It was however at court only that Molière met these rebuffs; elsewhere his genius caused him to be admired and courted, while his excellent character secured him the affection of many friends. He brought forward Racine; and they continued intimate till Racine offended him by not only transferring a tragedy to the theatre of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, but seducing the best actress of his company to that of the rival stage. With Boileau he continued on friendly terms all his life. His old schoolfellow, "the joyous Chapelle," was his constant associate; though he was too turbulent and careless for the sensitive and orderly habits of the comedian.

Molière indeed was destined never to find a home after his own heart. Madeleine Bejart had a sister[38] much younger than herself, to whom Molière became passionately attached. She was beautiful, sprightly, clever, an admirable actress, fond of admiration and pleasure. Molière is said to describe her in "Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme," as more piquante than beautiful—fascinating and graceful—witty and elegant; she charmed in her very caprices. Another author speaks of her acting; and remarks on the judgment she displays both in dialogue and by-play: "She never looks about," he says, "nor do her eyes wander to the boxes; she is aware that the theatre is full, but she speaks and acts as if she only saw those with whom she is acting. She is elegant and rich in her attire without affectation: she studies her dress, but forgets it the moment she appears on the stage; and if she ever touches her hair or her ornaments, this bye-play conceals a judicious and inartificial satire, and she thus enters more entirely into ridicule of the women she personates: but with all these advantages, she would not please so much but for her sweet-toned voice. She is aware of this, and changes it according to the character she fills." With these attractions, young and lovely, and an actress, madame (or as she was called according to the fashion of the times, which only accorded the madame to women of rank, mademoiselle) Molière, fancying herself elevated to a high sphere when she married, giddy and coquettish, disappointed the hopes of her husband, whose heart was set on domestic happiness, and the interchange of affectionate sentiments in the privacy of home. Yet the gentleness of his nature made him find a thousand excuses for her:—"I am unhappy," he said, "but I deserve it; I ought to have remembered that my habits are too severe for domestic life: I thought that my wife ought to regulate her manners and practices by my wishes; but I feel that had she done so, she in her situation would be more unhappy than I am. She is gay and witty, and open to the pleasures of admiration. This annoys me in spite of myself. I find fault—I complain. Yet this woman is a hundred times more reasonable than I am, and wishes to enjoy life; she goes her own way, and secure in her innocence, she disdains the precautions I entreat her to observe. I take this neglect for contempt; I wish to be assured of her kindness by the open expression of it, and that a more regular conduct should give me ease of mind. But my wife, always equable and lively, who would be unsuspected by any other than myself, has no pity for my sorrows; and, occupied by the desire of general admiration, she laughs at my anxieties." His friends tried to remonstrate in vain. "There is but one sort of love," he said, "and those who are more easily satisfied do not know what true love is." The consequence of these dissensions was in the sequel a sort of separation; full of disappointment and regret for Molière, but to which his young wife easily reconciled herself. Her conduct disgraced her; but she had not sufficient feeling either to shrink from public censure or the consciousness of rendering her husband unhappy. To these domestic discomforts were added his task of manager; the difficulty of keeping rival actresses in good humour, the labour of pleasing a capricious public.

The latter task, as well as that of amusing his sovereign, was by far the easiest; as in doing so he followed the natural bent of his genius. He had begun the "Tartuffe." He brought out "L'École des Femmes," one of his gayest and wittiest comedies. It is known in England, through the adaptation of Wycherly; and called "The Country Girl." Unfortunately, in his days, the decorum of the English stage was less strict than the French; and what in Molière's play was fair and light raillery, Wycherly mingled with a plot of a licentious and disagreeable nature. The part, however, of the Country Girl herself, personated by Mrs. Jordan, animated by her bewitching naïveté, and graced by her frank, joyous, silver-toned voice, was an especial favourite with the public in the days of our fathers. In Paris, the critics were not so well pleased; truth of nature they called vulgarity, familiarity of expression was a sin against the language. Molière deigned so far to notice his censurers as to write the "Critique de l'École des Femmes," in which he easily throws additional ridicule on those who attacked him. The "Impromptu de Versailles" was written in the same spirit, at the command of the king. The war of words thus carried on, and replied to, grew more and more bitter: personal ridicule was exchanged by his enemies for calumny. Monfleuri, the actor, was malicious enough to present a petition to the king, in which he accused Molière of marrying his own daughter. Molière never deigned to reply to his accusation; and the king showed his contempt by, soon after, standing godfather to Molière's eldest child, of whom the duchess of Orleans was godmother.

In those days, as in those of our Elizabeth, the king and courtiers took parts in the ballets.[39] These comédie-ballets were of singular framework; comedies, in three acts, broad almost to farce, were interspersed with dances: to this custom, to the three act pieces that thus came into vogue, we owe some of the best of Molière's plays; when, emancipated from the necessity of verse and five acts, he could give full play to his sense of the ridiculous, and talent for comic situation; and when, unshackled by rhyme, he threw the whole force of his dry comic humour into the dialogue, and by a single word, a single expression, stamp and immortalise a folly, holding it up for ever to the ridicule it deserved. This seizing as it were on the bared inner kernel of some fashionable vanity, and giving it its true and undisguised name and definition, often shocked ears polite. They called that "vulgar," which was only stripping selfishness or ignorance of its cloak, and bringing home to the hearts of the lowly-born the fact, that the follies of the great are akin to their own: the people laughed to find the courtier of the same flesh and blood; but the courtier drew up, and said, that it was vulgar to present him en dishabille to the commonalty. "Let them rail," said Boileau, to the poet, whose genius he so fully appreciated, "let them exclaim against you because your scenes are agreeable to the vulgar. If you pleased less how much better pleased would your censurers be!" "Le Mariage Forcé" was the first of these comédies ballets.1664.
Ætat.
42. The king danced as an Egyptian in the interludes while in the more intellectual part of the performance Molière delighted the audience as "Sganarelle"—the unfortunate man, who with such rough courtesy is obliged to take a lady for better or for worse; a plot, founded on the last English adventure of the count de Grammont, who, when leaving this country, was followed by the brothers of la belle Hamilton, who, with their hands on the pummels of their swords, asked him if he had not forgotten something left behind. "True," said the count, "I forgot to marry your sister and instantly went back to repair his lapse of memory, by making her countess de Grammont." The dialogue of this play is exceedingly amusing; the metaphysical or learned pedants, whom Sganarelle consults, are admirable and witty specimens of advisers, who will only give counsel in their own way, in language understood only by themselves. The "Amants Magnifiques" followed; it was written in the course of a few days: it is now considered the most feeble of Molière's plays; but it suited the occasion, and by a number of delicate and witty impersonations of the manners of the times, lost to us now, it became the greatest ornament of a succession of festivals; which under the name of "Plaisirs de l'Ile enchantée," were got up in honour of mademoiselle de Vallière; and, being prepared by various men of talent, gave the impress of ideal magnificence to the pleasures of Louis XIV. On this occasion Molière ventured to bring out the three first acts of the "Tartuffe," hoping to gain the king's favourable ear at such a moment. But it was ticklish ground; and Louis, while he declared that he appreciated the good intentions of the author, forbade its being acted, under the fear that it might bring real devotion into discredit. The "Tartuffe" was a favourite with Molière, who, degraded by the clergy on account of his profession, and aware that virtue and vice were neither inherent in priest nor actor according to the garb, was naturally very inimical to false devotion. He still hoped to gain leave to represent his satire on hypocrites. He knew the king in his heart approved the scope of his play, and was pleased that his own wit should have been considered worthy of transfer to Molière's scenes—Molière himself venturing to remind him of the incident, which occurred during a journey to Lorraine, when Molière accompanied the monarch as his valet. When travelling, Louis was accustomed to make his supper his best meal, to which, of course, he brought a good appetite: one afternoon he invited his former preceptor, Perefixe, bishop of Rhodes, to join him; but the prelate, with affected sanctity, declined, as he had dined, and never ate a second meal on a fast-day. The king saw a smile on a bystander's face at this answer, and asked the cause. In reply, the courtier said, that it arose from his sense of the bishop's self-denial, considering the dinner he enjoyed. The detail of the dinner followed, dish after dish in long succession; and the king, as each viand was named, exclaimed, le pauvre homme! with such comic variety of voice and look, that Molière, who was present, felt the wit conveyed, and transferred it to his play, in which Orgon, in the simplicity of his heart, repeats this exclamation when the creature-comforts in which Tartuffe indulges are detailed to him. But though this compliment was not lost on the king, he did not yield; and Molière was obliged to content himself—after acting it at Rainey, the country house of the prince of Condé—by reading it in society, and thus giving opportunity for it to awaken the most lively curiosity in Paris. There is a well-known print of his reading it to the celebrated Ninon de l'Enclos, whose talents and wonderful tact for seizing the ridiculous he appreciated highly; and to whom he partly owed the idea of the play, from an occurrence that befel her.[40] Yet he was not consoled by these private readings and the sort of applause he thus gained, and he grew more bitter against the devotees for their opposition: in his play on the subject of Don Juan, "Le Festin de Saint Pierre," brought out soon after, he alludes bitterly to the interdiction laid on his favourite work. "All other vices," he says, "are held up to public censure; but hypocrisy is privileged to place the hand on every one's mouth, and to enjoy impunity." The hypocrites revenged themselves by calling his Festin blasphemous. The king, however, remained his firm friend, and tried to compensate for the hardship he suffered on this occasion by giving his name to his company, and granting him a pension in consequence.

It was the custom for the soldiers of the body guard of the king, and other privileged troops, to frequent the theatre without paying. These people filled the pit, to the great detriment of the profits of the actors. Molière, incited by his comrades, applied to the king, who issued an order to abrogate this privilege. The soldiers were furious; they went in crowds to the theatre, resolved to force an entrance; the unfortunate door-keeper was killed by a thousand sword-thrusts, and the rioters rushed into the house, resolved to revenge themselves on the actors, who trembled at the storm they had brought on themselves. The younger Bejart encountered their fury with a joke, that somewhat appeased them: he was dressed for the part of an old man; and came tottering forward, imploring them to spare the life of a poor old man, seventy-five years of age, who had only a few days of life left. Molière made them a speech; and peace was restored, with no greater injury than fear to the actors—except to one, who in his terror tried to get through a hole in the wall to escape, and stuck so fast that he could neither get out nor in, till, peace being restored, the hole was enlarged. The king was ready to punish the soldiers as mutineers, but Molière was too prudent to wish to make enemies; when the companies were assembled, and put under arms, that the ringleaders might be punished, he addressed them in a speech, in which he declared that he did not wish to make them pay, but that the order was levelled against those who assumed their name and claimed their privilege: and that, in truth, a gratuitous entrance to the theatre was a right beneath their notice; and, by touching their pride, he brought them for a time to submit to the new order.

In holding up follies or vices to ridicule Molière made enemies; and by attacking whole bodies of men, dangerous ones; yet, how much did the public owe to the spirit and wit with which he exposed the delusions to which they were often the victims. He first attacked the faculty, as it is called in "L'Amour Médecin," in which he brings forward four of the physicians in ordinary to the king, empirics of the first order, under Greek names, invented by Boileau for the occasion: nor can we wonder, when we read the mémoires and letters of the times, at the contempt in which Molière held the medicinal art. One specific came into fashion after the other; quack succeeded to quack; and the more ignorant the greater was the pretension, the greater also the number of dupes. Reading these, and turning to the pages of Molière, we see in a minute that he by no means exaggerated, while he with his happy art seized exactly on the most ridiculous traits.

1666.
Ætat.
42.

It has been said that the "Misanthrope," now considered by the French as Molière's chef-d'œuvre, was coldly received at first—a tradition contradicted by the register of the theatre; it went through twenty-one consecutive representations, and excited great interest in Paris. Still in this he raises his voice against the false taste of the age; and this with so little exaggeration, that the pit applauded the sonnet introduced in ridicule of the prevailing poetry, and were not a little astonished when Alceste proves that it possesses no merit whatever. The audience, seeing that ridicule of reigning fashions was the scope of the play, fancied that various persons were intended to be represented; and, among others, it was supposed that the duke de Montauzier, the husband of the Précieuse Julie d'Angennes, was portrayed in Alceste. It is said, that the duke went to see the play, and came back quite satisfied; saying, that the "Misanthrope" was a perfectly honest and excellent man, and that a great honour, which he should never forget, was done him by assimilating them together. There is indeed in Alceste a sensibility, joined to his sincerity and goodness of heart, that renders him very attractive; and thus, as is often the case when genius mirrors nature, the ridicule the author pretends to wish to throw on the victim recoils on the apparently triumphant personages: the time-serving Philinthe is quite contemptible; and every honest heart echoes the disgust Alceste feels for the deceits and selfishness of society. In truth, there is some cause to suspect that Molière found in his own sensitive and upright heart the homefelt traits of Alceste's character, as that of his wife furnished him with the coquetry of Célimène; and when, in the end, the Misanthrope resolves to hide from the world, one of the natures of the author poured itself forth; a nature, checked in real life by the necessities of his situation and the living excitement of his genius.

During the same year the "Médecin malgré Lui" was brought out; whose wit and comedy stamps it as one of his best: other minor pieces, by command, occupied his time, without increasing his fame. His mind was set on bringing out the "Tartuffe." The king had yielded to the outcry against it; but in his heart he was very desirous of having it acted. On occasion of a piece being played, called "Scaramouche Hermite," which also delineated immorality cloaked by religion; the king said to the great Coudé, "I should like to know why those who are so scandalised by Molière's play, say nothing against that of Scaramouche?" The prince replied. "The reason is, that Scaramouche makes game of heaven and religion, which these people care nothing for; but Molière satirises them themselves, and this they cannot bear."[41] Confident in the king's support, and anxious to bring out his play, Molière entertained the hope of mollifying his opponents by concessions: he altered his piece, expunged the parts most disliked, and changed the name Tartuffe, already become odious to bigot ears, to the Imposteur. In this new shape his comedy was acted once; but, on the following day the first president, Lamoignon, forbade it. Molière dispatched two principal actors to the king, then in Flanders, to obtain permission; but Louis only promised that the play should be re-examined on his return. Thus, once more, the piece was laid aside; and Molière forced to content himself with private readings, and the universal interest excited on the subject. Meanwhile he brought out "Amphitryon," "L'Avare," and "George Dandin" all of which rank among his best plays. The first has a more fanciful and playful spirit added to its comedy than any other of his productions, and displays more elegance and a more subtle wit.

As a specimen of mingled wit and humour, let us take the scene between Sosia and Mercury, when the latter, assuming his name and appearance, attempts to deprive him of his identity by force of blows. Sosia exclaims,—

MERCURE.

SOSIE.

MERCURE.

SOSIE (bas, à part).

(Haut.)

MERCURE.

SOSIE.

MERCURE.

SOSIE.

MERCURE.

SOSIE (à part).

(Haut.)

MERCURE.

SOSIE (bas, à part).

MERCURE.

SOSIE.

And again, when Sosia tries to explain to Amphitryon how another himself prevented him from entering his house:—

And his conclusive decision with regard to his master:—

The "Avare" has certainly faults, which a great German critic has pointed out[42]; but these do not interfere with the admirable spirit of the dialogue, and the humorous display of the miser's foibles. "George Dandin" was considered by his friends as a more dangerous experiment. There were so many George Dandins in the world. One in particular was pointed out to him as being at the same time an influential person, who, offended by his play, might cause its ill success. Molière took the prudent part of offering to read his comedy to him, previously to its being acted. The man felt himself very highly honoured: he assembled his friends; the play was read, and applauded; and in the sequel supported by this very person when it appeared on the stage. Poor George Dandin! there is an ingenuousness and directness in him that inspires us with respect, in spite of the ridiculous situations in which he is placed: and while Molière represents to the life the annoyances to arise to a bourgeois in allying himself to nobility, he makes the nobles so very contemptible, either by their stupidity or vice, that not by one word in the play can a rank-struck spirit be discerned. As, for instance, which cuts the most ridiculous figure in the following comic dialogue? The nobles, we think. George Dandin comes with a complaint to the father and mother of his wife, with regard to her ill-conduct. His father-in-law, M. de Sotenville (the very name is bien trouvé,—sot en ville,) asks—

"Qu'est-ce, mon gendre? vous paroissez troublé.

GEORGE DANDIN.

Aussi en ai-je du sujet; et——

MADAME DE SOTENVILLE.

Mon dieu! notre gendre, que vous avez peu de civilité, de ne pas saluer les gens quand vous les approchez!

GEORGE DANDIN.

Ma foi! ma belle-mère, c'est que j'ai d'autres choses en tête; et——

MADAME DE SOTENVILLE.

Encore! est-il possible, notre gendre, que vous sachiez si peu votre monde, et qu'il n'y ait pas moyen de vous instruire de la manière qu'il faut vivre parmi les personnes de qualité?

GEORGE DANDIN.

Comment?

MADAME DE SOTENVILLE.

Ne vous déférez-vous jamais, avec moi, de la familiarité de ce mot de belle-mère, et ne sauriez-vous vous accoutumer à me dire Madame?

GEORGE DANDIN.

Parbleu! si vous m'appelez votre gendre, il me semble que je puis vous appeler belle-mère?

MADAME DE SOTENVILLE.

Il y a fort à dire, et les choses ne sont pas égales. Apprenez, s'il vous plait, que ce n'est pas à vous à vous servir de ce mot-là avec une personne de ma condition; que, tout notre gendre que vous soyez, il y a grande différence de vous à nous, et que vous devez vous connoître.

MONSIEUR DE SOTENVILLE.

C'en est assez, m'amour: laissons cela.

MADAME DE SOTENVILLE.

Mon dieu! Monsieur de Sotenville, vous avez des indulgences qui n'appartiennent qu'à vous, et vous ne savez pas vous faire rendre par les gens ce qui vous est dû.

MONSIEUR DE SOTENVILLE.

Corbleu! pardonnez-moi; on ne peut point me faire des leçons là-dessus; et j'ai su montrer en ma vie, par vingt actions de vigueur, que je ne suis point homme à démordre jamais d'une partie de mes prétentions: mais il suffit de lui avoir donné un petit avertissement. Sachons un peu, mon gendre, ce que vous avez dans l'esprit.

GEORGE DANDIN.

Puisqu'il faut donc parler catégoriquement, je vous dirai, Monsieur de Sotenville, que j'ai bien de——

MONSIEUR DE SOTENVILLE.

Doucement, mon gendre. Apprenez qu'il n'est pas respectueux d'appeler les gens par leur nom, et qu'à ceux qui sont au-dessus de nous, il faut dire Monsieur, tout court.

GEORGE DANDIN.

Hé bien! Monsieur tout court, et nonplus Monsieur de Sotenville, j'ai à vous dire que ma femme me donne——

MONSIEUR DE SOTENVILLE.

Tout beau! Apprenez aussi que vous ne devez pas dire ma femme, quand vous parlez de notre fille.

GEORGE DANDIN.

J'enrage! Comment, ma femme n'est pas ma femme?

MADAME DE SOTENVILLE.

Oui, notre gendre, elle est votre femme; mais il ne vous est pas permis de l'appeler ainsi; et c'est tout ce que vous pourriez faire si vous aviez épousé une de vos pareilles.

GEORGE DANDIN.

Ah! George Dandin, ou t'es-tu fourré?"

But we must leave off. Sir Walter Scott says that, as often as he opened the volume of Molière's works during the composition of his article on that author, he found it impossible to lay it out of his hand until he had completed a scene, however little to his immediate purpose of consulting it; and thus we could prolong and multiply extracts to the amusement of ourselves and the reader; but we restrain ourselves, and, returning to the subject that caused this quotation, we must say, that we differ entirely from Rousseau and other critics who adopt his opinions; and even Schlegel, who accuses the author of being guilty of currying favour with rank in this comedy, and making honest mediocrity ridiculous. If genius was to adapt its works to the rules of philosophers, instead of following the realities of life, we should never read in books of honesty duped, and vice triumphant: whether we should be the gainers by this change is a question. It may be added, also, that Molière did not represent, in "George Dandin," honesty ill-used, so much as folly punished; and, at any rate, where vice is on one side and ridicule on the other, we must think that class worse used to whom the former is apportioned as properly belonging. In spite of philosophers, truth, such as it exists, is the butt at which all writers ought to aim. It is different, indeed, when a servile spirit paints greatness, virtue, and dignity on one side—poverty, ignorance, and folly, on the other.

At length the time came when Molière was allowed to bring out the "Tartuffe" in its original shape, with its original name. Its success was unequalled: it went through forty-four consecutive representations. At a period when religious disputes between molinist and jansenist ran high in France—when it was the fashion to be devout, and each family had a confessor and director of their consciences, to whom they looked up with reverence, and whose behests they obeyed—a play which showed up the hypocrisy of those who cloaked the worst designs, and brought discord and hatred into families, under the guise of piety, was doubtless a useful production; yet the "Tartuffe" is not an agreeable play. Borne away by his notion of the magnitude of the evil he attacked, and by his idea of the usefulness of the lesson, Molière attached himself greatly to it. The plot is admirably managed, the characters excellently contrasted, its utility probably of the highest kind; but Molière, hampered by the necessity of giving as little umbrage as possible to true devotees, was forced by the spirit of the times to regard his subject more seriously than is quite accordant with comedy: there is something heavy in the conduct of the piece, and disgust is rather excited than amusement. The play is still popular; and, through the excellent acting of a living performer, it has enjoyed great popularity in these days in its English dress: still it is disagreeable; and the part foisted in on our stage, of the strolling methodist preacher, becomes, by its farce, the most amusing part in the play.[43]

Molière may now be considered as having risen to the height of his prosperity. Highly favoured by the king, the cabals formed against him, and the enemies that his wit excited, were powerless to injure. He was the favorite of the best society in Paris; to have him to read a play, was giving to any assembly the stamp of fashion as well as wit and intellect. He numbered among his chosen and dearest friends the wits of the age. Disappointment and vexation had followed him at home; and his wife's misconduct and heartlessness having led him at last to separate from her, he endeavoured to secure to himself such peace as celibacy permitted. As much time as his avocations as actor and manager permitted he spent at his country house at Auteuil: here he reserved an apartment for his old schoolfellow, the gay, thoughtless Chapelle; here Boileau also had a house; and at one or the other the common friends of both assembled, and repasts were held where wit and gaiety reigned. Molière himself was too often the least animated of the party: he was apt to be silent and reserved in society[44], more intent on observing and listening than in endeavouring to shine. There was a vein of melancholy in his character, which his domestic infelicity caused to increase. He loved order in his household, and was annoyed by want of neatness and regularity: in this respect the heedless Chapelle was ill suited to be his friend; and often Molière shut himself up in solitude.

There are many anecdotes connected with this knot of friends: the famous supper, which Voltaire tries to bring into discredit, but which Louis Racine vouches for as being frequently related by Boileau himself occurred at Molière's house at Auteuil. Almost all the wits were there except Racine, who was excluded by his quarrel with Molière. There were Lulli, Jonsac, Boileau, Chapelle, the young actor Barron, and others. Molière was indisposed—he had renounced animal food and wine, and was in no humour to join his friends, so went to bed, leaving them to the enjoyment of their supper. No one was more ready to make the most of good cheer than Chapelle, whose too habitual inebriety was in vain combatted, and sometimes imitated by his associates. On this occasion they drank till their good spirits turned to maudlin sensibility. Chapelle, the reckless and the gay, began to descant on the emptiness of life—the vain nature of its pleasures—the ennui of its tedious hours: the other guests agreed with him. Why live on then, to endure disappointment after disappointment? how much more heroic to die at once! The party had arrived at a pitch of excitement that rendered them ready to adopt any ridiculous or senseless idea; they all agreed that life was contemptible, death desirable: Why then not die? the act would be heroic; and, dying all together, they would obtain the praise that ancient heroes acquired by self-immolation. They all rose to walk down to the river, and throw themselves in. The young Barron, an actor and protégé of Molière, had more of his senses about him: he ran to awake Molière, who, hearing that they had already left the house, and were proceeding towards the river, hurried after them: already the stream was in sight. When he came up, they hailed him as a companion in their heroic act, and he agreed to join them: "But not to-night:" he said "so great a deed should not be shrouded in darkness; it deserves daylight to illustrate it: let us wait till morning." His friends considered this new argument as conclusive: they returned to the house; and, going to bed, rose on the morrow sober, and content to live.

1570.
Ætat.
40.

Among such friends—wild, gay, and witty—Molière might easily have his attention directed to farcical and amusing subjects. Some say that "Monsieur Porceaugnac" was founded on the adventure of a poor rustic, who fled from pursuing doctors through the streets of Paris: it is one of the most ridiculous as well as lively of his smaller pieces; but so excellent is the comic dialogue, that Diderot well remarks, that the critic would be much mistaken who should think that there were more men capable of writing "Monsieur Porceaugnac" than of composing the "Misanthrope." This piece has of course been adapted to the English stage; and an Irishman is burdened with all the follies, blunders, and discomfitures of the French provincial; with this difference, that the "brave Irishman" breaks through all the evils spread to catch him, and, triumphing over his rival, carries off the lady. The "Bourgeois Gentilhomme" deserves higher praise; and M. Jourdain, qualifying himself for nobility, has been the type of a series of characters, imitating, but never surpassing, the illustrious original. This play was brought out at Chambord, before the king. Louis listened to it in silence; and no voice dared applaud: as absence of praise denoted censure to the courtiers, so none of them could be amused; they ridiculed the very idea of the piece, and pronounced the author's vein worn out. They scouted the fanciful nonsense of the ballet, in which the Bourgeois is created Mamamouchi by the agents of the grand signor, and invested with a fantastic order of knighthood. The truth is, that Molière nowhere displayed a truer sense of fanciful comedy than in varying and animating with laughable doggrel and incidents the ballets that accompanied his comedies; the very nonsense of the choruses, being in accordance with the dresses and scenes, becomes wit. The courtiers found this on other occasions, but now their faces elongated as Louis looked grave: the king was mute; they fancied by sarcasm to echo a voice they could not hear. Molière was mortified; while the royal listener probably was not at all alive to the damning consequences of his hesitation. On the second representation, the reverse of the medal was presented. "I did not speak of your play the first day," said Louis, "for I fancied I was carried away by the admirable acting; but indeed, Molière, you never have written any thing that diverted me so much: your piece is excellent." And now the courtiers found the point of the dialogue, the wit of the situations, the admirable truth of the characters. They could remember that M. Jourdain's surprise at the discovery that he had been talking prose all his life, was a witty plagiarism from the count de Soissons' own lips—they could even enjoy the fun of the unintelligible mummery of the dancing Turks; and one of the noblest among them, who had looked censure itself on the preceding evening, could exclaim in a smiling ecstasy of praise: "Molière is inimitable—he has reached a point of perfection to which none of the ancients ever attained."

The "Fourberies de Scapin" followed—the play that could excite Boileau's bile; so that not all his admiration of its author could prevent his exclaiming:—

Still the comedy of tricks and hustle is still comedy, and will amuse; and there crept into the dialogue also the true spirit of Molière; the humour of the father's frequent question: "Que diable alla-t-il faire dans cette galère," has rendered the expression a proverb.

The Countess d'Escarbagnas is very amusing. The old dowager, teaching country bumpkins to behave like powdered gold-caned footmen; her disdain for her country neighbours, and glory in her title, are truly French, and give us an insight into the deep-seated prejudices that separated noble and ignoble, and Parisians from provincials, in that country before the revolution.

The "Femmes Savantes" followed, and was an additional proof that his vein not only was not exhausted, but that it was richer and purer than ever; and that while human nature displayed follies, he could put into the framework of comedy, pictures, that by the grouping and the vivid colouring showed him to be master of his art. The pedantic spirit that had succeeded to the sentimentality of les Précieuses, the authors of society, whose impromptus and sonnets were smiled on in place of the exiled Platonists of the ruelle, lent a rich harvest. "Les Femme Savantes" echoed the conversations of the select coteries of female pretension. The same spirit of pedantry existed some five and twenty years ago, when the blues reigned; and there was many a