Lives of the most eminent literary and scientific men of France, Vol. 1 (of 2)

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!"—