CABINET CYCLOPÆDIA. (continued 6)

We pause too long over these minutia. We turn over madame de Sévigné's pages: an expression, a detail strikes us; we are impelled to put it down; but the memoir grows too long, and we must curtail. She returned to Paris in August, 1685, and enjoyed for three years more the society of her daughter. 1687. Ætat. 61. During this period she lost her uncle, the abbé de Coulanges. "You know that I was under infinite obligations to him," she, writes to count de Bussy: "I owed him the agreeableness and repose of my life; and you owed to him the gladness that I brought to your society: without him we had never laughed together. You owe to him my gaiety, my good humour, my vivacity; the gift I had of understanding you; the ability of comprehending what you had said, and of guessing what you were going to say. In a word, the good abbé, by drawing me from the gulf in which M. de Sévigné had left me, rendered me what I was, what you knew me, and worthy of your esteem and friendship. I draw the curtain before the wrong you did me: it was great, but must be forgotten; and I must tell you that I have felt deeply the loss of this dear source of the peace of my whole life. He lived with honour, and died as a Christian. God give us the same grace! It was at the end of August that I wept him bitterly. I should never have left him, had he lived as long as myself."

1688. Ætat. 62.

The subsequent separation of mother and daughter renewed the correspondence. This division lasted only a year and a half, when madame de Sévigné repaired to Grignan, which she did not quit again. The letters written during these few months are very numerous and long. The growing charms and talents of Pauline de Grignan; the début of the young marquis de Grignan, who began his career at sixteen in the siege of Philipsburg; and the deep interest felt by both, is the first subject. The arrival of James II. in France, and the court news, which had the novelty of the English royal family being established at St. Germain, fills many of the letters. The account of the acting of Esther[76], which enlivened the royal pleasures; and her naïve delight at having been spoken to by the king is one of her most agreeable passages. Added to this pleasure was that of M. de Grignan receiving the order of the saint esprit. Soon after she repaired to Britany, where her time was spent partly at Rennes, with the duchess de Chaulnes, partly at the Rochers. Her absence from Paris was felt bitterly by her friends: her motive, the payment of her debts, was, however, appreciated and applauded; and she was at once mortified and gratified by the offer of a loan of money to facilitate her return. Madame de la Fayette wrote to make her the proposition; but the money was to come from her kind friend the duchess de Chaulnes. The proposal was made with some brusquerie: "You must not, my dear, at any price whatever, pass the winter in Britany. You are old; the Rochers are thickly wooded; catarrhs and colds will destroy you; you will get weary; your mind will become sad and lose its tone: this is certain; and all the business in the world is nothing in comparison. Do not speak of money nor of debts, I am to put an end to all that;" and then follows a proposition for her to take up her abode at the Hôtel de Chaulnes, and of the loan of a thousand crowns. "No arguments," the letter continues, "no words, no useless correspondence. You must come. I will not even read what you may write. In a word, you consent, or renounce the affection of your dearest friends. We do not choose that a friend shall grow old and die through her own fault." This tone of command gave pleasure to madame de Sévigné, though she at once refused to lay herself under the obligation. But there was a sting in the letter which she passed over; madame de Grignan discovered it, and her mother allowed that she felt it; and writes, "You were, then, struck by madame de la Fayette's expression, mingled with so much kindness. Although I never allow myself to forget this truth, I confess I was quite surprised, for as yet I feel no decay to remind me: however, I often reflect and calculate, and find the conditions on which we enjoy life very hard. It seems to me that I was dragged, in spite of myself, to the fatal term when one must suffer old age. I see it,—am there. I should, at least, like to go no further in the road of decrepitude, pain, loss of memory, and disfigurement, which are at hand to injure me. I hear a voice that says, even against your will you must go on; or, if you refuse, you must die; which is another necessity from which nature shrinks. Such is the fate of those who go a little too far. But a return to the will of God, and the universal law by which we are condemned, brings one to reason, and renders one patient."

As madame de Sévigné was resolved to give up her Parisian life, for the admirable motive of paying her debts before she died, she felt that the only compensation she could receive was residing at Grignan. Madame de la Fayette, on hearing of her intention of going thither, writes, "Your friends are content that you should go to Provence, since you will not return to Paris. The climate is better; you will have society, even when madame de Grignan is away; there is a good mansion, plenty of inhabitants; in short, it is being alive to live there; and I applaud your son for consenting to lose you, for your own sake." 1690. Ætat. 64. On the 3d of October, therefore, she set off; and friendship, as she says, rendering so long a journey easy, she arrived on the 24th; when madame de Grignan received her with open arms, and with such joy, affection, and gratitude, "that," she says, "I found I had not come soon enough nor far enough." From this time the correspondence with her daughter entirely ceases. The letters that remain to her other friends scarcely fill up the gap. She visited Paris once again with her daughter; but her time was chiefly spent at Grignan. 1694. Ætat. 68. She witnessed the establishment of her grandchildren. The marriage of the young marquis de Grignan was, of course, a deeply interesting subject; nor was she less pleased when Pauline, whom she had served so well in her advice to her mother, married, at the close of the following year, the marquis de Simiane. 1695. Ætat. 69. Early in the spring of 1696 madame de Grignan was attacked by a dangerous and lingering illness. Her mother attended on her with tenderness and zeal; but she felt her strength fail her. She wrote to her friends, that, if her daughter did not soon recover, she must sink under her fatigues,—words proved too fatally true. 1696. Ætat. 70. After a sudden and short illness, she died, in April of the same year, at the age of seventy. The blow of her death was severely felt by her friends,—a gap was made in their lives, never to be filled up.

In describing her character, her malicious cousin, count de Bussy, darkens many traits, which, in their natural colouring, only rendered her the more agreeable. He blames her for being carried away by a love of the agreeable rather than the solid; but he allows, at the same time, that there was not a cleverer woman in France; that her manners were vivacious and diverting, though she was a little too sprightly for a woman of quality. Madame de la Fayette addressed a portrait to her, as was the fashion of those times. Madame de Sévigné was three-and-thirty when it was written. It is, of course, laudatory: it speaks of the charms of her society, when all constraint was banished from the conversation; and says that the brilliancy of her wit imparted so bright a tinge to her cheek, and sparkle to her eye, that, while others pleased the ears, she dazzled the eyes of her listeners; so that she surpassed, for the moment, the most perfect beauty. The portrait speaks of the affectionate emotions of her heart, and of her love of all that was pleasing and agreeable. "Joy is the natural atmosphere of your soul," it says; "and annoyance is more displeasing to you than to any other." It mentions her obliging disposition, and the grace with which she obliged; her admirable conduct, her frankness, her sweetness.

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

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

The last fault brought against her is her being dazzled by greatness:—her saying to her cousin, Bussy, after Louis XIV. had danced with her, "We must allow that he is a great king," which, as a frondeuse, she was at that time bound to deny: but he was a great king, and posterity may therefore forgive her. She made no sacrifices to greatness, and was guilty of no truckling. She allows she should have liked a court life. She traces her exclusion from it to her alliance with the fronde, her friendship for Fouquet, and her jansenist opinions; but she never repines; and this is the more praiseworthy, with regard to her jansenism, since she only adhered to it from entertaining the opinions which received that name, not from party spirit; and had not, therefore, the support and sympathy of the party. She revered the virtues of their leaders; but there was nothing either bigotted or controversial in her admiration or piety.

The only reproach that madame de Sévigné at all deserves is her approval of the revocation of the edict of Nantes, the stain and disgrace of Louis XIV.'s reign, which banished from his country his best and most industrious subjects. We blame Philip III. for extirpating the Moriscos from Spain; but they, at least, were of a different race, and a gulf of separation subsisted between them and the Spaniards. The huguenots were the undoubted and native subjects of the kingdom: the times, also, were more enlightened and refined; and our contempt is the more raised when we find Louis the dupe of two ministers. Le Tellier and Louvois, who were influenced by their hatred of Colbert, one of the greatest and most enlightened ministers of France. We cannot but believe that the French revolution had worn a different aspect had the huguenots remained in France, and, as a consequence, the population had been held in less ignorance and barbarism. We cannot believe that madame de Sévigné really approved the atrocities that ensued. As a good jansenist, she was bound to detest forced conversions. Much of her praise, no doubt, was foisted in from fear that her letters might be opened at the post and read by officials; and it may be remembered, that M. de Grignan had evinced a suspicion that her jansenism had impeded the advancement of his family, as it certainly had of her own. She was at a distance, too, from the scene of action: still she says too much; and cannot be excused, except on the plea that she knew not what she did.[77]

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

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

BOILEAU

1636-1711

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

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

Nicholas Boileau (who, to distinguish him from his brothers, was called by his contemporaries Despréaux, from some meadows which his father possessed at the end of his garden,) was born in Paris, on the 5th of December, 1636.[78] He lost his mother when he was only eleven months old—she dying at the early age of twenty-three. His childhood was one of suffering; so that he said of himself, in after times, that he would not accept a new life on the condition of passing through a similar childhood. We are not told what the evils were of which he complained, but they were certainly, to a great degree, physical; for he was cut for the stone at an early age, and the operation being badly performed he never entirely regained his health. His earliest years were spent at the village of Crone, in which his father had a country house, where he spent his law vacations, and where, indeed, Louis Racine declares that Nicholas was born. The house must have been small and humble, for the boy was lodged in a loft above a barn, till a little room was constructed for him in the barn itself, which made him say that he commenced life by descending into a barn. His disposition as a child was marked by a simplicity and kindliness, that caused his father to say, "that Colin was a good fellow, who would never speak ill of any one." His turn for satire made this seem ridiculous in after times: yet it was founded on truth. Delicacy, and a sort of irritability of taste, joined to wit, caused him to satirise writers: but he carefully abstained from impugning the private character of any one; and, with his friends, and in his conduct during life, he was remarkable for probity, kindness of heart, and a cordial forgiving disposition. When we view him as a courtier, also, we recognize at once that independence of feeling, joined to a certain absence of mind, of which his father perceived the germ.

He went to school at Beauvais; and M. Sevin, master of one of the classes, discovered his taste for poetry, and asserted that he would acquire great reputation in his future life; being persuaded that, when a man is born a poet, nothing can prevent him from fulfilling his destiny. Boileau was at this time passionately fond of romances and poetry; but his critical taste was awakened by these very pursuits. "Even at fifteen," he says, in his ninth satire, "I detested a stupid book. Satire opened for me the right path, and supported my steps towards the Parnassus where I ventured to seek her." At the age of eighteen he wrote an ode on the war which it was expected that Cromwell would declare against France. In later days he corrected this ode, and added to the force of its expressions; but even in its original state it is remarkable for the purity of its language, its conciseness, and energy.

At the age of sixteen he lost his father, and thus acquired early that independent position which is the portion of orphans. His relations wished him to follow the profession of the law: he consented, and, applying himself with diligence, was named advocate at an early age. 1656. Ætat. 20. But the chicanery, the tortuousness, and absurdity of the practice speedily disgusted him, formed as he was by nature to detect and expose error; so that, in the very first cause entrusted to him, he showed so much disgust, that the attorney (who probably was aware that such existed), fancying that he had discovered some irregularity in his proceedings, said, on withdrawing his brief, "Ce jeune avocat ira loin." Boileau, on the contrary, was only eager to throw off the burden of a profession so little suited to him; and he quitted the bar for the study of ecclesiastical polity, fancying that religion would purify and elevate the practice of the church. He was soon undeceived; and was shocked and astonished by the barbarous language, the narrow scholastic speculations, and polemical spirit, of the sorbonne. He found that chicanery had but changed its garb; and, unwilling to debase his mind by such studies, he gave them up, and dedicated himself entirely to literature. Led by his inborn genius, he boldly entered on the career of letters and poetry, in spite of the warnings of his family[79], for his patrimony, consisting only of a few thousand crowns, seemed to render it imperative that he should follow a gainful profession. His desires, however, were moderate; and he contrived to limit his expenses to his slender income.

Literature and knowledge were at a low ebb in France when Louis XIV. began to reign. The genius of the people had, previously to Corneille, displayed itself in no great national poem. Its instincts for poetry, owing, perhaps, to the faulty nature of the language, had confined itself to songs and ballads, inimitable for a certain charming elegant simplicity, but with no pretension to the praise due to a high order of imagination. Corneille, in his majesty and power, stood alone. Then had come Molière, who detected and held up to ridicule the false taste of the age. Yet, in spite of his attacks, this false taste in part subsisted; and there were several of the favourite authors of the day whose works excited Boileau's spleen, and roused him to the task of satire. Chapelain may be mentioned as the chief among them. Jean Chapelain was a Parisian, and a member of the French academy. He was much patronised by the minister Colbert; and, under his auspices, the king not only granted him a pension, but entrusted to his care the making out a list of the chief literary men of Europe, towards whom Louis, in a spirit of just munificence, inspired by Colbert, allowed pensions, in token that their labours deserved assistance or reward. Jean Chapelain, an upright, a clever, and a generous man, was thus exalted to the head of the republic of letters; and was seduced by the voice of praise to write a poem on the subject of the Maid of Orleans. The topic was popular: while in progress. Chapelain enjoyed an anticipated reputation on the strength of it; and the duke de Longueville allowed him a pension; but as soon as the "Pucelle" was published, which rash act he did not venture on for a number of years, his fame as a poet fell to the ground; epigrams rained on the unfortunate epic, and Boileau brought up the rear with pointed well-turned sarcasms. As the friend of Colbert, as an amiable man of acknowledged talents. Chapelain had many partisans. The duke de Montauzier[80], a satirist himself in his youth, was furious, and declared that Boileau ought to be tossed into the river, that he might rhyme there. Other friends of Chapelain remonstrated; but their representations turned to the amusement of the satirist. "Chapelain is my friend," said the abbé de la Victoire, "and I grieve that you have named him in your satires. It is true, if he followed my advice, he would not write poetry; prose suits him much better."—"And what more do I say?" cried Boileau: "I repeat in verse what every one else says in prose: I am, in truth, the secretary of the public."[81]

As such the public joyfully accepted him. He became the favourite guest of the best society in Paris, where genius and wit were honoured. Joined to his faculty of writing satires, whose every word was as a gem set in gold, Boileau read his verses well, and possessed the talent of mimicry, which added greatly to the zest of his recitations. Chapelain, Cotin, and the poetasters whom he lashed, passed thus, as it were, in living array before his audience; and the enjoyment he created naturally led to a popularity, which, as it was bestowed by the well-born, the beautiful, and the rich, spread a halo of prosperity round the poet's steps.

Boileau, however, has not escaped censure for his personal attacks. It was considered a defilement of the elevated spirit of poetical satire to attack persons; and, though Boileau only lashed these men as authors, their blameless private characters made many recoil from seeing their names held up to ridicule. Not only his contemporaries, but later writers, have blamed him.[82] He has even been accused of acting from base motives. That Chapelain, when he made a list for Colbert of literary men deserving of pensions, did not include Boileau's name is supposed to be the occasion of his enmity. But the dislike seems to have had foundation earlier; for we are told that the first satire was composed when the poet was only four-and-twenty, and had no pretensions to be pensioned for unwritten works, and, indeed, before the pensions in question were granted.[83] Some ill blood might have arisen through a quarrel between Boileau and his elder brother Giles, who was a friend of Chapelain. This circumstance rendered him, perhaps, more willing to attack the latter; but, doubtless, his ruling motive was his hatred of a bad book, and his natural genius, which directed the scope of his labours.

Boileau himself carefully distinguishes between attacks made on authors and on individuals; and, à propos, of his ridicule of Chapelain, he says,

Still he whimsically gives, as it were, the lie to this very defence by his subsequent conduct; for, when any one of the unhappy authors whom he had held up to ridicule showed him personal kindness, he was not proof against the impulse that led him to expunge his name in the next edition of his works, and substitute that of some new-sprung enemy. Thus in the seventh satire we find the following persons strung together:—

He afterwards altered the last verse to

Perrin had translated the Æneid into French; and was the first person who obtained leave to introduce the Italian opera into France. Pelletier was a sort of itinerant rhymester, who, when he addressed a sonnet to a man, carried it to him, and contrived to get paid for his pains. Bardou and Mauroy were minor poets, whose nonsense appeared in ephemeral collections of verses. Boursault was more distinguished. He quarrelled with Molière, and endeavoured to satirise him in a slight drama, entitled "Portrait du Peintre, ou, contre Critique de l'École des Femmes." Molière showed himself very indifferent to this sort of attack; but Boileau took up the cudgels for him. Boursault revenged himself by another drama, levelled against Boileau himself, called "Satire des Satires;" and the latter, with a sensitiveness in which he had no right to indulge, got a decree of parliament to prevent its representation. Many years after, when Boileau was at the baths of Bourbon for his health, and Boursault was receveur des termes at Mont Luçon, a town not far distant, Boileau writes to Racine, "M. Boursault, whom I thought dead, came to see me five or six days ago, and made his appearance again unexpectedly this evening. He told me he had come three long leagues out of his way to Mont Luçon, whither he was bound, and where he lives, to have the pleasure of calling on me. He offered me all sorts of things—money, horses, &c. I replied by similar civilities, and wished to keep him till to-morrow to dinner; but he said he was obliged to go away early in the morning, and we separated the best possible friends." Racine says, in reply, "I am pleased by the civilities you have received from Boursault; you are advancing towards perfection at a prodigious pace; how many people you have pardoned." Boileau replies, "I laughed heartily at the joke you make of the people I have pardoned; but do you know that I have more merit than you imagine, if the Italian proverb be true, chi offende non perdona." About this time Pradon and Bonnecorse attacked him; and he took occasion, in a new edition of his works, to substitute their names for those of the persons with whom he was now reconciled.

To return to his younger days: wit, high and convivial spirits, and his acknowledged and popular talents, gained him the favour of the great. The great Condé was his especial protector; and he changed many expressions in his poems, and even altered them materially, at his suggestion. The great Coudé often assembled literary men at Chantilly; and he liked this society far better than that of people of rank. One day, when Racine and Boileau were with him, the arrival of some bishop was announced, as having come to view his palace and grounds. "Show him every thing," said the prince impatiently, "except myself." This prince often discussed literary topics with his guests. When he was in the right, he argued with moderation and gentleness; when in the wrong, he grew angry if contradicted: his eyes sparkled with a fire that even intimidated Boileau, who yielded at once, remarking, at the same time, to his neighbour, "Henceforth I shall always agree with the prince when he is in the wrong."

The First President Lamoignon also honoured him with his intimate friendship; and Arnaud and Nicole, churchmen distinguished for their virtues and talents, were among his dearest and most revered friends. But, besides these, he had intimates of his own station, of not less genius than himself; authors, yet without rivalship, who enjoyed the zest given by each other's wit in society; to whom he was strongly attached, and with whom, in the heyday of life, he played many a prank, and spent long hours of social enjoyment. Racine, La Fontaine, Molière, and Chapelle[85] were among these. Many anecdotes are told concerning them, which makes us the more regret that no faithful Boswell was near to glean more amply. The "Boileana," which pretended to record their wit, is by no means authentic. Louis Racine, in his valuable life of his father, has given us one or two; from these—the shadow rather than the light of wit—marking its place rather than displaying its form—we select a few.

This knot of friends frequently dined at a celebrated traiteur's, or at one another's houses; in particular, at Molière's and Boileau's country houses at Auteuil. The conversation on these occasions was brilliant; and, did a silly remark escape from any among them, a fine was immediately levied. Chapelain's poem of the "Pucelle" was on the table, and, according to the quality of the fault, the accused was adjudged to read a certain number of lines from this poem: twenty lines was a heavy punishment; a whole page was considered equivalent to a sentence of death.

The famous supper, when the whole company resolved to drown themselves, has been related in the life of Molière. Buoyant spirits, unchecked by age or sorrow, inspired a thousand freaks, which were put in execution on the spur of the minute. At one time the university of Paris was going to present a petition to parliament to desire that the philosophy of Descartes should not be taught in the schools. This was mentioned before the First President Lamoignon, who said that, if the petition were presented, the decree could not be refused. Boileau, amused by the idea, wrote a burlesque decree, which he got up in common with Racine, and his nephew added the legal terms, and carried it, together with several other papers, to be signed by the president. Lamoignon was on the point of putting his name, when, casting his eyes over it, he exclaimed, "This is a trick of Despréaux!" The burlesque petition became known, and the university gave up the notion of presenting a serious one.

Meanwhile, flattered and courted by the great, and beloved by his friends, Boileau long abstained from publishing those satires which had gained him so much popularity. Many of his verses had passed into proverbs from their appositeness and felicity of expression[86]; and those who heard him recite were eager to learn them by heart, and repeat them to others. Becoming thus the universal subject of conversation,—listened to with delight, repeated with enthusiasm,—the booksellers laid hold of mutilated copies, and printed them. The sensitive ear of the author was shocked by the mistakes that crept in, the result of this loose mode of publication, and he at last resolved to bring them out himself. 1666. Ætat. 30. He published seven satires, preceded by an address to the king, which, however full of praise, could hardly be called flattery, since it echoed the voice of the whole French nation, and had been fairly earned by the sovereign. Louis then appeared in the brilliant position of a young monarch labouring for the prosperity and glory of his people. Cardinal Richelieu and cardinal Mazarin had disgusted the French with favourites and prime ministers. Louis was his own minister; unwearied in his application to business, and never suffering his pleasures to seduce him to idleness. These very pleasures, conducted with magnificence and good taste, dazzled and fascinated his subjects. He established his influence in foreign countries, forcing them to acknowledge his superiority. He aided Austria against the Turks; succoured Portugal; protected Holland: and while, with some arrogance, but more real greatness, he thus rose the sun of the world, he studied to make his court the centre of civilisation and knowledge. Such a course might well deserve the praises Boileau bestowed, who was also influenced by Colbert to give such a turn to his address as would lead the mind of the active and ardent sovereign to take delight in the blessings of peace, instead of the false glories of war. The first edition was also preceded by a preface, in which he apologises for the publication, to which he was solely urged by the disfigurement of his poems as they were then printed. He bids the authors whom he criticises remember that Parnassus was at all times a free country; and that, if he attacked their works, they might revenge themselves by criticising his; and to reflect that, if their productions were bad, they deserved censure; if good, nothing said in their dispraise would injure them.

In vain he tried to propitiate authors; and it must be acknowledged that, though some might be found candid enough to admit the truth of his strictures, no man could be pleased at being the mark for ridicule. The outcry was prodigious, and he endeavoured to appease it, and justify himself, in his ninth satire, addressed to his understanding '("à son esprit:" the word thus used is very untranslatable; in former times the term wit had very much the same signification). 1667. Ætat. 31. About the same time he published his eighth satire on man, while he still kept the ninth in manuscript. The king read the eighth, and admired it exceedingly. M. de Saint Maurice, an officer of the king's guard, who had a frequent opportunity of approaching the monarch, as he was teaching him to shoot flying, observed that Boileau had written a still better satire, in which there was mention of his majesty. "Mention of me!" cried the king haughtily. "Yes, sire," replied Saint Maurice, "and he speaks with all due respect." Louis showed a desire to see this new production; and Boileau gave a copy of it to his friend on condition that he showed it only to the king. Louis was much pleased: it became known at court, copies got abroad, and the poet found it necessary to publish it.

This was the period of his life when Boileau was fullest of energy and invention; and his industry equalled the fecundity of his wit. He himself used in after days to call it his bon temps, and alluded to it at once with pride and regret. He wrote several of his epistles, his "Art Poétique," and the "Lutrin." Having in his satires held up to ridicule the prevalent faults of the literature of his time, he turned his thoughts to giving rules of taste, and was desirous of pointing out the right path for authors to pursue. He mentioned his design to M. Patin, who doubted the possibility of adapting such a subject to French verse. In this he mistook the genius of his language. Narrow as are the powers of French verse, which was then, indeed, in its infancy, it was, under the master hand of Boileau, admirably fitted for pointed epigrams and sententious maxims. He felt this; and, notwithstanding his friend's counsels, he began his "Art Poétique;" and, carrying a portion of it to his adviser, M. Patin at once acknowledged his mistake, and exhorted him to proceed.

At the same time he was employed on the "Lutrin;" a poem in which he displayed more fancy and sportive wit than he had before exhibited. It is not so graceful nor so airy as "The Rape of the Lock[87];" but it is more witty, and abounds with those happy lines, many of which have passed into proverbs, while others concentrate, as it were, a whole comedy into a few lines.

The idea of the "Lutrin" was suggested in conversation. Some friends of the author were disputing concerning epic poetry, and Boileau maintained the opinion advanced in his "Poetics," that an heroic poem ought to have but a slender groundwork, and that its excellence depended on the power of its inventor to sustain and enlarge the original theme. The argument grew warm; but no one was convinced, and the conversation changed. It turned upon a ridiculous dispute between the treasurer and chanter of the Chapelle Royale of Paris, concerning the placing of a reading desk (Lutrin).[88] M. de Lamoignon, the revered and excellent friend of Boileau, turned to him, and asked whether an heroic poem could be written on such a subject. "Why not?" was the reply: the company laughed; but Boileau, excited to think on the subject, found the burlesque of it open upon him. The spirited opening is the happiest effort of his muse; and, when he showed it to M. de Lamoignon, he was encouraged to proceed. At first he limited the poem to four cantos, which are the best; for, as is usually the case with burlesque, it becomes heavy and tedious as it is long drawn out. The first and second cantos are, indeed, far superior to the remainder. The wit has that pleasantry whose point is sharp, and yet without sting; so that even those attacked can smile. The poem begins with an exordium that at once opens the subject:—

It goes on to describe the peace and prosperity enjoyed by the Sainte Chapelle at Paris[89]:—

Discord witnesses their repose with indignation:—

But, finding that the chapter of the Holy Chapel is impervious to her influence, her anger is roused; and, taking the form of an old chanter, she visits the treasurer, a bishop, resolved to excite him to strife. The description of the prelate, who, supported by a breakfast, dozed till dinner, is full of wit:—

Discord enters, and addresses herself to the work of mischief:—

This exhortation has its full effect: the prelate rises, full of wrath and resolution, and even talks of assembling the chapter before dinner. Gilotin, his faithful almoner, remonstrates successfully against this piece of heroism:—

The chapter is afterwards assembled; the bishop, in tears, complains of the presumption of the chanter; when Sidrac, the Nestor of the chapter, suggests a means of humbling him; and a description of the famous reading-desk is introduced:—

The last couplet contains a compliment to the bishop of Aleth, who dedicated his life to the instruction and improvement of the people of his diocese. We are a little astonished at the freedom with which Boileau rallies the clergy. At this period, when the quarrels of the jesuits and jansenists were dividing and convulsing the French church, the sarcasms of Boileau must have had a deep, perhaps a salutary, effect. The priesthood was enraged, and denounced the "Lutrin" as blasphemous; but the whole laity, with the king at their head, enjoyed the wit, and acknowledged its appositeness.

To return to the story of the poem. The advice of Sidrac is eagerly adopted. They draw lots, and three are thus selected for the task. Brontin comes first; then L'Amour, a hairdresser, a new Adonis with a blond wig, only care of Anne his wife, so haughty of mien that he is the terror of his neighbourhood; lastly, the name of Boirude, the sacristan, is drawn. This choice satisfies the chapter, and the first canto ends with the notice, that

The second book commences with a description of Renown, imitated from Virgil's Fame, who reveals the wigmaker's purpose to his wife, and a scene of remonstrance ensues and reproach, parodied on the parting of Æneas and Dido. The portions of the poem which are parodies on the ancient epics are full of wit; but they are less amusing than those passages already cited, in which the poet gives scope to his fancy, unshackled by imitation of what indeed is inimitable. We are, therefore, less amused by the quarrel of the wigmaker and his wife than with the conclusion of the second book; when Discord marks the progress of the three adventurers towards the tower where the Lutrin is hid, and shout forth so joyously as to awaken Indolence. The description of Indolence contains, perhaps, the best verses that Boileau ever wrote:—

Night enters, and frightens her still more with the recital of how, on the morrow, the Lutrin was to appear in the Sainte Chapelle, and excite mutiny and war. Indolence, troubled by this account, lets fall a tear, and, opening an eye, complains in a feeble and interrupted voice:—

This passage is remarkable as being the cause of Boileau's first appearance at court, of which further mention will be made. This episode is the jewel of the whole poem. Burlesque becomes tiresome when long drawn: though there are verses interspersed throughout full of sarcasm the most pointed, and ridicule the most happy, we are fatigued by a sort of monotony of tone, and the unvarying spirit of parody or irony that reigns throughout. The third canto is taken up by the enterprise of the three, who enter the sacristy to seize upon the Lutrin. Night has brought an owl, and hid it in the desk, whose sudden appearance terrifies the heroes, who are about to fly, till Discord rallies them, and they pursue the adventure, carry the desk in triumph, and place it in its ancient place before the seat of the chanter. The book concludes with an address to the latter, apostrophising the grief that will seize him when, on the morrow, the insult will be revealed. The fourth book contains the discovery—the rage of the chanter—his resolution to destroy the desk—the assembling of the chapter—their indignation—and it concludes with the destruction of the Lutrin, and its being carried off piecemeal. At first the poem consisted only of these four books. Boileau announced, that "reasons of great importance prevented his publishing the whole;" but the fact was, that only four books were at that time written. The fifth book describes the meeting of the inimical parties, and a battle that ensued. Both prelate and chanter, rushing to the chapelle, encounter each other, near the shop of Barbin, a bookseller: they eye each other with fury, till a partisan of the chanter, unable to suppress his rage, seizes a ponderous volume—the "Great Cyrus" of mademoiselle Scuderi—hurls it at Boirude, who avoids the blow, and the vast mass assails poor Sidrac: the old man, "accablé de l'horrible Artamène," falls, breathless, at the feet of the bishop. This is a signal for a general attack: they rush into the shop, disfurnish the shelves, and hurl the volumes at one another. In naming the books thus used, Boileau indulges in satirical allusions to contemporary authors, and exclaims:—

And then follows the names of many now so entirely forgotten, that the point of his sarcasms escapes us. The party of the chanter is on the point of being victorious, till the bishop, by a happy stratagem, contrives to escape the danger:—

Nothing can be more humorous than this description. The bishop conferring his blessing in a spirit of vengeance, and his angry enemies forced, unwillingly, to be blessed, is truly ludicrous. Yet here Boileau laid himself open to attack. In the remainder of the poem, while ridiculing the clergy, no word escaped him that treated sacred things jocosely, and he was too pious indeed not to have shrunk from so doing. This joke made of a bishop's blessing intrenched on this rule: priests, who hitherto had remained silent, now ventured to raise the cry of blasphemy. However, it was innocuous: the excellent character and real piety of Boileau sheltered him from the attacks so levelled. The sixth book recounts the arrival of Piety, and Faith, and Grace, who awaken Aristus (the First President Lamoignon, to whom, he having died in the interval between the publishing the commencement of the poem and its conclusion, Boileau paid this tribute of respect), and, through his mediation, peace is restored.

We have given this detail of the "Lutrin," as being at once the best and the most successful of Boileau's poems. We now return to the author. We have alluded to his presentation at court, occasioned by the eulogy of Louis XIV., which the poet puts in the mouth of Indolence. Madame de Thianges, sister of madame de Montespan, was so struck by this passage, that, while the poem was still in manuscript, she read it to the king; and he, flattered and pleased, desired that the poet should be presented to him. Boileau accordingly appeared at court. The king conversed with him, and asked him what passage in his poems he himself esteemed the best. It so happened that the prince of Condé had found fault with the conclusion of his epistle to the king. It had ended with the fable of the two men quarrelling about an oyster they had found, and referred their dispute to a judge, who swallowed the cause of it in a moment. The prince considered this story, however well told, not in harmony with the elevated tone of the epistle; and Boileau, yielding to the criticism, wrote a different conclusion. When asked by the king for his favourite passage, the little tact he had as a courtier, joined to an author's natural partiality for his latest production, made him cite the lines, of which these are the concluding ones:—

The king was naturally touched by this forcible and eloquent praise: the tears came into his eyes, and he exclaimed, "This is, indeed, beautiful; and I would praise you more had you praised me less." And at once he bestowed a pension on the poet. Such applause and such tribute, from a monarch then adored by his subjects, might have elated a weak man. Boileau afterwards related that, on returning home, his first emotion was sadness: he feared that he had bartered his liberty, and he regretted its loss.

1677. Ætat. 41.

Racine was already received at court, and a favourite. The intimate and tender friendship between him and Boileau caused them often to be together, and together they conceived many literary plans. One of these was the institution of an academy composed of a very small number of persons, who were selected for the purpose of writing a short explanation beneath every medal struck by Louis XIV. to celebrate the great events of his reign. These scanty notices were necessarily incomplete, and madame de Montespan originated the project of a regular history being compiled. "Flattery was the motive," writes madame de Caylus, in her memoirs; "but it must be allowed that it was not the idea of a common-place woman." Madame de Maintenon proposed that the king should name Boileau and Racine his joint historiographers, and the appointment accordingly took place.

The poets, gratified by the distinction, were eager to render themselves competent to the task. It must be remembered, that, though their inutility and subsequent loss have thrown Louis's conquests into the shade, they were then the object of all men's admiration, and were the influential events of the time; while the rapidity and brilliancy of his victories dazzled his subjects, and intimidated all other nations. The two friends renounced poetry, and betook themselves to the studies appertaining to their future work. They applied themselves to the past history of their country, and to the memoirs and letters concerning the then present time, which, at the command of the king, were placed in their hands. Louis was at war with Holland, Spain, and the German empire. Turenne was dead; but many great generals, formed under him and the great Condé, remained. Louvois, as minister of war, facilitated every undertaking by the admirable order which he established in his department The king joined the armies in person in the spring, and town after town fell into his hands. 1677. Ætat. 41. On his return from these rapid conquests, he asked his historiographers how it was that they had not had the curiosity to witness a siege—"The distance was so slight," he said. "Very true," replied Racine, "but our tailors were too slow: we ordered clothes for the journey, but, before they came home, all the towns besieged by your majesty were taken." The compliment pleased Louis, who bade them prepare by times for the next campaign, as they ought to witness the events which, as historians, they were destined to relate.

1678. Ætat. 42.

The following year, accordingly, the two authors accompanied the king to the siege of Gand. The fact of two poets following the army to be present at sieges and battles was the source of a number of pleasantries at court. Their more warlike friends, in good-humoured raillery, laid a thousand traps for their ignorance: they often fell in; and when they did not they got the credit of so doing, as the king was to be diverted by their mistakes. The poets seem to have been singularly ignorant of everything appertaining to a journey, and to have shown the most amusing credulity. Racine was told that he must take care to have his horse shod by a bargain of forfeit. "Do you imagine," said his adviser, M. de Cavoie, "that an army always finds blacksmiths ready on their march? Before you leave Paris, a bargain is made with a smith, who warrants, on penalty of a forfeit, that your horse's shoes shall remain on for six months." "I never heard of that before," said Racine; "Boileau did not tell me; but I do not wonder—he never thinks of anything." He hastened to his friend to reproach him for this neglect; Boileau confessed his ignorance; and they hurried out to seek the blacksmith most in use for this sort of bargain. The king was duly informed of their perplexity, and, by his raillery in the evening, undeceived them. One day, after a long march, Boileau, whose health was weak, being much fatigued, threw himself on his bed, supperless, on arriving. M. de Cavoie, hearing this, went to him, after the king's supper, and said, with an appearance of great uneasiness, that he had bad news. "The king," he said, "is displeased with you. He remarked a very blameable act of which you were guilty to-day." "What was it?" asked Boileau in alarm. "I cannot bring myself to tell you," replied his tormentor; "I cannot make up my mind to afflict my friends." Then, after teazing him for some time, he said, "Well, if I must confess it, the king remarked that you were sitting awry on your horse." "If that is all," said Boileau, "let me go to sleep." On one occasion, during this campaign, Louis having so exposed himself that a cannon ball passed within perilous vicinity, Boileau addressed him, saying, "I beg, sire, in the character of your historian, that you will not bring your history to so abrupt a conclusion."

Boileau's health prevented him from following any other campaign; but Racine accompanied the king in several, and wrote long narrations to his brother historian. It has been asserted that, though named historiographers, they did not employ themselves in fulfilling the duties of their office; and a fragment of Racine's, on the siege of Namur, is the only relic that remains of their employment. Louis Racine, however, assures us that they were continually occupied on it. On their death, their joint labours fell into the hands of M. de Valincour, their successor, and were consumed when his house at Saint-Cloud was burned down.

That such was the case seems certain, from the fact that they were in the habit, when they had written any detail of interest, of reading it to the king. These readings took place in the apartments of madame de Montespan. Both had the entree there at the hour of the king's visit, and madame de Maintenon was also present. Racine was the favourite of the latter lady, Boileau of the former; but the friends were wholly devoid of jealousy; and Boileau's free spirit led him to set little real store by court favour. In these royal interviews, the poets could mark the increasing influence of madame de Maintenon, and the decreasing favour of her rival. At one time, however, madame de Montespan contrived to get her friend excluded from the readings, much to the mortification of the historians. This did not last long. One day, the king being indisposed, and keeping his bed, they were summoned, with an order to bring some newly-written portion of their history with them. They were surprised to find madame de Maintenon sitting in an arm-chair near the king's bed, in familiar conversation with him. They were about to commence reading when madame de Montespan entered. Her uneasy manner and exaggerated civilities showed her vacillating position; till the king, to put an end to her various demonstrations of annoyance, told her to sit down and listen, as it was not just that a work, commenced under her directions, should be read in her absence.

Such scenes seem scarcely to enter into a narration of Boileau's life; but, he being present at them, they form a portion, and cannot be passed over. It is essential to his character to show, that, though admitted to a court, the cynosure of all men's aspirations, the focus of glory, he was neither dazzled nor fettered by its influence. As a courtier he maintained a free and manly bearing, while his absence of mind even caused him to fall into mistakes which shocked his more careful friend Racine. Being in conversation one day with madame de Maintenon on the subject of literature, Boileau exclaimed against the vulgar burlesque poetry which had formerly been in fashion, and it escaped him to say, "Happily this vile taste has passed away, and Scarron is no longer read even in the provinces." Racine reproached him afterwards:—"Why name Scarron before her?" he said; "are you ignorant of their near connection."—"Alas! no," replied Boileau; "but it is the first thing I forget when I am in her company." He even forgot himself so far, on occasions, as to mention Scarron before the king. Racine was still more scandalised on this:—"I will not accompany you to court," he said, "if you are so imprudent." "I am ashamed," replied Boileau; "but what man is exempt from saying foolish things?" and he excused himself by alleging the example of M. Arnaud, who was even more absent. Nor did he limit his want of pliancy to mere manner. He did not disguise more important differences of opinion. The king and court espoused the cause of the jesuits: to be a jansenist often caused the entire loss of court favour; but Boileau did not conceal his adherence to that party, and his partiality to its chief, M. Arnaud; and as he grew older, instead of growing more servile, he emancipated himself yet more entirely from court influence; and his "Epistle on Ambiguity" is a proof of an independence of spirit that commands our warmest esteem.

His courage in thus openly espousing the opinions of jansenism surprised Racine. "You enjoy," he said to him, "a privilege I cannot obtain. You say things I dare not say. You have praised persons in your poems whom I do not venture to mention. You are the person that ought to be accused of jansenism; yet I am much more attacked. What can be the reason?" "It is an obvious one," replied Boileau; "you go to mass every day; I only go on Sundays and festivals."

The honour of belonging to the academy was in those days eagerly sought after. Boileau aspired to a seat, but never solicited it, and was passed over. It has been related in the life of La Fontaine how displeased the king was with this omission, and how he refused to confirm La Fontaine's election till Boileau was also chosen. His speech on taking possession of his chair, in which it was the fashion for the new member to humiliate himself, and exalt the academy with ridiculous exaggerations, was dignified, but modest. He alluded to the attacks he had made on authors who were members of the academy as "many reasons that shut its doors against him." His after career as member was rather stormy. Surrounded by writers whom he had satirised, and who conceived themselves injured, he had to contend with a numerous party. His chief antagonist was a M. Charpentier, on whom he often spent the treasures of his wit, and discomfited by his raillery, though he had a host of members on his side. One day, however, he gained his point. "It is surprising," he said: "everybody sided with me, and yet I was in the right."

His life, meanwhile, was easy and agreeable. Undisturbed by passion, yet of warm and affectionate feelings, with a mind ever active, and a temper unruffled, the society and pleasures of Paris, the favour of the great, and love of his friends, filled and varied his days. The slight annuity he had purchased with his inheritance was seasonably increased by the pension which the king had bestowed on him, and his salary as historiographer. He was careful and economical, but the reverse of grasping or avaricious. He had an ill-founded scruple as to an author's profiting by his writings, as if he had not a legitimate claim on the price which the public were eager to pay to acquire his productions. He carried this so far as to infect Racine with the same notion. In his own case there might be some ground; since, when he first published, his works consisted of satires, and a delicate, feeling man might shrink from profiting by the attacks he made on others. Another instance is given of his scrupulousness in money matters. He enjoyed for some years an income arising from a benefice. His venerated friend, M. de Lamoignon, represented to him that he could not conscientiously, as a layman, enjoy the revenues of the church; and he not only gave up his benefice, but, calculating how much he had received during the years that he enjoyed it, he distributed that sum among the poor of the place. Another anecdote is told of his generosity. M. Patin was esteemed one of the cleverest men of the times, as well as one the most excellent and virtuous. His passion for literature was such, that he neglected his profession as advocate for its sake, and fell into indigence. He was forced to sell his library: Boileau bought it, and then begged his friend to keep possession of it as long as he lived. He was, indeed, generally kind-hearted and generous to authors, unchecked by any ill conduct on their part. Often he lent money to a miserable writer, Linière, who would go and spend it at alehouses, and write a song against his creditor. The economy that allowed him to be thus generous was indeed praiseworthy, and did not arise from love of money, but a spirit of independence, and the power of self-denial in matters of luxury.

1687. Ætat. 51.

The only thing that seems to have unpleasantly disturbed his easy yet busy life was a delicate state of health, and he grew more ailing as he grew older. At one time an affection of the chest caused him to lose his voice, and he was ordered to drink the waters of the baths of Bourbon as a means of regaining it. His correspondence with Racine on this occasion is published. Boileau's letters are the best, the most witty, easy, and amusing. Racine relates how each day the king inquired after his health, and was eager for his return to court; while Boileau laments over his continued indisposition. There was a dispute among the physicians, as to his bathing in the waters as well as drinking them: some of the learned declaring such an act fatal, while others recommended it as a mode of cure. Racine related to the king, while at dinner, the perplexity of his friend between these contradictory counsels. "For my part," said the princess de Conti, who was sitting near Louis, "I would rather be mute for thirty years, than risk my life to regain my voice." Boileau replied, "I am not surprised at the princess of Conti's sentiment. If she lost her speech, she would still retain a million other charms to compensate to her for her loss, and she would still be the most perfect creature that for a long time nature has produced; but a wretch like me needs his voice to be endured by men, and to dispute with M. Charpentier. If it were only on the latter account one ought to risk something; and life is not of such value, but that one may hazard it for the sake of being able to interrupt such a speaker." These letters are very entertaining; they display the style of the times, and the vivacity and amiableness of Boileau's disposition, in very pleasing colours. His vivacity was of the head, and of temper. He was exempt from vehemence of feeling; and did not suffer the internal struggles to which those are subject whose souls are impregnated with passion; nor was he satirical in conversation: as madame de Sévigné said of him, he was cruel only in verse; and Lord Rochester's expression was applied to him—

Without pride, also, and without pretension, he could turn his own fame and labours into a jest. Going one day to present the order for his pension, which said that it was granted "on account of the satisfaction which the king derived from his works," the clerk asked him what sort of works his were. "Masonry," he replied: "I am an architect." At another time, when, passing Easter at a friend's house in the country, and being exact in fulfilling his religious duties, he made his confession to a country curate, to whom he was unknown, the confessor asked him what his usual occupations were? "Writing verses," replied the penitent. "So much the worse," said the curate; "and what sort of verses?" "Satires." "Still worse—and against whom?" "Against those who write bad verses, against the vices of the times, against pernicious books, romances, and operas." "Ah!" cried the curate, "that is not so bad, and I have nothing to say against it."

1687. Ætat. 51.

His spirit of intolerance for "those who wrote bad verses," or approved them, was excited to its height by Perrault's[92] "Siècle de Louis Quatorze." This poem was the origin of the famous dispute as to the ancients and moderns, which "Swift's Battle of the Books" made known in this country. Perrault, with little Latin, and no Greek, undertook to depreciate Homer; and he had Fontenelle for his ally, who, with more learning and less taste, declared that, if the Greek bucolic writers had now first produced their pastorals, they would be scouted as wretched. Perrault did not content himself with the exposition of his opinion in his poem; he wrote a "Parallel between the Ancients and Moderns," in which he not only praised the good writers of the day, but even Chapelain, Quinault, Cotin, and others on whom Boileau had set the seal of his irony. 1692. Ætat. 56. The satirist could neither brook this rebellion against his fiat, nor the sort of blasphemy indulged in against those great masters of the art whom he was aware he but feebly imitated. He wrote several bitter epigrams against Perrault; and then, finding that by no explanation or translation could he make a mere French reader understand the sublimity of Pindar, he sought to imitate this poet in his ode on the taking of Namur. This was a bold undertaking, and it cannot be said that he succeeded; for the French language was then far less capable than now of expressing the sublime; and Boileau's talent was not of that elevated and daring kind which could invent new modes of expression, and force his language to embody the ideal and bold images that constitute the sublime. Still we must honour the attempt for the sake of its motive. "The following ode," he says, in his preface, "was written on occasion of those strange dialogues, lately published, in which all the great writers of antiquity are treated as authors to be compared with the Chapelains and Cotins; and in which, while it is sought to do honour to our age, it is really vilified by the fact that there exist men capable of writing such nonsense. Pindar is the worst treated." He goes on to say that, as it was exceedingly difficult to explain the beauties of Pindar to those who did not understand Greek, he attempted to write a French ode in imitation of his style, as the best mode of conveying an idea of it. This war went on for some time; and various attacks, replies, and rejoinders appeared on both sides. At last a personal reconciliation took place between Boileau and Perrault; neither yielded his opinion, but they ceased to write against each other.

1659. Ætat. 56.

At this time also he wrote other satires:—one on women, which rather consists of portraits of various faulty individuals than a satire against the sex in general. It is by no means one of the best of his works. We may say otherwise, however, of the spirit that reigns in the satire addressed to Ambiguity, and which, from the boldness with which it attacks the jesuits, is at once one of the most useful of his works, and displays the independence of his soul. He wrote his epistle also on the Love of God, another jansenist production. At this time he again awoke to the pleasures of composition, at the same time that he showed such a love for his works that he emptied his portfolios of every scrap of verse he had ever written, and placed them in the hands of the booksellers.[93] As he grew older he became more recluse in his habits, without losing any of the pleasure he always felt in the society of his intimate friends. The turn he had for personal enjoyment, which had shown itself in youth, in a love for social and convivial pleasures, became a sort of happy indolence, enlivened by the pleasures of friendship. His correspondence with Racine displays an affectionate disposition, an easy carelessness as to money, and a quiet sort of wit, which turned to pleasantry the ordinary routine of life, and bespeaks a mind at ease, and a well-balanced disposition. The expenses of his wars caused Louis XIV. to reduce the pensions he had granted, and those of Boileau and Racine suffered with the rest. Racine was then at court; and he wrote to his friend to inform him, that their salaries as historiographers were fixed at 4000 livres a year for himself and 2000 for Boileau; the health of the latter not permitting him to follow the army being the cause of his receiving the smaller sum. Racine adds, "You see everything is arranged as you yourself wished, yet I am truly annoyed that I appear to receive more than you; but, besides the fatigue of the journeys, which I am glad that you are spared, I know that you are so noble and friendly that I feel sure you will rejoice at my being the best paid." Boileau replied, "Are you mad with your compliments? Do you not know that I myself prescribed the mode in which this affair should be settled; and can you doubt but that I am satisfied with an arrangement by which I receive all I asked?" His friendship for Racine seems to have been the warmest feeling of his heart; and growing deaf as he grew old, and leading a more and more retired life, the tragedian, his family, and a few others, formed all his society. There is something simple and touching in the mention Racine makes of their visits in his letters to his eldest son. The bitter satirist adapting his talk to the younger children of his friend, while he was so deaf that he could not hear their replies, and his eager endeavours to amuse them, gives zest to Racine's exclamation, "He is the best man in the world!" Sometimes the spirit of composition revived in him, but it quickly grew cold again[94]; yet, while it lasted, it furnished occupation and amusement. He did not live wholly at Paris. He had saved 8000 livres, and with this sum he purchased a country house at Auteuil. Charmed with his acquisition, he at first spent a good deal on it; he embellished the grounds, and delighted to assemble his friends together. Racine often retired there to repose from his attendance at court, and from his fatigues in following the army in various campaigns. Boileau, fastidious in all things, knew well how to choose his company. The conversations were either enlivened by sallies of wit, or rendered interesting by his sagacity and good taste. He had long renounced his more equivocal modes of amusing, such as mimicry, as unworthy. In the heyday of youth sallies of this sort are indulged in under the influence of high animal spirits; and it is whimsical to remark how the slothful spirit of age gravely denounces that as wrong which it is no longer capable of achieving. Boileau, however, had many other resources. His guests delighted to gather his opinions, and hung upon his maxims. He criticised the works of the day, and the favourite authors. He admired La Bruyère, though he called him obscure, and justly remarked that he spared himself the most difficult part of a work when he omitted the transitions and links of one portion with another. No one dared praise St. Evremond before him, though he had become the fashionable author of the day. He detested low pleasantry. "Racine," he said, "is sometimes silly enough to laugh over Scarron's travestie of Virgil, but he hides this from me."

1698. Ætat. 62.

Thus tranquil and esteemed, surrounded by friends, and without a care, he lived long, notwithstanding the weakness of his constitution and bad health. A few days after the death of Racine, he appeared at court to take the king's commands with regard to the task of historiographer, which had now devolved entirely on himself. He spoke to the king of the intrepidity with which his friend viewed the approaches of death. "I am aware of this," replied Louis, "and somewhat surprised, for he feared death greatly; and I remember that at the siege of Gand you were the more courageous of the two." The king afterwards added, "Remember, I have always an hour in the week to give you when you like to come." Boileau, however, never went to court again. His friends often entreated him to appear from time to time, but he answered, "What should I do there? I cannot flatter." No doubt he felt admiration for all Louis's great qualities, and gratitude for the kindness shown to himself; but he was too penetrating an observer, and too impartial a judge, not to be aware that the court paid to a king, amounting in those days almost to idolatry, renders him a factitious personage, and only fit to be approached by those who, either through long habit, or by having some point to gain, accommodate themselves to that sort of watchful deference and self-immolation which is intolerable to persons accustomed to utter spontaneously what they think, and to enjoy society so far as they are unshackled by fears of offending a master.

Boileau survived Racine several years: this period was spent in retirement, and his health grew weaker and weaker. He lived either at Paris or Auteuil. There Louis Racine, the son of the poet, from whom we gather these details, often visited him. He was a youth at that time; he and Boileau played at skittles together; the poet was a good player, and often knocked down all nine at one bowling. "It must be confessed," he said, "that I possess two talents equally useful to my country; I play well at nine-pins, and write verses." Louis Racine was then at school at Beauvais. He wrote an elegy on a dog; and his mother, a good but narrow-minded woman, took it to Boileau, and begged him to dissuade her son from following the career of a poet. The youth went trembling to hear his fiat; and Boileau, who saw no eminent talent in the production of his young friend, told him that he was very bold, with the name he bore, to attempt poetry. "Perhaps," he said, "you might one day write well; but I am incredulous as to extraordinary events, and I never heard of the son of a great poet turning out a great poet. The younger Corneille has merit, but he will always be a minor Corneille; take care that the same thing does not happen to you." Thus it is that in age we look back on the career we boldly enter on in youth; and aware of the dangers we ran, and forgetting the enthusiasm and passion that then raised us above fear, and promised us success, we endeavour to impart to our juniors the prudence and experience we have gained. In vain. Life would be far other than it is, did the young, at the dictum of the old, divest themselves of errors and passions, desires and anticipations, and see as plainly as those advanced in life the nothingness of the objects of their wishes. It is the scheme of the Creator, for some unknown purpose, that each new generation should go over the same course; and each, reaching the same point of rest, should wonder what the impulse is that drives successors over the same dangerous ground.

To return to Boileau: not long before his death he somewhat changed his habits. Though not in want of money, he was induced, by the solicitations of a friend, to sell him his house at Auteuil, it being promised that a room should always be reserved for him, and that he should continue as much its master as when he actually possessed it. Fifteen days after the sale he visited the place, and, going into the garden, looked about for a little grove, beneath whose shade he was accustomed to saunter and indulge in reverie; it was no longer there: he called for the gardener, and heard that, by order of the new proprietor, his favourite trees had been cut down: he paused for a moment, and then went back to his carriage, saying, "Since I am no longer master, what business have I here?" He returned instantly to Paris, and never revisited Auteuil.

Boileau was a pious man; he fulfilled strictly his religious duties. It is told of him that, dining with the duke of Orleans on a fast-day, nothing but flesh being served at table, Boileau confined himself to bread: the duke, perceiving this, said, "The fish has been forgotten, so you must be content to forego the fast as we do." "Yet," said Boileau, "if you were but to strike the ground with your foot, fish would rise from the earth." A witty and happy adaptation of Pompey's boast. In his latter years he congratulated himself on the purity of his poems. "It is a great consolation," he said, "to a poet about to die, to feel that he has never written any thing injurious to virtue."

His last days were employed in correcting a complete edition of his works. This was to include his "Dialogue on the Romances," which so pleasantly ridicules the language which mademoiselle Scuderi puts in the mouths of Cyrus, Horatius Codes, and Clelia. Out of respect for the authoress he had hitherto refrained from printing it; but it had been read in private: the marquis de Sévigné had written it down from recollection; and it had been printed in a pirated edition of the works of St. Evremond. Mademoiselle Scuderi being dead, Boileau resolved on publishing it. But the chief addition to his edition was his "Epistle to Ambiguity." Already was the publication in progress when the jesuits took alarm. They gave it in charge to père le Tellier, the king's confessor, to speak to Louis, and to induce him to stop the publication. The monarch was docile to the voice of his confessor: he not only forbade Boileau to publish the satire, but ordered him to give up the original into his hands, informing him, at the same time, that with this omission his edition might appear. But Boileau, feeling himself about to die, disdained to temporise, and preferred suppressing the whole edition rather than truckle to the jesuits.

1711. Ætat. 75.

His death was Christian and catholic, yet not so strictly devout as that of Racine. To the last he maintained his literary tastes, and was alive to critical remark. A friend thought to amuse him during his last illness by reading a new and popular tragedy: "Ah! my friend," he cried, "am I not dying in time? the Pradons, whom we laughed at in our youth, were suns in comparison with these authors." When he was asked how he felt, he replied by a verse from Malherbe:

As he was expiring, he saw M. Coutard approach; he pressed his hand, saying, "Bon jour, et adieu—c'est un long adieu."

He died of dropsy on the chest, on the 13th of March, 1711, in the seventy-fifth year of his age. He was buried in the lower chapel of the Sainte Chapelle, immediately under the spot which, in the upper chapel, is immortalised by his "Lutrin." Numerous friends attended the funeral; and one among them overheard a woman say, "He had many friends, it seems, yet I have heard that he spoke ill of everybody."

This is an exaggeration of what may be considered as the only flaw in Boileau's character:—generous and charitable; simple and natural in his manners; full of friendship, kindness, and integrity; we almost hesitate to pronounce severity of criticism against bad books a fault; but we cannot avoid perceiving that the ridicule he has attached to the names of Chapelain, Cotin, and others, however well deserved by their writings, might have been spared to the men. It reminds us too strongly of the anonymous critics of the present day not to be held in detestation.

It is not necessary to enter at length on the subject of his works. He possessed to a high degree the faculty of wit; generally speaking wit simply, not humour[95]: point the most acute, expressions the most happy, embody and carry home his meaning. He is not as elegant as Horace, nor as bitter nor as elevated as Juvenal: he indeed resembles the former more than the latter; but he has vivacity and truth, and a high tone of moral and critical feeling, which give strength to his epigrams; his principal defect being the want of a playful fancy, which caused a sort of aridity to be spread over his happiest sallies. He laboured to polish his verses diligently; and their apparent ease results from the justness of taste that taught him to retrench every superfluity of expression. The "Lutrin" rises superior to his other productions; and in these days, and for posterity, his fame will chiefly rest upon that poem.

RACINE

1639-1699

Born under not very dissimilar circumstances from Boileau—running, without great variation, the same literary career—sometimes associated in the same labours, always making a part of the same society, and, throughout, his dearest friend, yet the texture of their minds caused Racine to be a very different person from the subject of the foregoing sketch. The lives of both were unmarked by events; but while the one calmly and philosophically enjoyed the pleasures of life, unharmed by its pains, the more tender and sensitive nature of Racine laid him open to their impression. Censures, that only roused Boileau to bitter replies, saddened and crushed his friend. The feelings of religion, which made the former a good and pious man, rendered the other, to a great degree, a bigot. The one was independent of soul, the other sought support: yet, as the faults of Racine were combined with tenderness and amiability of disposition, and as he possessed the virtues of a warm heart, it is impossible not to regard his faults with kindness, while we deplore the mistakes into which they betrayed him. To trace out the different natures of men, to account for the variation, either from innate difference, or the influence of dissimilar circumstances, is, perhaps, one of the most useful objects of a biographer. We all vary one from another, yet none of us tolerate the difference in others: the haughty and independent spirit disdains the pliant and tender, while this regards its opposite as unfeeling and lawless. The conviction, on the contrary, ought to be deeply impressed of the harmony of characters—that certain defects and certain virtues are allied, and ever go together. We should not ask the sheep for fleetness, nor wool from the horse; but we may love and admire the gifts that each enjoy, and profit by them, both as matter of advantage and instruction.

Racine was born of a respectable family of Ferté-Milon, a small town of Valois. His father and grandfather both enjoyed small financial situations in their native town. His father, Jean Racine, married Jeanne Sconin, whose father occupied the same sort of position in society. This pair had two children, whom their deaths left orphans in infancy. The wife died in 1641, and her husband survived her only two years.

The two children, a boy and a girl, were brought up by their maternal grandfather. The daughter passed her life at Ferté-Milon, and died there at the advanced age of ninety-two. The son, named Jean, was born on the 21st of December, 1639. We have few traces of his childhood. It was not, apparently, a happy one; at least we are told that, when all the family of Sconin assembled at his house, on those festive anniversaries which the French celebrate with so much exactitude, his orphan grandchildren were wholly disregarded[96]; and the gentle sensitive heart of Racine must have felt this neglect severely. His first studies were made at Beauvais. At this time the civil war of the fronde was raging in France. The scholars at Beauvais were also divided into parties; and "Vive Mazarin," or "A bas Mazarin," became the rallying cries of their mimic wars; yet not so mimic but that the little combatants encountered perils. Racine himself received a wound on his forehead, of which he ever after bore the mark. The master of the school used to show the scar to everybody as a token of the boy's courage; a quality of which, in after life, he made no great display. 1670. Ætat. 11. His grandfather died while he was still a child, and he fell to the care of his widowed grandmother. Two of this lady's daughters were nuns in the abbey of Port Royal, and she took up her abode with them; which was, doubtless, the cause that, on leaving the school at Beauvais, Racine was received a pupil in the seminary of that convent.

1655. Ætat. 16.

At this time, in France, the education of young people was chiefly committed to the clergy. The jesuits did all they could to engross an employment full of promise of power—the great aim of that society. Their principal rivals were the teachers of the abbey of Port Royal, whose methods were admirable, and whose enthusiasm led them to diligence and patience in their task. Theoretically it seems an excellent plan to commit the bringing up of youth to those who dedicate their lives to the strictest practices of virtue, as the recluses of Port Royal at that time undoubtedly did. But, in fact, the monkish spirit is so alien to the true purposes of life, and men who sacrifice every pleasure and affection to the maintenance of ascetic vows must naturally give so preponderating an importance to the objects that influence them, that such teachers are apt rather to trouble the conscience, and plunge youth in extravagant devotion; inspiring rather a polemical spirit, or a dream of idleness, than instilling that manly and active morality, and that noble desire to make a right use of the faculties given us by God, which is the aim of all liberal education. The effects of a monkish tutelage spread a sinister influence over the ductile disposition of Racine; the faults of his character were all fostered; the independence and hardihood he wanted were never instilled.

As a school for learning it succeeded admirably. Greek and Latin were assiduously cultivated by the tutors, and Racine's wonderful memory caused him to make swift progress. M. de Sacy took particular pains with him: discerning his talents, and hoping that he would one day distinguish himself, he took him into his own apartments, and gave him the name and treatment of a son. M. Hannon, who succeeded to M. de Sacy, on the death of the latter, continued the same attentions. Racine was poor: he could not purchase good copies of the classics, and he read them in the Basle editions without any Latin translation. His son tells us that he still possessed his father's Plutarch and Plato, the margins of which were covered with annotations which proved his application and learning.

It is impossible not to be struck by the benefit derived from the Greek writers by a child of genius, who was indebted to the respect which the priests showed for ancient authors for the awakening of his mind to poetry and philosophy. But for this saving grace the monks would probably have allowed him to read only books of scholastic piety. Racine, young as he was, drank eagerly from the purest fountains of intellectual beauty and grace, opened by the Greeks, unsurpassed even to this time. His imaginative spirit was excited by the poetry of the Greek tragedians; and he spent many a day wandering in the woods of Port Royal with the works of Sophocles and Euripides in his hands. He thus obtained a knowledge of these divine compositions which always remained; and in after years he could recite whole plays.[97] It happened, however, that he got hold of the Greek romance of the loves of Theagines and Chariclea. This was too much for priestly toleration. The sacristan discovered the book and devoted it to the flames; another copy met the same fate. Racine bought a third, learnt the romance by heart, and then took the volume to the monk, and told him he might burn that also.