CABINET CYCLOPÆDIA. (continued 7)

It would appear that Racine was happy while at Port Royal. He was loved by his masters: his gentle amiable nature led him to listen docilely to their lessons; and the tenderness of his disposition was akin to that piety which they sedulously sought to inculcate. The peculiar tenets of the Port Royal, which fixed the foundations of all religion in the love of God, found an echo in his heart; but how deeply is it be regretted, that he imbibed that narrow spirit along with it that restricted the adoration of the Creator to the abstract idea of himself, rather than a warm diffusive love of the creation. Poetry was the very essence of Racine's mind—the poetry of sentiment and the passions; but poetry was forbidden by the jansenists, except on religious subjects, and Racine could only indulge his tastes by stealth. His French verses, composed at the Port Royal, are not good; for his native language, singularly ill-adapted to verse, had not yet received that spirit of harmony with which he was destined to inspire her.[98] His biographers have preserved some specimens of his Latin verses, which have more merit. They want originality and force, but they are smooth and pleasing, and show the command he had of the language.

At the age of nineteen he left the Port Royal to follow his studies in the college of Harcour, at Paris. The logic of the schools pleased him little: his heart was still set on verse; and his letters, at this period, to a youthful friend, show the playfulness of his mind, and his desire to distinguish himself as a writer. An occasion presented itself. 1660. Ætat. 21. The marriage of Louis XIV. caused every versifier in France to bring his tribute of rhymes. Racine was then unknown. He had, indeed, written a sonnet to his aunt, Madame Vitart, to compliment her on the birth of a child, which sonnet, becoming known at Port Royal, awoke a holy horror throughout the community. His aunt, Agnes de Sainte Thecle Racine, then abbess, who had been his instructress, wrote him letter after letter, "excommunication after excommunication," he calls it, to turn his heart from such profane works. But the suggestions of the demon were too strong; and Racine wrote an ode, entitled "Nymphes de la Seine," to celebrate his sovereign's nuptials. His uncle, M. Vitart, showed it to M. Chapelain, at that time ruler of the French Parnassus. Chapelain thought the ode showed promise, and suggested a few judicious alterations. "The ode has been shown to M. Chapelain," Racine writes to a friend: "he pointed out several alterations I ought to make, which I have executed, fearful at the same time that these changes would have to be changed. I knew not to whom to apply for advice. I was ready to have recourse, like Malherbe, to an old servant, had I not discovered that she, like her master, was a jansenist, and might betray me, which would ruin me utterly, considering that I every day receive letters on letters, or rather excommunication on excommunication, on account of my unlucky sonnet."

The ode, however, and its alterations, found favour in the sight of Chapelain. It deserves the praise at least of being promising—it is neither bombastic nor tedious, if it be neither original nor sublime. The versification is harmonious, and, as a whole, it is unaffected and pleasing. Chapelain carried his approbation so far as to recommend the young poet and his ode to his patron, M. Colbert, who sent him a hundred louis from the king, and soon after bestowed on him a pension of six hundred livres, in his quality of man of letters.

Still, as time crept on, both Racine and his friends deemed it necessary to take some decision with regard to his future career. His uncle, M. V; tart, intendant of Chevreux, gave him employment to overlook some repairs at that place: he did not like the occupation, and considered Chevreux a sort of prison. His friends at Port Royal wished him to apply to the law; and, when he testified his disinclination, were eager to obtain for him some petty place which would just have maintained him. Racine appears to have been animated by no mighty ambition. His son, indeed, tells us that, when young, he had an ardent desire for glory, suppressed afterwards by feelings of religion. But these aspirations probably awoke in their full force afterwards, when success opened the path to renown. There are no expressions in his early letters that denote a thirst for fame: probably his actual necessities pressed too hardly on him: he thought, perhaps, more of escape from distasteful studies than attaining a literary reputation, and thought that he might indulge his poetical dreams in the inaction of a clerical life. Whatever his motives were, he showed no great dislike to become in some sort a member of the church; and, when an opening presented itself, did not turn away.

He had an uncle, father Sconin, canon of St. Geneviève at Paris, and at one time general of that community. He was of a restless, meddling disposition; so that at last his superiors, getting tired of the broils in which he involved them, sent him into a sort of honourable banishment at Uzès, where he possessed some ecclesiastical preferments. He wished to resign his benefice to his nephew. Racine did not much like the prospect; but he thought it best, in the first place, to accept his uncle's invitation, and to visit him.

Uzès is in Provence. Racine repaired to Lyons, and then down the Rhone to his destination. In the spirit of a true Parisian, he gives no token of delight at the beauties of nature: he talks of high mountains and precipitous rocks with a carelessness ill-befitting a poet; and shows at once that, though he could adorn passion and sentiment with the colours of poetry, he had not that higher power of the imagination which allies the emotions of the heart with the glories of the visible creation, and creates, as it were, "palaces of nature" for the habitation of the sublimer passions. We have several of his letters written at this period. They display vivacity, good humour, and a well-regulated mind: scraps of verses intersperse them; but these are merely à propos of familiar or diverting events. There is no token of the elevated nor the fanciful—nothing, in short, of the poet who, if he did not, like his masters the Greeks, put a soul into rocks, streams, flowers, and the winds of heaven, yet afterwards showed a spirit true to the touch of human feeling, and capable of giving an harmonious voice to sorrow and to love. One of his chief annoyances during this visit was the patois of the people. He was eager to acquire a pure and elegant diction; and he feared that his ear would be corrupted by the jargon to which he was forced to listen. "I have as much need of an interpreter here," he writes, "as a Muscovite in Paris. However, as I begin to perceive that the dialect is a medley of Spanish mixed with Italian, and as I understand these two languages, I sometimes have recourse to them; yet often I lose my pains, asking for one thing and getting another. I sent a servant for a hundred small nails, and he brought me three boxes of allumettes." "This is a most tiresome town," he writes, in another letter: "the inhabitants amuse themselves by killing each other, and getting hanged. There are always lawsuits going on, wherefore I have refused all acquaintance; for if I made one friend I should draw down a hundred enemies. I have often been asked, unworthy as I am, to frequent the society of the place; for my ode having been seen at the house of a lady, every one came to visit the author: but it is to no purpose—mens immota manet. I never believed myself capable of enduring so much solitude, nor could you have ever hoped so much from my virtue. I pass all my time with my uncle, with St. Thomas, and Virgil. I make many notes on theology, and sometimes on poetry. My uncle has all sorts of kind schemes for me—but none are yet certain: however, he makes me dress in black from head to foot, and hopes to get something for me; when I shall pay my debts, if I can; for I cannot before. I ought to think on all the dunning you suffer on my account—I blush as I write; erubuit puer; salva res est."

Obstacles, however, continued to present themselves to the execution of any of his uncle's plans. Racine, as he grew hopeless of advancement, turned his thoughts more entirely to composition. He wrote a poem called "The Bath of Venus," and began a play on the subject of Theagines and Chariclea, the beloved romance of his boyhood. After three months' residence at Uzès he returned to Paris.

He returned disappointed and uncertain. Poetry—even the drama—occupied his thoughts; but the opposition of his friends, and the little confidence in himself which marked his disposition, might have made him tremble to embark in a literary career, had not a circumstance occurred which may be called an accident[99], but which was, indeed, one of those slight threads which form the web of our lives, and compose the machinery by which Providence directs it. Molière, having established a comic company in Paris, grew jealous of the actors of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, who prided themselves on the tragic dignity of their representations. Having heard that a new piece was about to be represented at that theatre, he was desirous of bringing out one himself, on the same day, in rivalship. A new tragedy, secure of success, was not easy to acquire. Racine had, on his return from Provence, sent his "Theagines and Chariclea" to Molière. The latter saw the defects of the piece, but, penetrating the talent of the author, gave him general encouragement to proceed. At this crisis he remembered him. Molière had a design of the "Frères Ennemis" in his portfolio, which he felt incapable of filling up: he resolved to devolve the task on Racine, but knew not where to find him. With some difficulty he hunted him out, and besought him to write, if possible, an act a week; and they even worked together, that greater speed might be attained. Well acquainted as Molière was with the conduct of a drama, and the trickery of actors, no doubt his instructions and aid were invaluable to the young author. The piece was brought out, and succeeded—its faults were pardoned on the score of its being a first production. When it was afterwards published, Racine altered and corrected it materially. It cannot be said, indeed, that, as some authors have done, he surprised the world at first with a chef d'œuvre; elegance and harmony of versification being his characteristics, he continued to improve to the end, and his first piece may be considered as a coup d'essai. 1664. Ætat. 25. The subject was not suited to him, whose merit lay in the struggle of passion, and the gushing overflowings of tenderness. However, it went through fifteen representations. It was speedily followed by his "Alexandre." Neither in this play did he make any great progress, or give the stamp of excellence which his dramas afterwards received. 1665. Ætat. 26. It is said that he read his tragedy to Corneille, who praised it coldly, and advised the author to give up writing for the stage. The mediocrity of "Alexandre" prevents any suspicion that the great tragedian was influenced by envy; and as Racine, in this play, again attempted a subject requiring an energy and strength of virile passion of which he was incapable, and in which Corneille so much excelled, we may believe that the old master of the art felt impatient of the feebleness and inefficiency of him who afterwards became a successful rival.

When we regard these first essays of Racine, we at once perceive the origin of his defects, while we feel aware that a contrary system would have raised him far higher as a dramatist. He was, of course, familiar with Corneille's master-pieces; and he founded his ideas of the conduct of a tragedy partly on these, and partly on the Greek. He did not read Spanish nor English, and was ignorant of the original and bold conceptions of the poets of those nations; and was hampered by an observance of the unities, which had become a law on the French stage, and was recognised and confirmed by himself. He felt that the Greek drama is not adapted to modern times: he did not feel that the Greeks, in taking national subjects, warmed the hearts of their audience; and that the religion, the scenery, the poetry, the allusions—all Greek, and all, therefore, full of living interest to Greeks, ought to serve as a model whereby modern authors might form their own national history and traditions into a dramatic form, not as ground-works for cold imitations. Racine, from the first, fell into those deplorable mistakes which render most of his plays—beautiful and graceful as they are, and full of tenderness and passion—more like copies in fainter colours of his sublime masters, than productions conceived by original genius, in a spirit akin to the age and nation to which he belonged. Another misfortune attended the composition of his tragedies, as it had also on those of his predecessor. The Greek drama was held solemn and sacred—the stage a temple: the English and Spanish theatres, wild, as they might be termed, were yet magnificent in their errors. An evil custom in France crushed every possibility of external pomp waiting on the majesty of action. The nobles, the petit maîtres, all the men of what is called the best society in Paris, were accustomed to sit on the stage, and crowded it so as not to allow the author room to produce more than two persons at a time before the scene. All possibility, therefore, of reforming the dull undramatic expedient of the whole action passing in narration between a chief personage and a confidant was taken away; and thus plays assumed the form rather of narrative poems in dialogue than the native guise of a moving, stirring picture of life, such as it is with us—while the assembly of dandy critics, ever on the look-out for ridicule, allowed no step beyond conventional rules, and termed the torpor of their imaginations, good taste. We only wonder that, under such circumstances, tragedies of merit were produced. But to return to Racine's "Alexandre."

This tragedy was the cause of the quarrel between Racine and Molière. It was brought out at the theatre of the Palais Royal—it was unsuccessful; and the author, attributing his ill success to the actors, withdrew it, and caused it to be performed at the Hôtel de Bourgogne: to this defalcation he added the greater injury of inducing Champmélé, the best tragic actress of the time, to quit Molière's company for that of the rival theatre. Molière never forgave him; and they ceased to associate together. Madame de Sévigné alludes in her letters to the attachment of Racine for Champmélé, but his son denies that such existed; and the mention which Racine makes in his letters of this actress; when she was dying, betray no trace of tender recollection; yet, as these were addressed to his son, he might carefully suppress the expressions of his regret. He taught Champmélé to recite; and she owed her reputation to his instructions.

The criticism freely poured on his two tragedies were of use to the author. He was keenly alive to censure, and deeply pained by it; but, when accompanied by such praise as showed that correction and improvement were expected, he readily gave ear to the suggestions of his fault-finders. Boileau boasted that he taught Racine to rhyme with difficulty—easy verses, he said, are not those written most easily. Racine, as he went on, also began to feel the true bent of his genius, while his desire to write parts suited to Champmélé induced him to give that preponderance to the chief female part that produced, in the sequel, his best plays.

While he was employing himself on "Andromaque" he sustained an attack, which roused him to some resentment. Nicole, in a letter he published against a new sect of religionists, asserted that "a romance writer and a theatrical poet are public poisoners—not of bodies, but of souls—and that they ought to look on themselves as the occasion of an infinity of spiritual homicides, of which they are, or might be, the cause." Racine felt this censure the more bitterly from his having been excluded from visiting the Port Royal on account of his tragedies[100]; and he answered it by a letter, addressed "To the author of imaginary reveries." This letter is written with a good deal of wit and pleasantry: we miss the high tone of eloquent feeling that it might be supposed that an author, warmed with the dignity of his calling, would have expressed. His letter was answered, and he was excited to write a reply, which he showed to Boileau. The satirist persuaded him to suppress it; telling him that it would do no honour to his heart, since he attacked, in attacking the Port Royal, men of the highest integrity, to whom he was under obligations. Racine yielded, declaring that his letter should never see light; which it did not till after his death, when a stray copy was found and printed. The conduct of the poets was honourable. It is probable that Racine did not, in his heart, believe in the goodness of his cause; for he was deeply imbued with the prejudices instilled by the jansenists in his early youth. He was piqued by the attack, but his conscience sided with his censurers; and the degraded state to which clerical influence brought French actors in those days might well cause a devout catholic to doubt the innocence of the drama. A higher tone of feeling would have caused Racine to perceive that the fault lay with the persecutors, not the persecuted; but though an amiable and upright man, and a man of genius, he was in nothing beyond his age.

As Racine continued to write, he used his powers with more freedom and success. "Andromache," "Britannicus," and "Berenice" succeeded one to the other. The first, we are told, had a striking success; and it was said to have cost the life of Montfleuri, a celebrated actor, who put so much passion into the part of Orestes that he fell a victim to the excitement. "Berenice" was written at the desire of Henrietta of England, duchess of Orleans. It was called a duel, since she imposed the same subject, at the same time, on Corneille. Racine's was the better tragedy, and must always be read with deep interest; for to its own merit it adds the interest of commemorating the struggles of passion that Louis XIV. experienced, when, in his early days, he loved that charming princess. The subject, however, is too uniform, and the catastrophe not sufficiently tragic. Boileau felt its defects; and said that, had he been by, he would have prevented his friend's accepting the princess's challenge to write on such a subject. When Chapelle was asked what he thought of Berenice, he summed up the defects of the play in a few words. "What I think?" he said, "why, Marion weeps; Marion sobs; Marion wants to be married." That Racine should have excelled Corneille on this subject is not to be wondered; but Corneille had still many adherents who disdained, and tried to put down, his young rival. He had habituated the French audiences to a more heroic cast of thought than Racine could portray. The eager eloquence, the impetuous passions, and even the love of the elder poet were totally unlike the softness and tenderness of the younger. Racine, therefore encountered much criticism, which rendered him very unhappy. He told his son, in after years, that he suffered far more pain from the faults found with his productions than he ever experienced pleasure from their success. This avowal at once displays the innate weakness of the man.[101] Madame de Sévigné was among the partisans of Corneille; and her criticism shows the impression made on such by the new style of the young poet. "I send you "Bajazet," she writes to her daughter: "I wish I could also send you Champmélé to animate the piece. It contains agreeable passages, but nothing perfectly beautiful; nothing that carries one away; none of those tirades of Corneille that make one shudder. Racine can never be compared to him. Let us always remember the difference. The former will never go beyond "Andromache;" he writes parts for Champmélé, and not for future ages. When he is no longer young, and has ceased to be susceptible of love, he will cease to write as well as he now does." This opinion is at least false. The tragedies of Racine still live, or at least did so while Talma and the classic theatre survived in France. And "Athalie," written in his more advanced years, is the best of his works.

In the interval between "Andromaque" and "Britannicus" his comedy of "Les Plaideurs" appeared. A sort of lay benefice had been conferred on him, but he had scarcely obtained it when it was disputed by a priest; and then began a lawsuit, which, as he says, "neither he nor his judges understood." Tired out by law proceedings, weary of consulting advocates and soliciting judges, he abandoned his benefice, consoling himself meanwhile by writing the comedy of "Les Plaideurs," which was suggested by it. We have spoken, in the preceding pages, of the suppers where Racine, Boileau, Molière, and others met; in which they gave full play to their fancy, and gaiety and wit were the order of the day. At these suppers the plot of the projected comedy was talked over. One guest provided him with the proper legal terms. Boileau furnished the idea of the dispute between Chicaneau and the countess: he had witnessed a similar scene in the apartments of his brother, a scrivener, between a well-known lawyer and the countess de Crissé, who had passed her life, and dissipated her property, in lawsuits. The parliament of Paris, wearied by her pertinacious litigiousness, forbade her to carry on any suit without the consent of two advocates, who were named. She was furious at this sentence; and, after wearying judges, barristers, and attorneys by her repinings, she visited Boileau's brother, where she met the person in question. This man, a Paul Pry by inclination, was eager to advise her: she was at first delighted, till he said something to annoy her, and they quarrelled violently. This character being introduced into the comedy, the actress, who took the part, mimicked the poor countess to the life, even to the wearing a faded pink gown, such as she usually wore. Many other traits of this comedy were anecdotes actually in vogue; and the exordium of Intimé, who, when pleading about a capon, adopted the opening of Cicero's oration, "Pro Quintio,"—"Quæ res in civitate duæ plurimum possunt, hæ contra nos ambæ faciunt hoc tempore, summa gratia et eloquentia," had actually been put to use by an advocate in a petty cause between a baker and a pastrycook.

The humour of this piece show's that Racine might have succeeded in comedy: it is full of comic situation, and the true spirit of Aristophanic farce. Yet it did not at first succeed, either because the audience could not at once enter into its spirit, or because it was opposed by a cabal of persons who considered themselves attacked; and it was withdrawn after thé second representation. Molière, however, saw its merits; and, though he had quarrelled with the poet, he said aloud, on quitting the theatre, "This is an excellent comedy; and those who decry it deserve themselves to be decried." A month afterwards the actors ventured to represent it at court. The king entered into the spirit of the fun, and laughed so excessively that the courtiers were astonished. The actors, delighted by this unhoped-for piece of good fortune, returned to Paris the same night, and hastened to wake up the author, to impart the news. The turmoil of their carriages in his quiet street, in the middle of the night, awoke the neighbourhood: windows were thrown open; and, as it had been said that a counsellor of state had expressed great indignation against "Les Plaideurs," it was supposed that the author was carried off to prison, for having dared to ridicule the judges on the public stage; so that, while he was rejoicing at his success, the report in Paris the next morning was that he had been carried off in the night by a lettre-de-cachet.

In 1673 Racine was elected into the French academy. The speech he made on taking his seat was brief and courteous, but not humble, and delivered in so low a voice that only those near him could hear it. Meanwhile he continued to add to his reputation by bringing out his tragedies of "Bajazet," "Mithridates," "Phædra," and "Iphigenia." Each improving in his peculiar excellence, each found warm admirers and bitter enemies. Pradon brought out a tragedy on the subject of Phædra on the same day as Racine; and he had many partisans. Among them was the duke de Montauzier, and all the clique of the Hôtel de Bouillon. They carried their measures so far as to take the principal boxes, on the first six nights of each piece, and thus filled the theatre, or kept it empty, as they pleased. The chief friend of Pradon was madame des Houlières; who favoured him, because she patronised all those poets whom she judged incapable of writing as well as herself. She witnessed the representation of Racine's play; and returned afterwards to a supper of select friends, among whom was Pradon. The new tragedy was the subject of conversation, each did their best to decry it; and madame des Houlières wrote a mediocre sonnet enough, beginning—

to turn it into ridicule. This sonnet had vogue in Paris. No one knew who wrote it: it was attributed to the duke de Nevers, brother of the celebrated duchess de Mazarin. The partisans of Racine parodied the sonnet, under this idea; the parody beginning:

and even attacked the duchess, as

This reply was attributed to Racine and Boileau. The duke de Nevers, highly irritated, threatened personal chastisement in revenge. The report spread that he meant to have them assassinated. They denied having written the offending sonnet; and the son of the great Condé went to them, and said, "If you did not write it, come to the Hôtel de Condé, where the prince can protect you, as you are innocent. If you did write it, still come to the Hôtel de Condé, and the prince will take you under his protection, as the sonnet is both pleasant and witty." An answer was reiterated to the parody, with the same rhymes, beginning:

The quarrel was afterwards appeased, when it was discovered that certain young nobles, and not the poets, were the authors of the first parody.

This last adventure, joined to other circumstances, caused Racine to resolve on renouncing the drama. The opinions of the recluses of the Port Royal concerning its wickedness were deeply rooted in his heart. Though in the fervour of youth, composition, and success, he had silenced his scruples, they awoke, after a suspension, with redoubled violence. He not only resolved to write no more, but imposed severe penances on himself in expiation for those he had already written, and even wished to turn chartreux. Religion with him took the narrowest priestly form, redeemed only by the native gentleness and tenderness of his disposition. These qualities made him listen to his confessor, who advised him, instead of becoming a monk, to marry some woman of a pious turn, who would be his companion in working out his salvation. He followed this counsel, and married Catherine de Romanet, a lady of a position in life and fortune similar to his own. 1677. Ætat. 38. This marriage decided his future destiny. His wife had never read nor seen his tragedies; she knew their names but by hearsay; she regarded poetry as an abomination; she looked on prayer and church-going as the only absolutely proper occupations of life. She was of an over-anxious disposition, and not a little narrow-minded. But she was conscientious, upright, sincere, affectionate, and grateful. She gave her husband good advice, and, by the calmness of her temper, smoothed the irritability of his. His letters to his son give us pleasing pictures of his affection for his wife and children; melancholy ones of the effects of his opinions. The young mind is timid: it is easily led to fear death, and to doubt salvation, and to throw itself into religion as a refuge from the phantasmal horrors of another world. One after the other of Racine's children resolved to take monastic vows. His sons lost their vocation when thrown into active life; but the girls, brought up in convents, of gentle, pliant, and enthusiastic dispositions, were more firm, and either took the vows in early youth—which devoted them to lives of hardship and self-denial—or had their young hearts torn by the struggles between the world and (not God) but the priests. Racine, on the whole, acted kindly and conscientiously, and endeavoured to prove their vocation before he consented to the final sacrifice; but the nature of their education, and his own feelings, prevented all fair trial; and his joy at their steadiness, his annoyance in their vacillation, betrays itself in his letters. His income, derived from the king's pensions and the place of historiographer, was restricted; and though the king made him presents, yet these were not more than commensurate to his increased expenses when in attendance at court. He had seven children: he found it difficult, therefore, to give doweries to all the girls; and worldly reasoning came to assist and consolidate sentiments which sprang originally from bigotry.

One of the first acts of Racine, on entering on this new life, was to reconcile himself to his friends of the Port Royal. He easily made his peace with M. Nicole, who did not know what enmity was, and who received him with open arms. M. Arnaud was not so facile: his sister, mother Angelica, had been ridiculed by Racine, and he could not forgive him. Boileau endeavoured in vain to bring about a reconciliation: he found M. Arnaud impracticable. At length he determined on a new mode of attack; and he went to the doctor, taking the tragedy of "Phaedra" with him, with the intention of proving that a play may be innocent in the eyes of the severest jansenist. Boileau, as he walked towards the learned and pious doctor's house, reasoned with himself:—"Will this man," he thought, "always fancy himself in the right? and cannot I prove to him that he is in the wrong? I am quite sure that I am in the right now; and, if he will not agree with me, he must be in the wrong." He found Arnaud with a number of visitors: he presented the book, and read at the same time the passage from the preface in which the author testifies his desire to be reconciled to persons of piety. Boileau then went on to say that his friend had renounced the theatre; but at the same time he maintained, that, if the drama was dangerous, it was the fault of the poets; but that "Phædra" contained nothing but what was morally virtuous. The audience, consisting of young jansenist clergymen, smiled contemptuously; but M. Arnaud replied, "If it be so, there is no harm in this tragedy."

Boileau declared he never felt so happy in his life as on hearing this declaration: he left the hook, and returned a few days afterwards for the doctor's opinion: it was favourable, and leave was given him to bring his friend the following day. Louis Racine's account of the interview gives a singular picture of manners. "They (Boileau and Racine) went together; and, though a numerous company was assembled, the culprit entered, with humility and confusion depicted on his countenance, and threw himself at M. Arnaud's feet, who followed his example, and they embraced. M. Arnaud promised to forget the past, and to be his friend for the future—a promise which he faithfully kept."

This same year Racine was named historiographer to the king, together with his friend. In some sort this may be considered fortunate; since, having renounced poetry, he might have neglected literature, had not this new employment given him a subject which he deemed exalted in its nature. How strangely is human nature constituted. Racine made a scruple of writing tragedies, or, indeed, poetry of any kind that was not religious. He believed that it was impious to commemorate in lofty verse the heroic emotions of our nature, or to dress in the beautiful colours of poetry the gentle sorrows of the loving heart: from such motives he gave up his best title to fame, his dearest occupation; but he had no scruple in following his sovereign to the wars, and in beholding the attack and defence of towns. "I was at some distance," he writes to Boileau, "but could see the whole assault perfectly through a glass, which, indeed, I could scarcely hold steady enough to look through—my heart beat so fast to see so many brave men cut down." Still there was no scruple here, though the unjustifiable nature of Louis XIV.'s wars afforded no excuse for the misery and desolation he spread around.

This contradiction strikes us yet more forcibly in his letters to his son, which are full of moral precepts, and just and enlightened advice on literary subjects. Had he been a soldier, it had made a natural portion of the picture; but that a man at once of a lively imagination, tender disposition, and pious sentiments, and who, we are told, evinced particular regard for his own person, should, day after day, view the cruelties and ravages of war en amateur shocks our moral sense.

Racine was servile. This last worst fault he owed, doubtless, to his monkish education, which gave that turn to his instinctive wish to gain the sympathy and approbation of his associates. His devotion was servile. He deserves the praise, certainly, of preferring his God to his king; for he continued a jansenist, though the king reprobated that sect and upheld the jesuits, as his own party; yet he never blamed Racine for his adherence to the Port Royal, so he was never tempted to abandon it. His veneration for the king—his fear, his adulation—were carried to a weakness. It is true that it is difficult for a bold, impossible for a feeble, mind to divest itself of a certain sort of worship for the first man of the age; and Louis was certainly the first of his. Racine also liked the refinements of a court; he prided himself on being a courtier. He succeeded better than Boileau, who had no ambition of the sort; yet he could never attain that perfect self-possession, joined to an insinuating and easy address, that marks the man bred in a court, and assured of his station in it. "Look at those two men," said the king, seeing Racine and M. de Cavoie walking together; "I often see them together, and I know the reason. Cavoie fancies himself a wit while conversing with Racine, and Racine fancies himself a courtier while talking to Cavoie." It must not be supposed, however, that he carried his courtier-like propensities to any contemptible excess. His affectionate disposition found its greatest enjoyment at home; and he often left the palace to enjoy the society of his wife and children. His son relates, that one day, having just returned from Versailles to enjoy this pleasure, an attendant of the duke came to invite him to dine at the Hôtel de Condé. "I cannot go," said Racine; "I have returned to my family after an absence of eight days; they have got a fine carp for me, and would be much disappointed if I did not share it with them."

In the life of Boileau there is mention of the poet's first campaign, and the pleasantries that ensued. Boileau never attended another; but Racine followed the king in several; and his correspondence with his friend from the camp is very pleasing. Whatever faults might diminish the brightness of his character, he had a charming simplicity, a warmth of heart, a turn for humour, and a modesty, that make us love the man. His life was peaceful: his attendance at court, domestic peace, the open-hearted intimacy between him and Boileau, were the chief incidents of his life. "The friends were very dissimilar," says Louis Racine; "but they delighted in each other's society: probity was the link of the union." He attended the academy also. It fell to him to receive Thomas Corneille, when he was chosen member in place of the great Corneille. Racine's address pleased greatly. 1684. Ætat. 45. His praise of his great rival was considered as generous as it was just. To this he added an eulogium on the king, which caused Louis to command him to recite his speech afterwards to him. At one time he was led to break his resolution to write no more poetry, by the request of the marquis of Seignelay, who gave a fête to the king at his house at Sceaux; and on this occasion Racine wrote his "Idyl on Peace."

In a biography of this kind, where the events are merely the every-day occurrences of life, anecdotes form a prominent portion, and a few may here be introduced. Racine had not Boileau's wit, but he had more humour, and a talent for raillery. Boileau represented to him the danger of yielding to this, even among friends. One day, after a rather warm discussion, in which Racine had rallied his friend unmercifully, Boileau said composedly, "Did you wish to annoy me?" "God forbid!" cried the other. "Well, then," said Boileau, "you were in the wrong, for you did annoy me." On occasion of another such dispute, carried on in the same manner, Boileau exclaimed, "Well, then, I am in the wrong; but I would rather be wrong than be so insolently right." He listened to his friend's reprimand with docility. Always endeavouring to correct the defects of his character, he never received a reproof but he turned his eyes inward to discover whether it was just, and to amend the fault that occasioned it. He tells his son in a letter, that accustomed, while a young man, to live among friends who rallied each other freely on their defects, he never took offence, but profited by the lessons thus conveyed. Such, however, is human blindness, that he never perceived the injurious tendency of his chief defect—weakness of character. He displays this amusingly enough in some anecdotes he has recorded of Louis XIV., in which the magnanimity of the monarch is lauded for the gentleness with which he reproved an attendant for giving him an unaired shirt.

Much of Racine's time was spent at court—the king having given him apartments in the castle and his entrées. He liked to hear him read. He said Racine had the most agreeable physiognomy of any one at court, and, of course, was pleased to see him about him. He was a great favourite of madame de Maintenon, whom, in return, he admired and respected. There was a good deal of similarity in their characters, and they could sympathise readily with each other. It is well known how, at this lady's request, he unwillingly broke his resolve, and wrote two tragedies, with this extenuation in his eyes, that they were on religious subjects; indeed, he had no pious scruple in writing them; but, keenly sensitive to criticism, he feared to forfeit the fame he had acquired, and that a falling off should appear in these youngest children of his genius.

The art of reciting poetry with ease and grace was considered in France a necessary portion of education. Racine was remarkable for the excellence of his delivery. At one time he had been asked to give some instructions in the art of declamation to a young princess; but, when he found that she had been learning portions of his tragedy of "Andromaque," he retired, and begged that he might not again he asked to give similar lessons. In the same way, madame de Brinon, superior of the house of Saint Cyr, was desirous that her pupils should learn to recite; and, not daring to teach them the tragedies of Corneille and Racine, she wrote some very bad pieces herself. Madame de Maintenon was present at the representation of one of these, and, finding it insufferable, she begged that it might not be played again, but that a tragedy of Corneille or Racine should be chosen in which there was least love. "Cinna" was first got up, and afterwards "Andromaque." The latter was so well played that madame de Maintenon found it ill suited for the instruction of young ladies: she wrote to Racine on the subject, saying, "Our little girls have been acting your "Andromaque," and they performed it so well that they shall never act either that or any other of your tragedies again;" and she went onto beg that he would write some sort of moral or historical poem fit for the recitation of young ladies. The request is certainly what we, in vulgar language, should call cool. Racine was annoyed, but he was too good a courtier to disobey—he has had his reward. He feared to decrease his reputation. In this he showed too great diffidence of his genius. The very necessity of not dressing some thrice-told heroic fable in French attire was of use; and we owe "Athalie," the best of all his dramas, to this demi-regal command.

His first choice, however, fell naturally upon Esther. There is something in her story fascinating to the imagination. A young and gentle girl, saving her nation from persecution by the mere force of compassion and conjugal love, is in itself a graceful and poetic idea. Racine found that it had other advantages, when he imaged the pious and persuasive Maintenon in the young bride, and the imperious Montespan in the fallen Vashti. When the play was performed applications were found for other personages, and the haughty Louvois was detected in Haman. The piece pleased the lady who commanded it; but she found her labours begin when it was to be acted, especially when the young duchess of Burgundy took a part. She attributed to the court the discontent about the distribution of parts, which flourishes in every green-room in the world, though it appertain only to a barn; however, success crowned the work. Esther was acted again and again before the king; no favour was estimated so highly as an invitation to be present. Madame de Caylus, niece of madame de Maintenon, was the best actress; and even the choruses, sung by the young pure voices of girls selected for their ability, were full of beauty and interest.

Charmed by the success, madame de Maintenon asked the poet for yet another tragedy. He found it very difficult to select a subject. Ruth and others were considered and rejected, till he chose one of the revolutions of the regal house of Judah[102], which was at once a domestic tragedy, and yet enveloped in all the majesty of royalty, and the grandeur of the Hebrew worship. Athaliah, on the death of her son Ahaziah, destroyed all the seed royal of the house of Judah, except one child, Joash, who was saved by Jehosheba, a princess of Israel, wife of Jehoiada the priest, and brought up by the latter till old enough to be restored to his throne, when he was brought out before the people, and proclaimed king, and the usurping queen, Athaliah, slain. The subject of this drama, concerning which he hesitated so long and feared so much, he found afterwards far better adapted to the real development of passion than "Esther." "Esther," after all, is a young ladies' play; and the very notion of the personages having allusion to the ladies of the court gives it a temporary and factitious interest, ill adapted to the dignity of tragedy. Racine put his whole soul in "Athalie." His piety, his love of God, his reverence for priests, which caused him to clothe the character of Jehoiada in awful majesty; his awe for the great name of Jehovah, and his immediate interference with the affairs of the Jewish nation; his power of seizing the grandeur of the Hebrew conception of the Almighty gave sublimity to his drama, while the sorrows and virtues of the young Joash gave, so to speak, a virgin grace to the whole. He had erred hitherto in treading with uneasy steps in the path which the Greeks had trod before; but here a new field was opened. And, to enhance the novelty and propriety of the story, he added a versification more perfect than is to be found in any other of his plays.

Yet it was unlucky. It had been represented to madame de Maintenon, that it was ill fitted for the education of noble young ladies to cause them to act before a whole court; and that the art of recitation was dearly purchased by the vanity, love of display, and loss of feminine timidity thus engendered. "Athalie" was, therefore, never got up like "Esther." It was performed, before the king and a few others, in madame de Maintenon's private apartment, by the young ladies, in their own dresses. Afterwards it was performed at Paris with ill success. The author was deeply mortified, while Boileau consoled him by prophesying "le public reviendra;" a prophecy which, in the sequel, was entirely fulfilled.

Many letters of Racine to his family are preserved; which show us the course of his latter years. It was uniform: though a large family brought with it such cares as sometimes caused him to regret his having given up his resolution to turn monk. At home he read books of piety, instructed his children, and conversed with his friends. Boileau continued the most intimate. Often the whole family repaired to Auteuil, where they were received with kindness and hospitality: at other times he followed the king to Fontainebleau and Marli. He had the place of gentleman in ordinary to the king (of which he obtained the survivance for his son), and was respected and loved by many of the chief nobility.

Racine, however, was not destined to a long life; and, while eagerly employed on the advancing his family, illness and death checked his plans. His son thinks that he pays him a compliment by attributing his death to his sensibility, and the mortification he sustained from the displeasure of the king. We, on the contrary, should be glad to exonerate his memory from the charge of a weakness which, carried so far, puts him in a contemptible light; and would rather hope that the despondency, the almost despair, he testified, was augmented by his state of health, as his illness was one that peculiarly affects the spirits. Like every person of quick and tender feelings, he was, at times, inclined to melancholy, and given to brood over his anxieties and griefs. He rather feared evil than anticipated good; and these defects, instead of lessening by the advance of age and the increase of his piety, were augmented through the failure of his health, and the timid and cowardly tendency of his faith.

The glories of Louis XIV. were fast vanishing. Added to the more circumscribed miseries, resulting to a portion of his subjects from the revocation of the edict of Nantes, was the universal distress of the people, loaded by taxation for the purpose of carrying on the war. Madame de Maintenon felt for all those who suffered. Her notions of religion, though not jansenist, yet rendered her strictly devout. To restore Louis to the practice of the virtues she considered necessary to his salvation, she had thrown him, as much as possible, into the hands of the jesuits. When the question had been his personal pleasures, she had ventured far to recall him to a sense of duty; but she never went beyond. If she governed in any thing, it was with a hidden influence which he could not detect: she never appeared to interfere; and her whole life was spent in a sacrifice of almost every pleasure of her own to indulge his tastes and enjoyments.

Madame de Maintenon was very partial to Racine. His conversation, his views, his sentiments, all pleased her. One day they conversed on the distress into which the country was plunged. Racine explained his ideas of the remedies that might be applied with so much clearness and animation, they appeared so reasonable and feasible to his auditress, that she begged him to put them in writing, promising that his letter should be seen by no eyes but her own. He, moved somewhat by a hope of doing good, obeyed. Madame de Maintenon was reading his essay when the king entered and took it up. After casting his eyes over it, he asked who was the author; and madame de Maintenon, after a faint resistance, broke her promise—and named Racine. The king expressed displeasure that he should presume to put forth opinions on questions of state:—"Does he think that he knows every thing," he said, "because he writes good verses? Does he wish to be a minister of state, because he is a great poet?" A monarch never expresses displeasure without giving visible marks of dissatisfaction. Madame de Maintenon felt this so much that she sent word to Racine of what had passed, telling him, at the same time, not to appear at court till he heard again from her. The poet was deeply hurt. He feared to have displeased a prince to whom he owed so much. He grew melancholy—he grew ill: his malady appeared to be a fever, which the doctors treated with their favourite bark; but an abscess was formed on the liver, which they regarded lightly.

Being somewhat embarrassed in his means at this time, he was desirous of being excused the tax with which his pension was burdened; he made the request. It had been granted on a former occasion—now it was refused; yet with a grace: for the king, in saying "It cannot be," added, "If, however, I can find some way of compensating him I shall be very glad." Heedless of this promise, discouraged by the refusal, he brooded continually over the loss of royal favour. He began to fear that his adherence to the tenets upheld by the Port Royal might have displeased the king: in shore, irritated by illness, depressed by his enforced absence from court, he gave himself up to melancholy. He wrote to madame de Maintenon on this new idea of being accused of jansenism. His letter does him little honour—it bears too deeply the impress of servility, and yet of an irritation which he ought to have been too proud to express. "As for intrigue," he writes, "who may not be accused, if such an accusation reaches a man as devoted to the king as I am: a man who passes his life in thinking of the king; in acquiring a knowledge of the great actions of the king; and in inspiring others with the sentiments of love and admiration which he feels for the king. There are many living witnesses who could tell you with what zeal I have often combatted the little discontents which often rise in the minds of persons whom the king has most favoured. But, madame, with what conscience can I tell posterity that this great prince never listened to false reports against persons absolutely unknown to him, if I become a sad example of the contrary?"

Madame de Maintenon was touched by his appeal: she wished to, yet dared not, receive him. He wandered sorrowfully about the avenues of the park of Versailles, hoping to encounter her—and at last succeeded: she perceived him, and turned into the path to meet him. "Of what are you afraid?" she said. "I am the cause of your disaster, and my interest and my honour are concerned to repair it. Your cause is mine. Let this cloud pass—I will bring back fair weather."—"No, no, madam," he cried, "it will never return for me!" "Why do you think so?" she answered; "Do you doubt my sincerity, or my credit?"—"I am aware of your credit, madam," he said, "and of your goodness to me; but I have an aunt who loves me in a different manner. This holy maiden prays to God each day that I may suffer disgrace, humiliation, and every other evil that may engender a spirit of repentance; and she will have more credit than you." As he spoke there was the sound of a carriage approaching. "It is the king!" cried madame de Maintenon—"hide yourself:" and he hurried to conceal himself behind the trees.

What a strange picture does this conversation give of the contradictions of the human heart. Here is a man whose ruling passion was a desire to attain eternal salvation and a fear to miss it; a man who believed that God called men to him by the intervention of adversities and sorrow; and that the truly pious ought to look on such, as marks of the Saviour's love: and yet the visitation of them reduced him to sickness and death. He had many thoughts of total retirement; but he felt it necessary, for the good of his family and the advancement of his sons, to continue his attendance at court: for, though not allowed to see the king and madame de Maintenon privately, he still appeared at the public levees. The sadness he felt at the new and humiliating part he played there, rendered this, however, a task from which he would gladly have been excused.

The abscess on the liver closed, and his depression and sense of illness increased. One day, while in his study, he felt so overcome that he was obliged to give over his occupation and go to bed. The cause of his illness was not known: it was even suspected that he gave way pusillanimously to a slight indisposition—while death had already seized on a vital part. He was visited by the nobles of the court, and the king sent to make inquiries.

His devotion and patience increased as his disease grew painful, and strength of mind sprang up as death drew near. He occupied himself by recommending his family to his friends and patrons. He dictated a letter to M. de Cavoie, asking him to solicit for the payment of the arrears of his pension for the benefit of the survivors. When the letter was finished, he said to his son, "Why did you not include the arrears due to Boileau in the request? We must not be separated. Write your letter over again; and tell Boileau that I was his friend till death." On taking leave of this dear friend he made an effort to embrace him, saying, "I look on it as a happiness that I die before you."

When it was discovered that an internal abscess was formed, an operation was resolved on. He consented to undergo it, but he had no hopes of preserving his life. "The physicians try to give me hope," he said, "and God could restore me; but the work of death is done." Hitherto he had feared to die—but its near approach found him prepared and courageous. The operation was useless—he died three days after its performance, on the 21st of April, 1699, in his sixtieth year.

It will be perceived that we have not said too much in affirming, that the qualities of his heart compensated for a certain weakness of character, which, fostered by a too enthusiastic piety, and the gratitude he owed to him whom he considered the greatest of monarchs, led him to waste at court, and in dreams of bigotry, those faculties which ought to have inspired him, even if the drama were reprehensible, with the conception of some great and useful work, redounding more to the honour of the Creator (since he gifted him with these faculties) than the many hours he spent in his oratory. It is plain from his letters that something puerile was thus imparted to his mind, which, from the first, needed strengthening. Yet one sort of strength he gained. He had a conscience that for ever urged him to do right, and a mind open to conviction. Under the influence of his religious system, he was led rather to avoid faults than to seek to attain virtues. He had an inclination for raillery, which, through the advice of Boileau, he carefully restrained: he was fond of pleasure; religion caused him to prefer the quiet of his home: and, as the same friend said, "Reason brings most men to faith—faith has brought Racine to reason." Fearful of pain himself, he was eager to avoid causing it to others. In society he was pliant; striving to draw others out rather than endeavouring to shine himself. "When the prince of Condé passes whole hours with me," he said to his son, "you would be surprised to find that I perhaps have not uttered four words all the time; but I put him into the humour to talk, and he goes away even more satisfied with himself than with me. My talent does not consist in proving to the great that I am clever, but in teaching them that they are so themselves." His faithful friendship for Boileau is one of the most pleasing circumstances of his life. His letters show the kindly nature of the intimacy. His wife and family often visited Auteuil; and Boileau, grown deaf, yet always kind, exerted himself to amuse or instruct, according to their ages, the children of his friend.

Of his tragedies the most contradictory opinions will, of course, be expressed. We cannot admire them as the French do. We cannot admit the superior excellence of their plan, because they bring the most incongruous personages into one spot; and, crowding the events of years into a few hours, call that unity of time and place: generally we are only shocked by the improbabilities thus presented; and when the author succeeds, it seems at best but a piece of legerdemain. Grandeur of conception is sacrificed to decorum, and tragedy resembles a dance in fetters. To this defect is added that of the choice of heroic subjects; which, while it brought the author into unmeet comparison with his masters, the Greeks, rendered his work a factitious imitation, leaving small space for the expression of the real sentiments of his heart; and he either fell into the fault of coldness, by endeavouring (vainly) to make his personages speak and feel as Greeks would have done, or incurred the censure applied to him of making his ancient heroes express themselves like modern Frenchmen. "Phædra" is the best of his heroic tragedies; and much in it is borrowed from Euripides. "Berenice" and "Britannicus" must always please more, because the conception is freer, as due solely to their author. "Athalie" is best of all; most original in its conception, powerful in its execution, and correct and beautiful in its language. There is, indeed, a charm in Racine's versification that wins the ear, and a grace in his characters that interests the heart. There is a propriety thrown over all he writes, which, if it wants strength, is often the soul of grace and tenderness. Had he, at the critical moment when he threw himself into the arms of the priests, and indulged the notion that to fritter away his time at court was a more pious pursuit than to create immortal works of art, had he, we repeat, at that time, dedicated himself to the strengthening and elevating his mind, and to the composition of poetry on a system at once pure and noble, and yet true to the real feelings of our nature, "Athalie" had, probably, not been his chef d'œuvre; and, on his death bed, he might have looked back with more pride on these testimonies of gratitude to God, for having gifted him with genius, than on the multitudinous times he had counted his rosary, or the many hours loitered away in the royal halls of Versailles.

FÉNÉLON

1651-1715

There is no name more respected in the modern history of the world, than that of Fénélon. In the ancient, that of Socrates competes with him. It might be curious and useful to compare Christian humility with pagan fortitude in these illustrious men. The death of Socrates crowned his life with undying fame. Fénélon suffered no martyrdom for his faith, but he was unchanged by the temptations of a court, and bore injustice with cheerful resignation. Amidst the roughness and almost rusticity of Socrates, there was something majestic and sublime, that inspired awe:[103] the gentleness and charity of Fénélon, so simple and true in all its demonstrations, excites a tender reverence. The soul of both was love. Socrates mingled wisdom with his worship of the beautiful, which to him typified the supreme Being. Fénélon, in adoring God, believed, that to love the supreme Being was the first, and, if properly accomplished, the only duty of human beings.

François de Salignac de la Mothe Fénélon, was born at the château of Fénélon, in Périgord, on the 6th of August, 1651. His family was ancient and illustrious. His father had been previously married, had several children, and was advanced in years; which caused his relations to oppose his second marriage, especially as the lady of his choice had but small fortune. She was, however, of a high family, being of the same, though a younger branch, as the countess of Soissons, wife of the famous prince Eugène's elder brother. Mademoiselle de la Cropte added beauty and merit to her distinguished birth. As the child of his old age, the count de Fénélon educated his younger son carefully; his gentle, affectionate nature soon displayed itself, and caused him to be beloved. His constitution was delicate, even to being weakly; but such care was taken to fortify it, that he became capable of great bodily and mental labour. His lively, just, and penetrating mind,—his upright, generous, and feeling heart,—his peculiarly happy dispositions, were perceived by his father in childhood, and cultivated: he was early taught to aspire to regulate his conduct by virtuous principles; and the natural instinct for justice which distinguished him, inclined him to listen and obey. His disposition being flexible and mild, he soon took pleasure in fulfilling his duties, in order, and in attention. Anecdotes are told of his display of reason and his gentleness, during childhood. Religiously and kindly educated, he early learnt to examine his own motives, and to restrain himself; docility was natural to him; but added to this, he already showed toleration for the faults of others. His health being delicate, it was resolved not to send him to any school; a tutor was engaged, happily formed for the task. The young Fénélon was treated neither with severity nor caprice; his lessons were made easy and agreeable, and his capacity rendered the acquisition of knowledge agreeable. At the age of twelve he wrote French and Latin with elegance and facility, and was well advanced in Greek. He had studied with care, and even imitated, the historians, poets, philosophers, and orators of the ancient world. His mind was thus refined and enriched, and he never lost his taste for ancient learning, while he carried into religious studies the good taste, grace, and variety of knowledge he acquired. Being early destined for the ecclesiastical state, no doubt care was taken to direct his studies in such a way as best accorded with a taste for retirement; and that submission and docility were inculcated as virtues of the first order. Submission and docility he had, but they were based on nobler principles than fear or servility. They arose from a well-regulated mind, from charity, gentleness, and a piety that animated rules and obedience with the warm spirit of love of God.

It was necessary for the purposes of a clerical education, that he should quit his paternal roof. There was a university at Cahors, not far distant, and the abbé de Fénélon (as he was then called) was sent there, at the age of twelve. He did not at first enter on the course of philosophy; although sufficiently advanced, it was feared that his young mind was not as yet capable of the attention that it required, and that he might be disgusted by its dryness, and the difficulties presented. He began, therefore, with a course of rhetoric, which forced him to retread old ground, and to relearn what he already knew. Being so well advanced, he was, of course, greatly superior in knowledge to his equals in age: but this excited no vanity; he felt that he owed the distinction to the cares bestowed on his early years. By the age of eighteen, he had finished his course of theology; he took his degree in the university of Cahors, and returned to his family.

The marquis de Fénélon, his uncle, invited him to his house in Paris, and treated him as his son. The marquis was lieutenant-general of the armies of the king, a man of distinguished valour, and a friend of the great Condé, who said of him, that "he was equally qualified to shine in society, in the field, and in the cabinet." He added piety to his more worldly qualities, and soon perceived and took pride in the admirable dispositions of his nephew. At the age of nineteen, the abbé preached sermons that were generally applauded. This success alarmed his uncle. He perceived the pure and upright character of his nephew; but, aware of his sensibility, he feared that public applause might spoil him, and substitute vanity for the holy love of duty that had hitherto actuated his conduct. From these reasons, he counselled him to retire from the world, and to enter a seminary, where in solitude and silence he might cultivate the virtues best suited to an ecclesiastic. Fénélon yielded; he entered the seminary of Saint Sulpice, and put himself under the direction of the abbé Tronson, who was its superior-general. The house was celebrated for its piety, its simple manners, its pure faith, and, added to these, its studious and laborious pursuits. He passed five years in this retreat, devoted to his duties and to the acquirement of knowledge. Thus were the ardent years of early youth spent in religious silence and obedience—in study and meditation. There was no worldly applause to flatter, no fame to entice; his happiness consisted in loving his companions, and being attached to his duties. His mind became strengthened in its purposes by example, and his virtues confirmed by habit. At the age of twenty-four he entered holy orders; and his future destiny as a priest was unalterably fixed.

1675. Ætat. 24.

A catholic priest's duties are laborious and strict. Fénélon fulfilled them conscientiously; he visited the sick, he assisted the poor. He was attentive at the confessional, and in catechismal examinations; the obscure labours which, when sedulously followed up, amount to hardships, but which are the most meritorious and useful of an ecclesiastic's duties, were so far from being neglected, that Fénélon devoted himself to them with zeal and assiduity. He had an exalted notion of the sacred office which he had taken on himself, looking on it as that of mediation between God and man. Humble, gentle, and patient, he never sought the rich, nor disdained the poor; nor did he ever refuse his counsel and assistance to any one who asked them. Content to be in the most useful, but the humblest class of priests, he neither sought to rise, nor even to be known.

His zeal, however, was not satisfied by his exertions in his native country. He resolved to emigrate to Canada, and to devote his life to the conversion of the savages; and when considerations of health prevented the fulfilment of this plan, he turned his eyes to the East. We read with interest his fervent expressions on this subject, which show how deeply he was imbued with the love of the good and the beautiful. "All Greece opens itself to me," he wrote to a friend; "the sultan retires in affright; the Peloponnesus already begins to breathe in freedom; again will the church of Corinth flourish; again will she hear the voice of her apostle. I feel myself transported to these delightful regions; and while I am collecting the precious monuments of antiquity, I seem to inhale her true spirit. When will the blood of the Turks lie mingled with the blood of the Persians on the plains of Marathon, and leave Greece to religion, to philosophy, and the fine arts, which regard her as their native soil!"—

He was turned from this project by objects of infinite importance in his native country.

M. de Harlay, archbishop of Paris, heard of his merits, and named him Superior to the convent of new converts in Paris. The spirit of proselytism was abroad in France, as the only excuse for the persecution of the Huguenots; and missions were sent into various provinces. It was important to select for missionaries men suited to the task, well versed in controversy, benevolent, patient, and persuasive. Louis XIV. was informed of the peculiar fitness of Fénélon to the office through his sweetness and sincerity, and appointed him to the province of Poitou. Fénélon accepted the office, making the sole request, that the military should be removed from the scene of his mission. With a heart penetrated by a love of God, and reverence for the church, he devoted himself to his task with zeal and ability, treating his proselytes with a gentleness and charity that gained their hearts. He listened to their doubts and their objections, and answered all; consoling and encouraging, and adopting, for their conversion, a vigilance, an address, and a simplicity that charmed and persuaded. Do we not find in this occupation the foundation for his toleration for all religious sects? While hearing the ingenuous and sinless objections to Catholicism raised by his young and artless converts, he must have felt that God would not severely condemn a faith to which no blame could be justly attached, except (as he believed) that it was a heresy.

During the exercise of this office, he became acquainted with the celebrated Bossuet. This great man began his career by an engagement of marriage with mademoiselle des Vieux, a lady of great merit, who afterwards, impressed with a sense of the career which his eloquence would procure him in the church, consented to give up the engagement. As a priest, he became celebrated for his sermons, till his pupil Bourdaloue surpassing him, he yielded his place to him. His reputation as an orator rests on his funeral orations: these bear the impress of a lofty and strong mind, and are full of those awful truths which great men ought to hear and mark.[104] Louis XIV. named him governor of the dauphin, on which he resigned his bishopric of Condom, that he might apply himself more entirely to so arduous a task as the education of the heir to the throne of France. He wrote his Discourse on Universal History, which Voltaire and D'Alembert both pronounce to be a sketch bearing the stamp of a vast and profound genius. He describes the manners and government, the growth and fall of empires, with majestic force, with a rapid pen, and an energetic conception of truth. When the education of the dauphin was completed, the king made him bishop of Meaux; and he employed himself in writing controversial works against the protestants.

Fénélon became at once the friend and pupil of this great man. He listened to him with docility: he admired his erudition and his eloquence; he revered his character, his age, his labours. He visited him at Germany, his country residence; where they had stated hours of prayer, meditation, and conversation; and passed their days in holy and instructive intercourse. Fénélon lived also in society with the most distinguished and excellent men of the age. The duke de Beauvilliers, governor of the duke of Burgundy, had begged him to write a treatise on the education of girls; of which task Fénélon acquitted himself admirably. His first chapters, which relate equally to both sexes, are the foundation of much of Rousseau's theory on the subject of education. He insists on the importance of the female character in society, and the urgent reasons there are for cultivating their good sense, and giving them habits of employment. "Women," he says, "were designed by their native elegance and grace to endear domestic life to man; to make virtue lovely to children, to spread around them order and grace, and give to society its highest polish. No attainment can be above beings whose aim it is to accomplish purposes at once so useful and salutary; and every means should be used to invigorate, by principle and culture, their native elegance." In addition to this treatise, he wrote one on the ministry of pastors, the object of which was to prove the superiority of the Roman catholic institution of pastors over the ministers of the reformed religion.

The duke de Beauvilliers was fully aware of the greatness of his merit. He was the governor of the sons of the dauphin; the elder, and apparent heir to the crown, the duke of Burgundy, was a child of ardent temperament and great talents; but impetuous, haughty, capricious, and violent. The duke was a man of virtue; he added simplicity of mind to a love of justice, a gentle temper, and persuasive manners; he felt the importance of his task, and was earnest to procure the best assistance; at his recommendation, 1689. Ætat. 38. Fénélon was named preceptor to the princes.[105] Men of the first talent were associated in the task of education; the duke de Beauvilliers was governor; the abbé de Langeron reader; he was a man of lively and amiable disposition, friendly and kind, with a mind enlightened by study. The abbé de Fleury, under-preceptor, is celebrated by his works. These men, and others, all united in a system which had the merit of success, and was founded on a knowledge of the human heart, joined to that of the peculiar disposition of their pupil: pupil we say, because, though there were three princes, the eldest, who was just seven years of age, was the chief object of their labours. They excited his curiosity in conversation, and awakened a desire to become acquainted with some portion of history, which led also to a geographical knowledge of various countries. He was taught the principal facts of ancient and modern history by dialogues; the knowledge of morals was inculcated by fables. As at first the vehemence of his temper frequently led him to deserve punishment, they contrived that the privation of a walk, an amusement, or even of his accustomed tasks, should take that form; added to these, when he transgressed flagrantly, was the silence of his attendants; no one spoke to him; till at last this state of mute loneliness became intolerable, and he confessed his fault, that he might again hear the sound of voices. Candour, and readiness to ask forgiveness, were the only conditions of pardon; and to bind his haughty will more readily, all those who presided over his education frankly acknowledged any faults which they might commit towards him; so that the very imperfections of his masters served as correctives of his own. This system was admirably adapted to the generous and fervent nature of the young prince. He became gentle, conscientious, and just. His love for his preceptor, under his wise fosterage, was extended to a love for his fellow-creatures. Fénélon had a deep sense of his responsibility to God and man in educating the future sovereign of France. He studied his pupil's character; he adapted himself to it. Nature had clone even more in fitting him: his enthusiasm, joined to his angelic goodness, excited at once the love and reverence of the prince, at the same time that he was the friend and companion of his hours of pastime. He conquered his pride by gentleness, by raillery, or by a dignified wisdom, which convinced while it awed. When the boy insolently asserted his superiority, Fénélon was silent; he appeared sad and reserved, till the child, annoyed by his change of manner, was brought to a temper to listen docilely to his remonstrances. His disinterestedness and truth gave him absolute power, and the boy eagerly acknowledged his error. He spared no labour or pains. We owe his fables, many of his dialogues, and his great work, Telemachus, to his plan of forming the mind and character of his pupil.[106] Religion, of course, formed a principal portion of his system. He often said that kings needed religion more than their subjects; that it might suffice to the people to love God, but that the sovereign ought to fear him. The duke of Burgundy grew devout, and the charity that formed the essence of his preceptor's soul passed into his. It is impossible to say what France would have become if this prince had reigned. The energy of his character gave hope that he would not have been spoilt by power, which, in the course of nature, he would not have inherited till he was more than thirty; when his views would have been enlightened by experience, and his virtues confirmed by habit. He had none of the ordinary kingly prejudices in favour of war and tyranny. He was high-minded, yet humble; full of talent, of energy, and respect for virtue. His early death destroyed the hope of France; and hence ensued the misrule which the revolution could alone correct.

Fénélon continued long unrecompensed. The king bestowed a small benefice on him; but he was passed over when other preferment presented itself. On the death of Harlay, it was expected that he would be named archbishop of Paris; but it was bestowed, on the contrary, on Noailles, whose nephew had married madame Maintenons niece. Soon after, however, he was named archbishop of Cambray. Madame de Coulanges, writing to madame Sévigné, says that Fénélon appeared surprised at his nomination; and, on thanking the king, represented to him that he could not regard that gift as a reward, whose operation was to separate him from his pupil; as the council of Trent had decided that no bishop could be absent more than three months in the year from his diocese, and that only from affairs important to the church. The king replied, by saying that the education of the prince was of the greatest importance to the church, and gave him leave to reside nine months of the year at Cambray, and three at court. Fénélon, at the same time, gave up his two abbeys, having a scruple of conscience with regard to pluralities.[107] We have now arrived at the period when Fénélon's career was marked by persecution instead of reward; and he himself became immersed in controversies and defence, which, though admirable in themselves, absorbed a talent and a time that might have been far more usefully employed. We must go back a short time, to trace the progress of circumstances that led to his disgrace and exile.

The characteristic of the French church during the reign of Louis XIV. was its spirit of controversy and persecution. We do not speak of the Huguenots; they were out of the pale of the church. But first came jansenism, which declared that faith and salvation depended on the immediate operation of the grace of God. This doctrine was supported by the sublime genius of Pascal by the logic and virtues of Arnaud; and boasted of the first men of the kingdom, Racine, Boileau, Rochefoucauld, &c., as its disciples. The king was taught by the jesuits to believe that the sect was dangerous, its supporters intriguers, and the whole system subversive of true piety. Fénélon declared himself the opposer of jansenism. He looked upon the free will of man as the foundation of religion, and considered the elective grace of the jansenists as contradictory of the first principles of Christianity. In his opinion, love of God was the foundation of piety; and he found in the writings and doctrines of madame Guyon the development and support of his ideas. Madame Guyon, a lady of irreproachable life, who from the period of an early widowhood had devoted herself to a life of piety, was an enthusiast. Her soul was penetrated with a fervent love of God, and so far she merited the applause of Christians; but by considering that this heavenly love was to absorb all earthly affection, she impregnated the language, if not the sentiment of divine love, with expressions of ecstasy and transport that might well shock the simple-minded. In exposing this objectionable part of her writings, Bossuet apostrophises the seraphs, and entreats them to bring burning coals from the altar of heaven to purify his lips, lest they should have been defiled by the impurities he is obliged to mention. The language of love is fascinating; and Fénélon, who believed the love of God to be the beginning and end of wisdom and virtue, might well use expressions denoting the dedication of his whole being to the delightful contemplation of divine perfection; but that he should approve expressions that diverge into bombast and rhapsody, is inexplicable, except as a proof that the wisest and best are liable to error. It is true that the catholic religion is open to such sentiment and phraseology. Nuns, who are declared the spouses of Jesus, are taught to devote the softer feelings of their hearts to their celestial husband; but certainly a well-regulated mind will rather avoid mingling questionable emotions and their expression with piety, even in their own persons; and, above all, they ought to be on their guard against misleading others, by inciting them to replace a reasonable sense of devotion and gratitude to the supreme Being by ecstatic transports, which defeat the chief aim of religion, which is to regulate the mind. Madame Guyon thought far otherwise; at least, as regarded herself. Living in solitude, and in distant provinces, she indulged her enthusiastic turn, and wrote down effusions dictated by emotions she believed to be praiseworthy. She wrote simply, and without art; but her works were full of ardour. She allowed others to read them, and a portion was copied and published. Some of her readers were edified; others naturally recoiled from a style of sentiment and expression which, however we may love God, is certainly not adapted to any spiritual state of feeling. Her faith was, that we ought to love God so entirely for himself alone, that our salvation or damnation becomes indifferent to us, since we should be willing gladly to endure eternal misery, if such were the will of God. A notion of this kind confounds at once all true religion, since we ought to love God for his perfection; and the infliction of pain on the just, cannot be the work of a perfect Being. However, by reasoning on our imperfect state of ignorance and error, madame Guyon was able to make some show of argument, while her expressions are in many parts incomprehensible. She says, that "the soul that completely abandons itself to the divine will, retains no fear or hope respecting any thing either temporal or eternal,"—a doctrine subversive of the Christian principle of repentance. She asserts that man is so utterly worthless, that it scarcely deserves his own inquiry whether he is to be everlastingly saved or not; that the soul must live for God alone, insensible to the turpitude and debasement of its own state. Added to this heresy, was her notion of prayer, which she made consist, not in the preferment of our requests to God, such as Jesus Christ taught, but in a state of mind embued with the sense of God's presence, and an assimilation of the soul with God's perfection.

Her health suffered from the constant excitement of her mind. It was considered that the climate of the province where she resided was injurious, and she visited Paris to recover. She became acquainted with the dukes de Beauvilliers and Chevreuse; her doctrines became known and discussed in Paris; madame de Maintenon was struck and attracted; Fénélon, his own heart full of love, became almost a convert; madame Guyon herself was full of talent, enthusiasm, and goodness; Fénélon became her friend, and denied the odious conclusions which her enemies drew from her doctrines.

As the doctrine gained ground, it met opposition. Des Marais, the bishop of Chartres, in whose diocese was Saint Cyr, the scene of these impassioned mysteries, became alarmed at its progress; and, with the deceit which a priest sometimes thinks he is justified in using in what he deems a righteous cause, he made use of two ladies of great repute for piety, as spies, and from their accounts of what passed in the society of Quietists, found sufficient cause of objection to the sect. Madame de Maintenon listened to his censures, and withdrew her favour. Fénélon saw the danger that threatened madame Guyon, and, steady in his attachment to one whom he considered worthy his friendship, he assisted her by his counsel. Following his advice, and secure in her own virtue, she applied to Bossuet. His manly and serious mind, strengthened by age, rejected at once her mysticism, while her personal merits won his esteem and condescension. It is a singular circumstance, and shows her candour, that she confided her thoughts and her writings far more unreservedly to Bossuet than to Fénélon. Bossuet saw her, explained his objections; and she acquiescing in every thing he suggested, he administered the sacrament to her; a token at once of her submission and his good opinion.

Bossuet penetrated the real piety of the lady, and was unwilling to distress her by opposition, as long as her tenets were confined to her own mind. For what would be highly injurious if spread abroad, was innocuous while it related solely to herself. He therefore recommended retirement and quiet, to which she for a time adhered; but as she had the spirit of proselytism awake in her, she soon grew weary of obscurity, and applied to madame de Maintenon to prevail on the king to appoint commissioners to inquire into her doctrines and morals. The bishops of Meaux and Chartres, and M. Tronson, were accordingly named. For six months they held conferences, and discussed the subject. Bossuet admitted that he was little conversant with the writings of the mystical saints, whose doctrines and expressions were the model of those of madame Guyon; and Fénélon made a variety of extracts, at his request, which were to serve as authorities for the lady's writings. At the conclusion of the conferences, thirty articles were drawn up, to which Fénélon added four; in which, without direct allusion to madame Guyon, the commissioners expressed the doctrines of the church of Rome on the disputed points. In these they name salvation as the proper subject of a Christian's desire and prayer; and assert, that prayer does not consist in a state of mind, but in an active sense of resignation: they do not reprobate passive prayer; but they regard it as unnecessary; while they agree in the propriety of direct addresses to the Deity, and frequent meditation on the sufferings of the Saviour. Although these articles subverted her favourite doctrine of the holy state of mind being the life in God necessary to a Christian, Madame Guyon, as a dutiful daughter of the church, signed the articles without hesitation.

Bossuet's mind, however, was now awakened to the evils of quietism; and perceiving that it gained ground, he wrote his "Instruction sur les États de l'Oraison," which he wished Fénélon to approve. The latter declined, as it denied in too unqualified a manner his belief in the possibility of a pure and disinterested love of God, and denounced madame Guy on in too general and severe a manner. His refusal was not censured by his fellow bishops; but he was required to publish some work that should prove his adhesion to the thirty-four articles before mentioned. For this purpose he wrote his "Explication des Maximes des Saints sur la Vie intérieure." The style of this work is pure, animated, elegant, and winning; the principles were expressed carefully and with address. But this very act occasioned contradictions: he feared at once to be accused of giving too much to charity, too little to hope; of following Molinos, or of abandoning St. Theresa. The bishops approved of his book in manuscript, declaring it, in energetic terms, to be a "book of gold:" but the moment it was printed, the outcry against it was violent. Bossuet had not seen it previous to publication. Looking on false mysticism as injurious to true religion and morals, he thought that nothing should be written on the subject, except to condemn it; and that the true mystic, whose state was peculiar and unattainable by the many, should be left in peace with God.

So far we consider Bossuet to be in the right. Love of God being a duty, all that exalts and extends the sentiment into a passion, is at once fascinating and hurtful. The gentle and tender soul of Fénélon could see no evil in love: he thought to soften and purify the heart by spiritual passion; but Bossuet knew human nature better, and its tendency to turn all good to evil, when not tempered by judgment and moderation. He did well, therefore, to oppose the doctrines of madame Guyon; and, if possible, to enlighten his friend. Yet, even in reasoning, he was uncharitable; so that it has been said, comparing his harshness with Fénélon's benignity, that Bossuet was right most revoltingly, and Fénélon in the wrong with sweetness. This was the more apparent, when his conduct on the publication of the book showed the cloven foot of intolerance and persecution. Henceforward, we love Fénélon, and condemn his opponent. The latter had right on his side, on the question of doctrine; in conduct, he was entirely and deplorably in the wrong. French writers impute to him the base motives of envy and jealousy. These passions exercise so covert an influence when they spring up in conscientious minds, that Bossuet might fancy himself urged by purer feelings. Still he cannot be justified. Either from fear that the king, who abhorred novelties in religion, would blame him severely, or wishing to make a deep impression, he threw himself at Louis's feet, and besought "his pardon for not having sooner informed him of the fanaticism of his brother." Louis did not like Fénélon.[108] His elevation of character appeared to him pretension; and in the principles he instilled into his royal pupil he saw the condemnation of himself. These principles were so moulded by the spirit of Christianity, that he could not object; but he gladly availed himself of the archbishop's error, to destroy, as much as he could, the general esteem in which he was held, and to visit him with heavy penalties. Madame de Maintenon also became unfriendly: in matters of religion, she always adopted the views of Louis. Her good sense made her see the evil of quietism; and now that Fénélon was accused of it, she withdrew her kindness and support. Louis XIV. angrily denounced all the adherents of madame Guyon; he upheld Bossuet in demanding a formal retractation of the doctrines inculcated in the Maxims of the Saints; he refused to permit Fénélon to repair to Rome; his work having been referred to the pope, for a decision on it; but at once exiled him; that is, ordered him to repair immediately to his diocese, and there to remain. Fénélon wrote to madame de Maintenon, to deplore the king's displeasure; and declared his readiness to submit to the decision of the holy see with regard to his book. He then quitted Paris: he stopped before the seminary of St. Sulpice, where the years of his early manhood had been spent in seclusion and peace; but he would not enter the house, lest the king should manifest displeasure towards its inhabitants for receiving him. From Paris he proceeded at once to Cambray.

1697. Ætat. 46.

Although we may pronounce Fénélon's principles to be erroneous, his conduct was in every respect virtuous and laudable. Circumstances had engaged him in the dispute, and he believed that neither honour nor conscience permitted him to yield. As a bishop, it derogated from his dignity to receive the law from his equals in rank. He esteemed madame Guyon; she was unfortunate and calumniated; and he felt that it would be treacherous to abandon her, and much more so to ally himself to her enemies. He founded his opinion and conduct on the writings and actions of saints and holy men, and believed himself to be in the right. No personal interest could bend him; on the contrary, delicacy of feeling and zeal caused his attachment to his cause to redouble in persecution; while at the same time he was firm in his resolution to abandon it, if condemned by the church, his first principle being obedience to the holy see; looking upon that as the corner stone of the Roman catholic religion. His exile found him firm and resigned. The duke of Burgundy was more to be pitied: he threw himself at the king's feet, offering to justify his preceptor, and answering for the principles of religion which he had inculcated. Louis coldly replied, that M. de Meaux understood the affair better than either he or his grandson; and that therefore he had no power to grant a favour on the subject. To pacify the duke, he allowed Fénélon to retain for a time the title of preceptor. With this barren honour he returned to Cambray. Not long before his palace had been burnt to the ground, together with all his furniture, books, and papers. When he heard the news, he simply remarked, that he was glad this disaster had befallen his palace rather than the cottage of a peasant. On arriving at Cambray, he wrote to his excellent friend the duke de Beauvilliers, expressing his submission to the holy see, and his hope that he was actuated by pious and justifiable motives: "I hold by only two things," he continues, "which compose my entire doctrine. First, that charity is a love of God, for himself, independent of the motive of beatitude which is found in him: secondly, that in the life of the most perfect souls, charity prevails over every other virtue; animating them, and inspiring all their actions; so that the just man, elevated to this state of perfection, usually practises hope and every other virtue with all the disinterestedness that he does charity itself."