. The celebrated and forgotten romance of "Astrea" was one of the books which La Fontaine read with pleasure; and he is said to have derived from it that tone of pastoral sentiment and imagery which is one of the charms of "Psyche" and of some of his other pieces. It is probable, however, that he is under lighter obligations both to Apuleius and the "Astrea" than to the duchess of Bouillon, to whom he dedicated his tale. Living at the time in her intimate society, it was composed by him, under her inspiration, in that style of gaiety, tenderness, gallantry, and refinement, which he has combined with so much of simplicity and fancy. The faults of this mythological, or, according to some, allegorical tale, as it is treated by La Fontaine, are its description of Versailles, some fatiguing digressions, and a certain indolent voluptuary languor. The result is, occasionally, that most fatal of all wants—the want of interest.

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

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

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

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

An anonymous volume of English fables, imitated from La Fontaine, appeared in 1820. It is attributed to a practised and distinguished writer both in prose and verse[51]; and might pass for a most successful version, if the original were not directly and unluckily contrasted with it in the opposite page. The reader will be more informed by comparing a short extract from each than by pages of dissertation.

This citation is made, not to censure the English version, but to prove the unattainable charm of La Fontaine's manner,—that manner or style which he invented; his close adherence to truth and nature; the art with which he veils the wildest improbabilities under a probable, consistent, or humorous air; his power of combining levity of tone with depth of observation, and the utmost simplicity with the utmost finesse. It is known that La Fontaine observed the characters, habits, attitudes, and expression of the brute creation with a view to his fables. Whilst he endows his brute heroes with speech and thought, one never loses the image of their kind;—whilst the flatterer gulls his dupe, and even when he concludes with giving him the moral by way of compensation, one never loses sight of the fox and raven: but under the touch of the translator, and indeed of all other fabulists but La Fontaine, they receive the human form with the human attributes.

La Fontaine's fables are reputed perfect in every sense, poetical and moral. Two faults are imputed to his tales; the one venial and even questionable, the other most serious, and past all doubt. His narration, it is said, is sometimes careless and diffuse. This has offended the fastidious technical taste of some of his countrymen; but to others his easy, indolent, copious, rambling effusion is an additional charm. The second fault of his tales, their licentiousness, is unpardonable. He imbibed it, most probably, from the perusal and imitation of Rabelais, Clement Marot, Boccaccio, and Ariosto, and confounded it with their gaiety. But, in adopting the freedom of their pleasantries, he has discarded their grossness. His indecorous allusions are conveyed with infinite finesse and ingenuity of expression, and he must be acquitted of all intention to corrupt—of the consciousness even of a corrupting tendency. No inference unfavourable to him is to be drawn from their condemnation and prohibition at the request of the sorbonne. The sin of his tales, and that which he was called on to expiate, was not their immorality, but the liberties which, like his models, he took occasionally with monks, nuns, and confessors. It is but justice to him to state his own vindication. He urged the example of the ancients; and the necessity of a certain tone of gaiety and freedom in familiar tales, without which they would want their essential grace and charm. "He who would reduce," says he, "Ariosto and Boccaccio to the modesty of Virgil would assuredly not be thanked for his pains—(ne ferait assurément rien qui vaille)." An enervating tender melancholy is, he says, much more injurious. His only object, he protests, was to procure the reader a passing smile; and, for his part, he could not comprehend how the reading of his tales should have a bad effect upon others when the composition had none upon him."

But can it be true, or possible, that this enchanting fabulist was not merely subject to absences and musings, but the dullest of mortals in conversation;—his thoughts and expressions alike clumsy and confused? Two, the most positive testimonies, will suffice, out of many. The daughter of Racine, who had seen him frequently at her father's table, described him as "slovenly, stupid, and talking of nothing but Plato." La Bruyère obviously meant the following character for him:—"A man appears—clumsy, heavy, stupid. He cannot talk, or even tell what he has just seen. If he sits down to write, he produces the model of tales. He endows with speech brutes, trees, stones,—all to which nature has denied speech; and all is levity, elegance, beauty, nature, in his works."[52] These testimonies, though so positive, are far from conclusive. The lady had no taste for Plato, and La Bruyère's style of portraiture, always overcharged, seems particularly so in this instance, where his object was contrast and effect. La Fontaine may have fallen into reveries and solecisms in the company of his friends; he may have been silent and dull at the table of a financier, where he was among strangers to be stared at; but his society would not have been sought and prized, not only by the Molières, Boileaus, and Racines, but by the Condés, Contis, and Villars, and in the distinguished circles of mesdames de Bouillon, Mazarin, and La Sablière were the charm of his writings wholly wanting in his conversation. His writings would have been admired, and their author neglected, as in the case of Corneille, were his conversation equally common-place and uninteresting. La Fontaine probably was dull to those who neither understood nor were understood by him. He was La Fontaine, the charming fabulist, only when the subjects and the society interested him; and those around him could, by mutual intelligence, bring his genius into play. Goldsmith, in the same manner, was depreciated by persons who did not understand him. Topham Beauclerk, a man of wit and fashion about town, thought his conversation absurd and dull; but Edmund Burke found in it the poet and observer of mankind. The admiration of Horace and Varus, and the society of Mæcenas and Augustus, did not protect Virgil's simplicity of character from being sneered at by the court satirists and petits-maîtres of his time. The well-known description of him by Horace is not without resemblance to La Fontaine's character.

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

PASCAL

1623-1662

Bayle commences his life of Pascal, by declaring him to be one of the sublimest geniuses that the world ever produced; and every word we read confirms this judgment. He was as singular as he was great. He is, perhaps, the only instance of a man born with a natural genius for the exact sciences, who applied the subtlety and acuteness of his understanding to religious subjects, combining with close logical reasoning the utmost elegance and purity of style, and crowning all with so severe an adherence to what he considered the duties of a Christian as materially shortened his days. His life reads as one miracle: our admiration is perpetually excited,—may we own it?—our pity also. It is hard to say whether this be a just feeling. When we read of the simplicity and singleness of his character, of his sublime powers of self-denial, of his charity, his humility, and his patience, we feel that he as nearly approached his divine Master, as any man on record has ever done. But when we reflect on divine goodness, on the mission of the Redeemer, on the blessings with which God has gifted us—we cannot believe that we are sent here for the mere purpose of mortifying all our natural inclinations, or of spending our whole thoughts in preparation for a future life, except as virtue and piety are preparations. Man was born to be happy through the affections—to enjoy the beauty and harmony of the visible creation—to find delight in the exercise of his faculties, and the fulfilment of his social duties; and when to this is added a spirit of pious resignation, and a wish to be acceptable to God—we may rest satisfied: this state of mind not being so easy to attain, and not exaggerate our duties, till life becomes the prison and burden that Pascal represents it to be. Still it is with reverence that we venture to criticise a virtue that transcends the common nature of man. Pascal stands an example of the catholic principles of morality, and shows the extent to which self-denial can be carried by an upholder of that faith. Added to this, is the interest we take in the history of one who, from his birth, gave token of talents of a very uncommon order. The wonders recorded of his childhood are too well authenticated to admit of a doubt, while certainly they are not exceeded by any other prodigy, the achievements of whose premature genius have been handed down.

The family of Pascal was of Auvergne: it had been ennobled by Louis XI. in 1478, in the person of a maître des requêtes; and, since that epoch, various members of it had filled distinguished situations in Auvergne, and were respected for their virtues as much as for their birth. Étienne Pascal was first president to the court of aids of Clermont-Ferrand. He married a lady named Antoinette Bégon; of the four children born to him by her, three survived—two were daughters: the son, Blaise, was born at Clermont on the 19th of June, 1623. Étienne was left a widower while his children were yet infants; and from that time devoted himself to their education. 1626. Ætat. 3. The extraordinary and premature talents of Blaise soon displayed themselves. From the moment he could speak, his repartees excited admiration, and still more, his eager questionings on the causes of all things, which displayed acuteness as well as curiosity. His excellent father, perceiving these early marks of talent, was eager to dedicate his whole time to his education, so that he resolved to be his only master in the learned languages and the sciences. 1631. Ætat. 9. He accordingly gave up his public situation to his brother, and removed to Paris. His daughters shared his paternal cares; he taught them Latin, and caused them to apply themselves to the acquirement of knowledge; believing that, by inciting them to bestow their attention early on subjects worthy their inquiry, he should develope their talents, and give them habits of intellectual industry, which he considered equally desirable in woman as man. With all this, he had no idea of making a prodigy of his son, or developing his talents prematurely. On the contrary, it was his maxim to keep the boy above his work; and he did not teach him Latin till he was twelve years old. But, while he refrained from exercising his memory by the routine of lessons, he enlarged his mind by conversation; and taught him the meaning and aim of grammar before he placed a grammar in his hands. This was a safe proceeding with a boy of Pascal's eminent capacity—it had probably rendered one less gifted indolent and forgetful.

The world at this time, awakening from a long state of barbarism, was seized by a sort of idolatry and hunger for knowledge, and learning was the fashion of the day. Men of talent devoted their whole lives to science, with an abnegation of every other pursuit unknown in the present age, and were honoured by the great and followed by their disciples with a reverence merited by their enthusiasm and diligence, as well as by the benefits they conferred on their fellow creatures, in enlarging their sphere of knowledge, and bringing from the chaos of ignorance, truth, or the image of truth, to the light of day. Descartes was one of the most celebrated of the Frenchmen of genius of that time. He was not content with being the most eminent mathematician of his age, but he combined a system of philosophy, which, though false, obtained vogue, and secured to him a greater temporary reputation than if he had merely enounced truths, independent of the magic of a theory. The war of his partisans and their antagonists spread his fame: geometry and mathematics obtained more attention than they had ever done; and discoveries were made that excited the ambition of every fresh student to penetrate further than his predecessors into the secrets of the system of the universe. Étienne Pascal found men in Paris, with whom he allied himself in friendship, deeply versed in physics and mathematics, and he also applied himself to these sciences. He associated with Roberval, Carcavi, Le Pailleur, and other scientific men of high reputation—they met at each other's house, and discussed the objects of their labours; they detailed their new observations and discoveries; they read the letters received from other learned men, either foreigners, or residing in the provinces: the ambition of their lives was centred in the progress of science; and the enthusiasm and eagerness with which they prosecuted their researches gave an interest to their conversations that awoke to intensity the curiosity of Pascal's almost infant son. Adding youthful fervour to abilities already competent to the formation of scientific combinations and accuracy, the young Blaise desired to make discoveries himself in causes and effects. A common phenomenon in sound obtained his earliest attention. He observed that a plate, if struck by a knife, gave forth a ringing sound, which he stilled by putting his hand on the plate. 1635. Ætat. 12. At the age of twelve he wrote a little treatise to account for this phenomenon, which was argued with acuteness and precision. His father wished, however, to turn his mind from the pursuits of science, considering the study of languages as better suited to his age; and he resolved that the boy should no longer be present at the philosophical meetings. Blaise was in despair: to console him, he was told that he should be taught geometry when he had acquired Latin and Greek: he asked, eagerly, what geometry was? His father informed him, generally, that it was the science which teaches the method of making exact figures, and of finding out the proportions between them. He commanded him at the same time neither to speak nor think on the subject more. But Blaise was too inquiring and too earnest to submit to this rule. He spent every moment of leisure in meditation upon the properties of mathematical figures. He drew triangles and circles with charcoal on the walls of his playroom, giving them such names as occurred to him as proper, and thus began to teach himself geometry, seeking to discover, without previous instruction, all the combinations of lines and curves, making definitions and axioms for himself, and then proceeding to demonstration: and thus, alone and untaught, he compared the properties of figures and the relative position of lines with mathematical precision.

One day his father came by chance into the room, and found his son busy drawing triangles, parallelograms, and circles: the boy was so intent on his work that he did not hear his father enter; and the latter observed him for some time in silence: when at last he spoke, Blaise felt a sort of terror at being discovered at this forbidden occupation, which equalled his father's wonder at perceiving the objects of his attention. But the surprise of the latter increased, when, asking him what he was about, Blaise explained in language invented by himself, but which showed that he was employed in solving the thirty-second proposition of Euclid. His father asked him, how he came to think of such a question: Blaise replied, that it arose from another he had proposed to himself; and so going back step by step as to the figures that had excited his inquiry, he showed that he had established a chain of propositions deduced from axioms and definitions of his own adoption, which conducted him to the proposition in question (that the three angles of every possible triangle are equal to two right angles). The father was struck almost with fear at this exhibition of inborn genius; and, without speaking to the boy, hurried off to his intimate friend M. le Pailleur; but when he reached his house he was unable to utter a single word, and he stood with tears in his eyes, till his friend, fancying some misfortune had occurred, questioned him anxiously, and at length the happy parent found tongue to declare that he wept for joy, not sorrow. M. le Pailleur was not less astonished when the circumstances narrated were explained to him, and of course advised the father to give every facility for the acquirement of knowledge to one so richly gifted by nature. Euclid, accordingly, was put into the boy's hands as an amusement for his leisure hours. Blaise went through it by himself, and understood it without any explanation from others.[53] From this time he was allowed to be present at all the scientific meetings, and was behind none of the learned men present in bringing new discoveries and solutions, and in enouncing satisfactory explanations of any doubtful and knotty point. Truth was the passion of his soul; and, added to this, was a love of the positive, and a perception of it, which in the exact sciences led to the most useful results. At the age of sixteen he wrote an "Essay on Conic Sections," which was regarded as a work that would bestow reputation on an accomplished mathematician; so that Descartes, when he saw it, was inclined rather to believe that Pascal, the father, had written it himself, and passed it off as his son's, than that a mere child should have shown himself capable of such strength and accuracy of reasoning. The happy father, however, was innocent of any such deceit; and the boy, proceeding to investigate yet more deeply the science of numbers and proportions, soon gave proof that he was fully capable of having written the work in question.

Étienne Pascal was rewarded for all his self-devotion by the genius of his son. His daughters also profited by his care, and became distinguished at once by their mental accomplishments and their personal beauty. A disaster that occurred, which at first disturbed the happiness of the family, tended in the end to establish it, and to bring into greater notice the talents and virtues of the individuals of which it was composed.

1638. Ætat. 15.

The finances of the government being at a low ebb, through mismanagement and long wars, the minister, cardinal de Richelieu, sought to improve them by diminishing the rate of interest towards the public creditor. Of course this act excited considerable discontent among holders of public stock; riots ensued, and some men, in consequence, were imprisoned in the Bastille. Among these was a friend of Étienne Pascal, who openly and warmly defended him, while he cast considerable blame on several government functionaries, and in particular the chancellor Séguier. This imprudence endangered his own liberty; he heard that he was threatened with arrest, and to avoid it left Paris, and for several months hid himself in Auvergne. He had many friends however among noble patrons of learning, and the duchess d'Aiguillon, in particular, interested herself in his favour. Richelieu, as is well known, was very fond of theatrical representations, and a tragi-comedy by Scuderi, was got up for his amusement. Jaqueline Pascal, then only fourteen years old, was selected to fill one of the parts: she at first refused, saying that the cardinal gave them too little pleasure for her to try to contribute to his; but the duchess saw hopes for the father's recall in the daughter's exertions, and persuaded Jaqueline to undertake the part. She acted charmingly, and at the end of the piece approached the cardinal, and recited some verses written for the occasion, asserting the innocence of her father, and entreating the cessation of his exile. The cardinal delighted, took her in his arms, and kissing her again and again, said, "Yes, my child, I grant your request; write to your father, that he may safely return." 1639. Ætat. 16. The duchess followed up the impression by an eulogium on Pascal, and by introducing Blaise; "He is but sixteen," she said, "but he is already a great mathematician." Jaqueline saw that the cardinal was favourably inclined; and with ready tact, added, that she had another request to prefer. "Ask what you will, my child," said the minister, "I can refuse you nothing." She begged that her father, on his return, might be permitted personally to thank the cardinal. This also was granted; and the family reaped the benefit. The cardinal received the exile graciously; and, two years after, named him intendant of Normandy at Rouen. Étienne removed with his family, in consequence, to that city. He filled the situation for seven years, enjoying the highest reputation for integrity and ability. About the same time, his daughter, Gilberte, formed an advantageous marriage with M. Périer, who had distinguished himself in a commission entrusted to him by the government in Normandy, and who afterwards bought the situation of counsellor to the court of aids of Clermont-Ferrand.

1641. Ætat. 18.

Blaise, meanwhile, was absorbed in scientific pursuits. To the acquisition of Latin and Greek was added the study of logic and physics; every moment of his time was occupied—and even during meals the work of study went on. Charmed with the progress his son made, and his apparent facility in learning, the father was blind to the ill-effects that such constant application had on his health: at the age of eighteen, Pascal began to droop; the indisposition he suffered was slight, and he did not permit it to interfere with his studies; but neglected, and indeed increased, it at last entirely disorganised his fragile being. From that hour he never passed a single day free from pain. Repose, taken at intervals, mitigated his sufferings; but when better he eagerly returned to study—and with study illness recurred.

1642. Ætat. 19.

His application was of the most arduous and intense description. At the age of nineteen he invented his arithmetical machine, considered one of the most wonderful discoveries yet put into practice. A machine capable of automatic combinations of numbers has always been a desideratum; and Pascal's was sufficiently well arranged to produce exact results—but it was very complex, expensive, and easily put out of order, and therefore of no general utility, though hailed by mathematicians as a most ingenious and successful invention. It cost him intense application, both for the mental combinations required, and the mechanical part of the execution:—his earnest and persevering study, and the great efforts of attention to which he put his brain, increased his ill health so much that he was obliged for a time to suspend his labours.

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

That Galileo should have missed a discovery as important as it was obvious, is the more remarkable from the circumstance of its having been actually suggested to him by one of his own pupils. A letter from Baliani to Galileo is extant, dated in 1630, in which the writer says that Galileo, in one of his letters to him, having taught him that air has sensible weight, and shown him how that weight might be measured, he argued from thence that the force necessary to produce a vacuum, was nothing more than the force necessary to remove the weight of the mass of atmosphere which presses round every object, just as water would press on any thing at the bottom of the sea.[54]

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

Various ways of further testing the evident inferences to be drawn from this beautiful experiment, were so obvious, that it is impossible to suppose the illustrious philosopher to whom we are indebted for it, would not have pursued the inquiry further, had not death, almost immediately after this, prematurely removed him. The experiment became known, and excited much interest in every part of Europe; and Mersenne, who had an extensive scientific correspondence, having received an account of Torricelli's investigation, communicated the particulars to Pascal. Always reluctant to surrender long established maxims, the philosophers of that day rejected the solution of the problem given by Torricelli, and still clung to the maxim that "nature abhors a vacuum." The sagacity of Pascal, however, could not be so enslaved by received notions; and he accordingly, assisted by M. Petit, applied himself to the discovery of some experimental test, of a nature so unanswerable as to set the question at rest. The result was the celebrated experiment on the Puy de Dôme, the first and most beautiful example of an "experimentum crucis" recorded in the history of physics.

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

1647. Ætat. 24.

Pascal had hardly escaped from boyhood at this time; his invention, his patience, the admirable system he pursued of causing all his opinions to be supported by facts and actual experiment, deserved the highest praise and honour. It is mortifying to have to record that his discovery was disputed. The jesuits accused him of plagiarism from the Italians; and Descartes declared, that he had first discovered the effects produced by the weight of the atmosphere, and suggested to Pascal the experiment made on the Puy de Dôme. 1651. Ætat. 28. Pascal treated these attacks the contempt which his innocence taught him that they deserved; and published an account of his experiments without making the slightest allusion to them. Descartes was a man of eminent genius—his industry and penetration often led him to make the happiest conjectures; but, more intent on employing his bold and often fortunate imagination in the fabrication of ingenious theories than on applying himself with patience and perseverance to the discovering the secrets of nature, he sometimes threw out a happy idea, which he did not take the pains to establish as a truth and a law. The honour of invention is due to those who seize the scattered threads of knowledge which former discoverers have left, and weave it into a continuous and irrefragable web. 1653. Ætat. 30. Pascal followed up his experiments with the utmost hesitation and care, only deciding when decision became self-evident. Two Treatises, one "On the Equilibrium of Liquids," another "On the Weight of the Atmosphere," which he subsequently wrote, though they were not published till after his death, display his admirable powers of observation, and the patient zeal with which he followed up his discoveries. At the time that he wrote these treatises he was engaged on others, on geometrical subjects: he did not publish them; and some have been irrecoverably lost. Every subject then interesting to men of science employed his active mind. His name had become well known: he was consulted by all the philosophers and mathematicians of the day, who proposed questions to him; and his thoughts were sedulously dedicated to the solution of the most difficult problems. But a change meanwhile had come over his mind, and he began to turn his thoughts to other subjects, and to resolve to quit his mathematical pursuits, and to dedicate himself wholly to the practice and study of religion.

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

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

Meanwhile the health of Pascal suffered severer attacks, and his frail body wasted away; so that before he attained the prime of life he fell into the physical debility of age. He resided at this time in Paris, with his father and his sister Jaqueline. To benefit his health, he was recommended to suspend his labours, to enjoy the recreations of society, and to take more exercise: accordingly, he made several tours in Auvergne and other provinces. 1651. Ætat. 28. The death of his father broke up the little family circle. Jaqueline Pascal had long entertained the desire of becoming a nun: on the death of her father she put her resolve in execution, and took the vows in the abbey of Port Royal aux Champs. 1653. Ætat. 30. The other sister resided with her husband at Clermont. Pascal, left to himself, devoted his time more earnestly than ever to studious pursuits, till the powers of nature failed; and he was forced, through utter inability, to abandon his studies. He took gentle exercise, and frequented society. Though serious even to melancholy, his conversation pleased by the depth of understanding and great knowledge that it displayed. Pascal himself felt the softening influence of sympathy: he began to take pleasure in society—he even contemplated marrying. Happy had it been for him if this healthy and sound view of human duties had continued: but an accident happened which confirmed him as a visionary—if we may apply that term to a man who in the very excess of religious zeal preserved the entire use of his profound arts of reasoning, and an absolute command over his will: yet when the circumstances of his exclusive dedication of himself to pious exercises are known, and we find that a vision forms one of them, that word cannot be considered unjust—nor is it possible to help lamenting that his admirable understanding had not carried him one step further, and taught him that asceticism has no real foundation in the beneficent plan of the Creator.