{"1": {"fulltext": "\u00c2\u00a31*. q", "height": "4194", "width": "2750", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0001.jp2"}, "2": {"fulltext": "LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.\\n^QrrS\\ntilptjp. \u00c2\u00a9op^rtg^i Ifo,\\nShelfiJfA-\\nLO\\nUNITED STATES OF AMERICA.\\n*ftfi", "height": "3778", "width": "2300", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0002.jp2"}, "3": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3778", "width": "2300", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0003.jp2"}, "4": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3778", "width": "2300", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0004.jp2"}, "5": {"fulltext": "THE AFTER-SCHOOL SERIES.\\nCLASSIC FRENCH COURSE\\nIN ENGLISH.\\nWILLIAM CLEAVER WILKINSON.\\nr\\nSI\\nNEW YORK\\nCHAUTAUQUA PRESS,\\nC. L. S. C. DEPARTMENT,\\n805 Broadway.\\n1SS6.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0005.jp2"}, "6": {"fulltext": "A\\\\\\\\\\nCopyright, 1886,\\nBy WILLIAM CLEAVER WILKINSON.\\nOther Volumes in the After-School Series\\nBY THE SAME AUTHOR.\\nPreparatory Greek Course in English $1.00\\nPreparatory Latin Course in English 1.00\\nCollege Greek Course in English 1.00\\nCollege Latin Course in English 1.00\\nFOR SALE BY THE CHAUTAUQUA PRESS.\\nThe required books of the C. L. S. C. are recommended by a Council\\nof six. It must, however, be understood that recommendation does not\\ninvolve an approval by the Council, or by any member of it, of every\\nprinciple or doctrine contained in the book recommended.\\nELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED\\nBY RAND, AVERY. COMPANY,\\nBOSTON.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0006.jp2"}, "7": {"fulltext": "PEEFAOE.\\nThe preparation of the present volume proposed\\nto the author a task more difficult far than that un-\\ndertaken in auy one of the four preceding volumes\\nof the group, The After-School Series, to which\\nit belongs. Those volumes dealt with literatures\\nlimited and finished this volume deals with a litera-\\nture indefinitely vast in extent, and still in vital\\nprocess of growth. The selection of material to be\\nused was, in the case of the earlier volumes, virtu-\\nally made for the author beforehand, in a manner\\ngreatly to ease his sense of responsibility for the\\nexercise of individual judgment and taste. Long\\nprescription, joined to the winnowing effect of wear\\nand waste through time and chance, had left little\\ndoubt what works of what writers, Greek and\\nRoman, best deserved now to be shown to the gen-\\neral reader. Besides this, the prevalent custom of", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0007.jp2"}, "8": {"fulltext": "iv Preface.\\nthe schools of classical learning could then wisely\\nbe taken as a clew of guidance to be implicitly fol-\\nlowed, whatever might be the path through which it\\nshould lead. There is here no similar avoidance of\\nresponsibility possible for the schools have not\\nestablished a custom, and French literature is a liv-\\ning body, from which no important members have\\never yet been rent by the ravages of time.\\nThe greater difficulty seen thus to inhere already\\nin the nature itself of the task proposed for accom-\\nplishment, was gravely increased by the much more\\nsevere compression deemed to be in the present in-\\nstance desirable. The room placed at the author s\\ndisposal for a display of French literature was less\\nthan half the room allowed him for the display of\\neither the Greek or the Latin.\\nThe plan, therefore, of this volume, imposed the\\nnecessity of establishing from the outset certain\\nlimits, to be very strictly observed. First, it was\\nresolved to restrict the attention bestowed upon the\\nnational history, the national geography, and the\\nnational language, of the French, to such brief\\noccasional notices as, in the course of the volume,\\nit might seem necessary, for illustration of the par-\\nticular author, from time to time to make. The", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0008.jp2"}, "9": {"fulltext": "Preface. v\\nonly introductory general matter here to be found\\nwill accordingly consist of a rapid and summary\\nreview of that literature, as a whole, which is the\\nsubject of the book. It was next determined to\\nlimit the authors selected for representation to\\nthose of the finished centuries. A third decision\\nwas to make the number of authors small rather\\nthan large, choice rather than inclusive. The prin-\\nciple at this point adopted, was to choose those\\nauthors only whose merit, or whose fame, or whose\\ninfluence, might be supposed unquestionably such\\nthat their names and their works would certainly be\\nfound surviving, though the language in which they\\nwrote should, like its parent Latin, have perished\\nfrom the tongues of men. The proportion of space\\nseverally allotted to the different authors was to be\\nmeasured partly according to their relative impor-\\ntance, and partly according to their estimated rela-\\ntive capacity of interesting in translation the average\\nintelligent reader of to-day.\\nIn one word, the single inspiring aim of the author\\nhas here been to furnish enlightened readers, versed\\nonly in the English language, the means of acquir-\\ning, through the medium of their vernacular, some\\nproportioned, trustworthy, and effective knowledge", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0009.jp2"}, "10": {"fulltext": "vi Preface.\\nand appreciation, in its chief classics, of the great\\nliterature which has been written in French. This\\nobject has been sought, not through narrative and\\ndescription, making books and authors the subject,\\nbut through the literature itself, in specimen ex-\\ntracts illuminated by the necessary explanation and\\ncriticism.\\nIt is proposed to follow the present volume with a\\nvolume similar in general character, devoted to\\nGerman literature.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0010.jp2"}, "11": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS.\\nI. PAGE\\nFkench Literature 1\\nII.\\nFroissart 18\\nIII.\\nRabelais 28\\nIV.\\nMontaigne 44\\nV.\\nLa Rochefoucauld (La Bruyere; Vauve-\\nnargues) 6Q\\nVI.\\nLa Fontaine 81\\nVII.\\nMOLIERE 92\\nVIII.\\nPascal 115\\nvii", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0011.jp2"}, "12": {"fulltext": "viii Contents.\\nIX. PAGE\\nMadame de Sevigne* 134\\nX.\\nCORNEILLE 151\\nXL\\nKacine .166\\nXII.\\nBossuet, Bourdaloue, Massillon 182\\nXIII.\\nFenelon 205\\nXIV.\\nMontesquieu 225\\nXV.\\nVoltaire 238\\nXVI.\\nKousseau 255\\nXVII.\\nThe Encyclopaedists 282\\nXVIII.\\nEpilogue 288\\nIndex 293", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0012.jp2"}, "13": {"fulltext": "Classic French Course in English.\\nFRENCH LITERATURE.\\nOf French literature, taken as a whole, it may\\nboldly be said that it is, not the wisest, not the\\nweightiest, not certainly the purest and loftiest, but\\nby odds the most brilliant and the most interesting,\\nliterature in the world. Strong at many points, at\\nsome points triumphantly strong, it is conspicuously\\nweak at only one point, the important point of\\npoetry. In eloquence, in philosophy, even* in the-\\nology in history, in fiction, in criticism, in episto-\\nlary writing, in what may be called the pamphlet\\nin another species of composition, characteristically,\\npeculiarly, almost uniquely, French, the Thought\\nand the Maxim by eminence in comedy, and in all\\nthose related modes of written expression for which\\nthere is scarcely any name but a French name,\\nthe jeu cV esprit, the bon mot, persiflage, the phrase;\\nin social and political speculation last, but not\\nleast, in scientific exposition elegant enough in\\nform and in style to rise to the rank of literature\\n1", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0013.jp2"}, "14": {"fulltext": "2 Classic French Course in English.\\nproper, the French language has abundant achieve-\\nment to show, that puts it, upon the whole, hardly\\nsecond in wealth of letters to any other language\\nwhatever, either ancient or modern.\\nWhat constitutes the charm partly a perilous\\ncharm of French literature is, before all else, its\\nincomparable clearness, its precision, its neatness,\\nits point then, added to this, its lightness of touch,\\nits sureness of aim its vivacity, sparkle, life its\\ninexhaustible gayety its impulsion toward wit,\\nimpulsion so strong as often to land it in mockery\\nthe sense of release that it breathes and inspires\\nits freedom from prick to the conscience its exqui-\\nsite study and choice of effect its deference paid to\\ndecorum, decorum, we mean, in taste, as distin-\\nguished from morals its infinite patience and labor\\nof art, achieving the perfection of grace and of\\nease, in one word, its style.\\nWe speak, of course, broadly and in the gross.\\nThere are plenty of French authors to whom some\\nof the traits just named eould by no means be\\nattributed, and there is certainly not a single French\\nauthor to whom one could truthfully attribute them\\nall. Voltaire insisted that what was not clear was\\nnot French, so much, to the conception of this\\ntypical Frenchman, was clearness the genius of the\\nnational speech. Still, Montaigne, for example,\\nwas sometimes obscure and even the tragedist\\nCorneille wrote here and there what his commen-\\ntator, Voltaire, declared to be hardly intelligible.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0014.jp2"}, "15": {"fulltext": "French Literature. 3\\nSo, too, Rabelais, coarsest of humorists, offending\\ndecorum in various ways, offended it most of all ex-\\nactly in that article of taste, as distinguished from\\nmorals, which, with first-rate French authors in gen-\\neral, is so capital a point of regard. On the other\\nhand, Pascal, not to mention the moralists by\\nprofession, such as Nicole, and the preachers Bour-\\ndaloue and Massillon, Pascal, quivering himself,\\nlike a soul unclad, with sense of responsibilit} 7 to\\nGod, constantly probes you, reading him, to the in-\\nmost quick of your conscience. Rousseau, notably\\nin the Confessions, and in the Reveries supple-\\nmentary to the 4t Confessions Chateaubriand, echo-\\ning Rousseau and that wayward woman of genius,\\nGeorge Sand, disciple she to both, were so far from\\nbeing always light-heartedly gay, that not seldom\\nthey spread over their page a sombre atmosphere\\nalmost of gloom, gloom flushed pensively, as with\\na clouded setting sun s pathetic light. In short,\\nwhen you speak of particular authors, and naturally\\nstill more when you speak of particular works,\\nthere are many discriminations to be made. Such\\nexceptions, however, being duly allowed, the lite-\\nrary product of the French mind, considered in the\\naggregate, will not be misconceived if regarded as\\npossessing the general characteristics in style that\\nwe have now sought briefly to indicate.\\nFrench literature, we have hinted, is compara-\\ntively poor in poetry. This is due in part, no doubt,\\nto the genius of the people but it is also due in", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0015.jp2"}, "16": {"fulltext": "4 Classic French Course in English.\\npart to the structure of the language. The lan-\\nguage, which is derived chiefly from Latin, is thence\\nin such a way derived as to have lost the regularity\\nand stateliness of its ancient original, without hav-\\ning compensated itself with any richness and sweet-\\nness of sound peculiarly its own like, for instance,\\nthat canorous vowel quality of its sister derivative,\\nthe Italian. The French language, in short, is far\\nfrom being an ideal language for the poet.\\nIn spite, however, of this fact, disputed by no-\\nbody, it is true of French literature, as it is true of\\nalmost any national literature, that it took its rise\\nin verse instead of in prose. Anciently, there were\\ntwo languages subsisting together in France, which\\ncame to be distinguished from each other in name\\nby the word of affirmation oc or oil, yes sever-\\nally peculiar to them, and thus to be known respec-\\ntively as langne d oc, and langue oVo il. The future\\nbelonged to the latter of the two forms of speech,\\nthe one spoken in the northern part of the country.\\nThis, the langue oVoil, became at length the French\\nlanguage. But the langue d oc, a soft and musical\\ntongue, survived long enough to become the vehicle\\nof lyric strains, mostly on subjects of love and gal-\\nlantry, still familiar in mention, and famous as the\\nsongs of the troubadours. The flourishing time of\\nthe troubadours was in the eleventh and twelfth cen-\\nturies. Provencal is an alternative name of the\\nlanguage.\\nSide by side with the southern troubadours, or a", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0016.jp2"}, "17": {"fulltext": "French Literature. 5\\nlittle later than they, the trouv res of the north sang,\\nwith more manly ambition, of national themes, and,\\nlike Virgil, of arms and of heroes. Some produc-\\ntions of the trouveres may fairly be allowed an ele-\\nvation of aim and of treatment entitling them to be\\ncalled epic in character. Chansons de geste (songs\\nof exploit), or romans. is the native name by which\\nthose primitive French poems are known. They\\nexist in three principal cycles, or groups, of produc-\\ntions, one cycle composed of those pertaining to\\nCharlemagne one. of those pertaining to British\\nArthur and a third, of those pertaining to ancient\\nGreece and Rome, notably to Alexander the Great.\\nThe cycle revolving around the majestic legend of\\nCharlemagne for its centre was Teutonic, rather\\nthan Celtic, in spirit as well as in theme. It tended\\nto the religious in tone. The Arthurian cycle was\\nproperly Celtic. It dealt more with adventures of\\nlove. The Alexandrian cycle, so named from one\\nprincipal theme celebrated, namely, the deeds of\\nAlexander the Great, mixed fantastically the tra-\\nditions of ancient Greece and Rome with the then\\nprevailing ideas of chivalry, and with the figments\\nof fairy lore. (The metrical form employed in these\\npoems gave its name to the Alexandrine line later\\nso predominant in French poetry.) The volume of\\nthis quasi-epical verse, existing in its three groups,\\nor cycles, is immense. So is that of the satire and\\nthe allegory in metre that followed. From this\\nlatter store of stock and example, Chaucer drew to", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0017.jp2"}, "18": {"fulltext": "6 Classic French Course in English.\\nsupply his muse with material. The fabliaux, so\\ncalled, fables, that is, or stories, were still\\nanother form of early French literature in verse. It\\nis only now, within the current decade of years, that\\na really ample collection of fabliaux hitherto, with\\nthe exception of a few printed volumes of specimens,\\nextant exclusively in manuscript has been put into\\ncourse of publication. Rutebeuf a trouv re of the\\nreign of St. Louis (Louis IX., thirteenth century),\\nis perhaps as conspicuous a personal name as any\\nthat thus far emerges out of the sea of practically\\nanonymous early French authorship. A frankly sor-\\ndid and mercenary singer, Rutebeuf, always tending\\nto mockery, was not seldom licentious, in both\\nthese respects anticipating, as probably also to some\\nextent by example conforming, the subsequent lite-\\nrary spirit of his nation. The fabliaux generally\\nmingled with their narrative interest that spice of\\nraillery and satire constantly so dear to the French\\nliterary appetite. Thibaud was, in a double sense,\\na royal singer of songs for he reigned over Na-\\nvarre, as well as chanted sweetly in verse his love\\nand longing, so the disputed legend asserts, for\\nQueen Blanche of Castile. Thibaud bears the his-\\ntoric title of The Song-maker. He has been styled\\nthe Beranger of the thirteenth century. To Thibaud\\nis said to be due the introduction of the feminine\\nrhyme into French poetry, a metrical variation of\\ncapital importance. The songs of Abelard, in the\\ncentury preceding Thibaud, won a wide popularity.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0018.jp2"}, "19": {"fulltext": "French Literature. 7\\nProse, meantime, had been making noteworthy\\napproaches to form. Villehardotiin must be named\\nas first in time among French writers of history.\\nHis work is entitled, Conquest of Constantinople.\\nIt gives an account of the Fourth Crusade. Join-\\nville, a generation later, continues the succession of\\nchronicles with his admiring story of the life of\\nSaint Louis, whose personal friend he was. But\\nFroissart of the fourteenth century, and Comines\\nof the fifteenth, are greater names. Froissart, by\\nhis simplicity and his narrative art, was the Herodo-\\ntus, as Philip de Comines, for his political sagacity,\\nhas been styled the Tacitus, of French historical\\nliterature. Up to the time of Froissart, the litera-\\nture which we have been treating as French was\\ndifferent enough in form from the French of to-day\\nto require what might be called translation in order\\nto become generally intelligible to the living genera-\\ntion of Frenchmen. The text of Froissart is pretty\\narchaic, but it definitely bears the aspect of French.\\nWith the name of Comines, who wrote of Louis\\nXI. (compare Walter Scott s Quentin Durward\\nwe reach the fifteenth century, and are close upon\\nthe great revival of learning which accompanied the\\nreligious reformation under Luther and his peers.\\nNow come Rabelais, boldly declared by Coleridge\\none of the great creative minds of literature and\\nMontaigne, with those Essays of his. still living, and,\\nindeed, certain always to live. John Calvin, mean-\\ntime, writes his c 4 Institutes of the Christian Religion", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0019.jp2"}, "20": {"fulltext": "8 Classic French Course in English.\\nin French as well as in Latin, showing once and for\\nall, that in the right hands his vernacular tongue was\\nas capable of gravity as many a writer before him\\nhad superfluously shown that it was capable of levity.\\nAmyot, the translator of Plutarch, is a French writer\\nof power, without whom the far greater Montaigne\\ncould hardly have been. The influence of Amyot\\non French literary history is wider in reach and\\nlonger in duration than we thus indicate but Mon-\\ntaigne s indebtedness to him is alone enough. to\\nprove that a mere translator had in this man made\\na very important contribution to the forming prose\\nliterature of France.\\nu The Pleiades, so called, were a group of seven\\nwriters, who, about the middle of the sixteenth cen-\\ntury, banded themselves together in France, with the\\nexpress aim of supplying influential example to im-\\nprove the French language for literary purposes.\\nTheir peculiar appellation, The Pleiades, was\\ncopied from that of a somewhat similar group of\\nGreek writers, that existed in the time of Ptolemy\\nPhiladelphia. Of course, the implied allusion in it\\nis to the constellation of the Pleiades. The individual\\nname by which the Pleiades of the sixteenth century\\nmay best be remembered is that of Ronsard the poet,\\nassociated with the romantic and pathetic memory\\nof Mary, Queen of Scots. Never, perhaps, in the\\nhistory of letters was the fame of a poet in the poet s\\nown lifetime more universal and more splendid than\\nwas the fame of Ronsard. A high court of literary", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0020.jp2"}, "21": {"fulltext": "French Literature. 9\\njudicature formally decreed to Ronsard the title of\\nThe French Poet by eminence. This occurred in the\\nyouth of the poet. The wine of success so brilliant\\nturned the young fellow s head. He soon began to\\nplay lord paramount of Parnassus, with every air of\\none born to the purple. The kings of the earth vied\\nwith each other to do him honor. Ronsard affected\\nscholarship, and the foremost scholars of his time\\nwere proud to place him with Homer and with Virgil\\non the roll of the poets. Ronsard s peculiarity in\\nstyle was the free use of words and constructions\\nnot properly French. Boileau indicated whence he\\nenriched his vocabulary and his syntax, by satirically\\nsaying that Ronsard spoke Greek and Latin in French.\\nAt his death, Ronsard was almost literally buried\\nunder praises. Sainte-Beuve strikingly says that he\\nseemed to go forward into posterity as into a temple.\\nSharp posthumous reprisals awaited the extrava-\\ngant fame of Ronsard. Malherbe, coming in the\\nnext generation, legislator of Parnassus, laughed the\\nliterary pretensions of Ronsard to scorn. This stern\\ncritic of form, such is the story, marked up his copy\\nof Ronsard with notes of censure so many, that a\\nfriend of his, seeing the annotated volume, observed,\\nWhat here is not marked, will be understood to\\nhave been approved by you. Whereupon Mal-\\nherbe, taking his pen, with one indiscriminate stroke\\ndrew it abruptly through the whole volume. There\\nI Ronsardized, the contemptuous critic would ex-\\nclaim, when in reading his own verses to an ac-", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0021.jp2"}, "22": {"fulltext": "10 Classic French Course in English.\\nquaintance, for Malherbe was poet himself, he\\nhappened to encounter a* word that struck him as\\nharsh or improper. Malherbe, in short, sought to\\nchasten and check the luxuriant overgrowth to\\nwhich the example and method of the Pleiades\\nwere tending to push the language of poetry in\\nFrench. The resultant effect of the two contrary\\ntendencies that of literary wantonness on the\\none hand, and that of literary prudery on the other\\nwas at the same time to enrich and to purify\\nFrench poetical diction. Balzac (the elder), close\\nto Malherbe in time, performed a service for French\\nprose similar to that which the latter performed for\\nFrench verse. These two critical and literary powers\\nbrought in the reign of what is called classicism in\\nFrance. French classicism had its long culmination\\nunder Louis XIV.\\nBut it was under Louis XIII., or rather under\\nthat monarch s great minister, Cardinal Richelieu,\\nthat the rich and splendid Augustan age of French\\nliterature was truly prepared. Two organized forces,\\none of them private and social, the other official and\\npublic, worked together, though sometimes perhaps\\nnot in harmony, to produce the magnificent literary\\nresult that illustrated the time of Louis XIV. Of\\nthese two organized forces, the Hotel de Eambouillet\\nwas one, and the French Academy was the other.\\nThe Hotel de Rambouillet has become the adopted\\nname of a literary society, presided over by the fine\\ninspiring genius of the beautiful and accomplished", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0022.jp2"}, "23": {"fulltext": "French Literature. 11\\nItalian wife of the Marquis de Rambouillet, a lady\\nwho generously conceived the idea of rallying the\\nfeminine wit and virtue of the kingdom to exert a\\npotent influence for regenerating the manners and\\nmorals, and indeed the literature, of France. At\\nthe high court of blended rank and fashion and\\nbeauty and polish and virtue and wit, thus estab-\\nlished in the exquisitely buildecl and decorated sa-\\nloons of the Rambouillet mansion, the selectest\\nliterary genius and fame of France were proud and\\nglad to assemble for the discussion and criticism of\\nliterature. Here came Balzac and Voiture here\\nCorneille read aloud his masterpieces before they\\nwere represented on the stage here Descartes\\nphilosophized here the large and splendid genius\\nof Bossuet first unfolded itself to the world here\\nMadame de Sevigne brought her bright, incisive wit,\\ntrebly commended by stainless reputation, unwither-\\ning beauty, and charming address, in the woman who\\nwielded it. The noblest blood of France added the\\ndecoration and inspiration of their presence. It is\\nnot easy to overrate the diffusive beneficent influence\\nthat hence went forth to change the fashion of lite-\\nrature, and to change the fashion of society, for the\\nbetter. The Hotel de Rambouillet proper lasted two\\ngenerations only but it had a virtual succession,\\nwjiich, though sometimes interrupted, was scarcely\\nextinct until the brilliant and beautiful Madame\\nRecamier ceased, about the middle of the present\\ncentury, to hold her famous salons in Paris. The", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0023.jp2"}, "24": {"fulltext": "12 Classic French Course in English.\\ncontinuous fame and influence of the French Acad-\\nemy, founded by Richelieu, everybody knows. No\\nother European language has been elaborately and\\nsedulously formed and cultivated like the French.\\nBut great authors are better improvers of a lan-\\nguage than any societies, however influential. Cor-\\nneille, Descartes, Pascal, did more for French style\\nthan either the Hotel de Rambouillet or the Acade-\\nmy, more than both these two great literary socie-\\nties together. In verse, Racine, following Corneille,\\nadvanced in some important respects upon the ex-\\nample and lead of that great original master but\\nin prose, when Pascal published his Provincial\\nLetters, French style reached at once a point of\\nperfection beyond which it never since has gone.\\nBossuet, Bourdalaue, Feuelon, Massillon, Moliere,\\nLa Fontaine, Boileau, La Rochefoucauld, La Bru-\\ny re, what a constellation of names are these, to\\nglorify the age of Louis XIV. And Louis XIV.\\nhimself, royal embodiment of a literary good sense\\ncarried to the pitch of something very like real\\ngenius in judgment and taste, what a sun was he\\n(with that talent of his for kingship, probably never\\nsurpassed), to balance and to sway, from his un-\\nshaken station, the august intellectual system t of\\nwhich he alone constituted the despotic centre to\\nattract and repel Seventy-two years long was this\\nsole individual reign. Louis XIV. still sat on the\\nthrone of France when the seventeenth century be-\\ncame the eighteenth.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0024.jp2"}, "25": {"fulltext": "French Literature. 13\\nThe eighteenth century was an age of universal\\nreaction in France. Religion, or rather ecclesiasti-\\ncism, for, in the France of those times, religion\\nwas the Church, and the Church was the Roman\\nCatholic hierarchy, had been the dominant fashion\\nunder Louis XIV. Infidelity was a broad literary\\nmark, written all over the face of the eighteenth\\ncentur} It was the hour and power of the Ency-\\nclopaedists and the Philosophers, of Voltaire, of\\nDiderot, of D Alembert, of Rousseau. Montes-\\nquieu, though contemporary, belongs apart from\\nthese writers. More really original, more truly\\nphilosophical, he was far less revolutionary, far less\\ndestructive, than they. Still, his influence was, on\\nthe whole, exerted in the direction, if not of infi-\\ndelity, at least of religious indifferentism. The\\nFrench Revolution was laid in train by the great\\npopular writers whom we have now named, and by\\ntheir fellows. It needed only the spark, which the\\nproper occasion would be sure soon to strike out,\\nand the awful, earth-shaking explosion would follow.\\nAfter the Revolution, during the First Empire, so\\ncalled, the usurpation, that is, of Napoleon Bona-\\nparte, literature was well-nigh extinguished in\\nFrance. The names, however, then surpassingly\\nbrilliant, of Chateaubriand and Madame de Stael,\\nbelong to this period.\\nThree centuries have now elapsed since the date\\nof The Pleiades. Throughout this long period,\\nFrench literature has been chiefly under the sway of", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0025.jp2"}, "26": {"fulltext": "14 Classic French Course in English,\\nthat spirit of classicism in style which the reaction\\nagainst Ronsardism, led first by Malherbe and after-\\nwards by Boileau, had established as the national\\nstandard in literary taste and aspiration. But Rous-\\nseau s genius acted as a powerful solvent of the\\nclassic tradition. Chateaubriand s influence was\\nfelt on the same side, continuing Rousseau s.\\nGeorge Sand, too, and Lamartine, were forces that\\nstrengthened this component. Finally, the great\\npersonality of Victor Hugo proved potent enough\\ndefinitively to break the spell that had been so long\\nand so heavily laid on the literary development of\\nFrance. The bloodless warfare was fierce between\\nthe revolutionary Romanticists and the conservative\\nClassicists in literary style, but the victory seemed\\nat last to remain with the advocates of the new\\nromantic revival. It looked, on the face of the\\nmatter, like a signal triumph of originality over pre-\\nscription, of genius over criticism, of power over\\nrule. We still live in the midst of the dying echoes\\nof this resonant strife. Perhaps it is too early, as\\nyet, to determine on which side, by the merit of\\nthe cause, the advantage truly belongs. But, by\\nthe merit of the respective champions, the result\\nwas, for a time at least, triumphantly decided in\\nfavor of the Romanticists, against the Classicists.\\nThe weighty authority, however, of Sainte-Beuve,\\nat first thrown into the scale that at length would\\nsink, was thence withdrawn, and at last, if not reso-\\nlutely cast upon the opposite side of the balance,", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0026.jp2"}, "27": {"fulltext": "French Literature. 15\\nwas left wavering in a kind of equipoise between the\\none and the other. But our preliminary sketch has\\nalready passed the limit within which our choice of\\nauthors for representation is necessarily confined.\\nWith first a few remarks, naturally suggested,\\nthat may be useful, on the general subject thus\\nrather touched merely than handled, the present\\nwriter gives way to let now the representative au-\\nthors themselves, selected for the purpose, supply\\nto the reader a just and lively idea of French litera-\\nture.\\nThe first thing, perhaps, to strike the thoughtful\\nmind in a comprehensive view of the subject, is not\\nso much the length though this is remarkable\\nas the long continuity of French literary history.\\nFrom its beginning down to the actual moment,\\nFrench literature has suffered no serious break in\\nthe course of its development. There have been\\nperiods of greater, and periods of less, prosperity\\nand fruit but wastes of marked suspension and\\nbarrenness, there have been none.\\nThe second thing noticeable is, that French litera-\\nture has, to a singular degree, lived an independent\\nlife of its own. It has found copious springs of\\nhealth and growth within its own bosom.\\nBut then, a third thing to be also observed, is that,\\non the other hand, the touch of foreign influence,\\nfelt and acknowledged by this most proudly and\\nself-sufficiently national of literatures, has proved\\nto it, at various epochs-, a sovereign force of revival", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0027.jp2"}, "28": {"fulltext": "16 Classic French Course in English.\\nand elastic expansion. Thus, the great renascence\\nin the sixteenth century of ancient Greek and Latin\\nletters was new life to French literature. So, again,\\nSpanish literature, brought into contact with French\\nthrough Corneille and Moliere with others, gave to\\nthe national mind of France a new literary launch.\\nBut the most recent and perhaps the most remark-\\nable example of foreign influence quickening French\\nliterature to make it freshly fruitful, is supplied in\\nthe great romanticizing movement under the lead\\nof Victor Hugo. English literature especially\\nShakspeare was largely the pregnant cause of\\nthis attempted emancipation of the French literary\\nmind from the burden of classicism.\\nA fourth very salient trait in French literary\\nhistory consists in the self-conscious, elaborate,\\npersistent efforts put forth from time to time by\\nindividuals, and by organizations, both public and\\nprivate, in France, to improve the language, and to\\nelevate the literature, of the nation. We know of\\nnothing altogether comparable to this anywhere else\\nin the literature of the world.\\nA fifth striking thing about French literature is,\\nthat it has to a degree, as we believe beyond paral-\\nlel, exercised a real and vital influence on the char-\\nacter and the fortune of the nation. The social, the\\npolitical, the moral, the religious, history of France\\nis from age to age a faithful reflex of the changing\\nphases of its literature. Of course, a reciprocal in-\\nfluence has been constantly reflected back and forth", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0028.jp2"}, "29": {"fulltext": "French Literature. 17\\nfrom the nation upon its literature, as well as from\\nits literature upon the nation. But where else in the\\nworld has it ever been so extraordinarily, we may\\nsay so appallingly, true as in France, that the nation\\nwas such because such was its literature\\nFrench literature, it will at once be seen, is a\\nstudy possessing, beyond the literary, a social, a\\npolitical, and even a religious, interest.\\nReaders desiring to push their conversance with\\nthe literary history of France farther than the pres-\\nent volume will enable them to do, will consult with\\nprofit either the Primer, or the Short History, of\\nFrench Literature, by Mr. George Saintsbury. Mr.\\nSaintsbury is a well-informed writer, who, if the\\ntruth must be told, diffuses himself too widely to do\\nhis best possible work. He has, however, made\\nFrench literature a specialty, and he is in general a\\ntrustworthy authority on the subject.\\nAnother writer on the subject is Mr. H. Van\\nLaun. Him, although a predecessor of his own in\\nthe field, Mr. Saintsbury severely ignores, by claim-\\ning that he is himself the first to write in English a\\nhistory of French literature based on original and\\nindependent reading of the authors. We are bound\\nto say that Mr. Van Laun s work is of very poor\\nquality. It offers, indeed, to the reader one ad-\\nvantage not afforded by either of Mr. Saintsbury s\\nworks, the advantage, namely, of illustrative ex-\\ntracts from the authors treated, extracts, however,\\nnot unfrequently marred by wretched translation.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0029.jp2"}, "30": {"fulltext": "18 Classic French Course in English.\\nThe cyclopaedias are, some of them, both in articles\\non particular authors and in their sketches of French\\nliterary history as a whole, good sources of general\\ninformation on the subject. Readers who command\\nthe means of comparing several different cyclopae-\\ndias, or several successive editions of some one\\ncyclopaedia, as, for example, the Encyclopaedia\\nBritannica, will find enlightening and stimulating\\nthe not always harmonious views presented on the\\nsame topics. Ilallam s History of Literature in\\nEurope is an additional authority by no means to\\nbe overlooked.\\nII.\\nFROISSART.\\n1337-1410.\\nFrench literature, for the purposes of the present\\nvolume, ma}^ be said to commence with Froissart.\\nFroissart is a kind of mediaeval Herodotus. His\\ntime is, indeed, almost this side the middle ages\\nbut he belongs by character and by s}?mpathy rather\\nto the mediaeval than to the modern world. He is\\ndelightfully like Herodotus in the style and the\\nspirit of his narrative. Like Herodotus, he became\\na traveller in order to become an historian. Like\\nHerodotus, he was cosmopolite enough not to be", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0030.jp2"}, "31": {"fulltext": "Froissart. 19\\nnarrowly patriotic. Frenchman though he was, he\\ntook as much pleasure in recounting English victo-\\nries as he did in recounting French. His country-\\nmen have even accused him of unpatriotic partiality\\nfor the English. His Chronicles have been, perhaps,\\nmore popular in their English form than in their\\noriginal French. Two prominent English transla-\\ntions have been made, of which the later, that\\nby Thomas Johnes, is now most read. Sir Wal-\\nter Scott thought the earlier excelled in charm of\\nstyle.\\nJehan or Jean Froissart was a native of Valen-\\nciennes. His father meant to make a priest of him,\\nbut the boy had other tastes of his own. Before he\\nwas well out of his teens, he began writing history.\\nThis was under the patronage of a great noble. Frois-\\nsart was all his life a natural courtier. He throve\\non the patronage of the great. It was probably not\\na fawning spirit in him that made him this kind of\\nman it was rather an innate love of splendor and\\nhigh exploit. He admired chivalry, then in its last\\ndays, and he painted it with the passion of an ideal-\\nizer. His father had been an heraldic painter, so it\\nwas perhaps an hereditary strain in the son that\\nnaturally attached him to rank and royalty. The\\npeople that is, the promiscuous mass of mankind\\nhardly exist to Froissart. His pages, spacious as\\nthey are, have scarcely room for more than kings\\nand nobles, and knights and squires. He is a pic-\\nturesque and romantic historian, in whose chronicles", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0031.jp2"}, "32": {"fulltext": "20 Classic French Course in English.\\nthe glories of the world of chivalry a world, as we\\nhave said, already dying, and so soon to disappear\\nare fixed forever on an ample canvas, in moving\\nform and shifting color, to delight the backward-\\nlooking imagination of mankind.\\nFroissart, besides being chronicler, was something\\nof a poet. It would still be possible to confront one\\nwho should call this in question, with thirty thou-\\nsand surviving verses from the chronicler^ pen.\\nQuantity, indeed, rather than quality, is the strong\\npoint of Froissart as poet.\\nHe had no sooner finished the first part of his\\nChronicles, a compilation from the work of an earlier\\nhand, than he posted to England for the purpose\\nof formally presenting his work to the Queen, a\\nprincess of Hainault. She rewarded him hand-\\nsomely. Woman enough, too, she was, woman under\\nthe queen, duly to despatch him back again to his\\nnative land, where the 3 oung fellow s heart, she saw,\\nwas lost to a noble lady, whom, from his inferior\\nstation, he could woo onty as a moth might woo the\\nmoon. He subsequently returned to Great Britain,\\nand rode about on horseback gathering materials of\\nhistoiy. He visited Italy under excellent auspices,\\nand, together with Chaucer and with Petrarch, wit-\\nnessed a magnificent marriage ceremonial in Milan.\\nFroissart continued to travel far and wide, always\\na favorite with princes, but always intent on achiev-\\ning his projected work. He finally died at Chimay,\\nwhere he had spent his closing years in rounding", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0032.jp2"}, "33": {"fulltext": "Froissart. 21\\nout to their completeness his Chronicles of Eng-\\nland, France, and the Adjoining Countries.\\nFroissart is the most leisurely of historians, or,\\nrather, he is a writer who presupposes the largest\\nallowance of leisure at the command of his readers.\\nHe does not seek proportion and perspective. He\\nsimply tells us all he had been able to find out re-\\nspecting each transaction in its turn as it successively\\ncomes up in the progress of his narrative. If he\\ngoes wrong to-day, he will perhaps correct himself\\nto-morrow, or day after to-morrow, this not by\\nchanging the first record where it stands, to make it\\nright, but by inserting a note of his mistake at the\\npoint, whatever it may be, which he shall chance to\\nhave reached in the work of composition when the\\nnew and better light breaks in on his eyes. The\\nstudent is thus never quite certain but that what he\\nis at one moment reading in his author, may be an\\nerror of which at some subsequent moment he will be\\nfaithfully advised. A little discomposing, this, but\\nsuch is Froissart and it is the philosophical way to\\ntake your author as he is, and make the best of him.\\nOf such an historian, an historian so diffuse, and\\nso little selective, it would obviously be difficult to\\ngive any suitably brief specimen that should seem\\nto present a considerable historic action in full. We\\ngo to Froissart s account of the celebrated battle\\nof Poitiers (France). This was fought in 1356,\\nbetween Edward the Black Prince on the English\\nside, and King John on the side of the French.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0033.jp2"}, "34": {"fulltext": "22 Classic French Course in English.\\nKing John of the French was, of course, a great\\nprize to be secured by the victorious English.\\nThere was eager individual rivalry as to what par-\\nticular warrior should be adjudged his true captor.\\nFroissart thus describes the strife and the issue\\nThere was much pressing at this time, through eager-\\nness to take the king; and those who were nearest to him,\\nand knew him, cried out, Surrender yourself, surrender\\nyourself, or you are a dead man! In that part of the field\\nwas a young knight from St. Omer, who was engaged by a\\nsalary in the service of the King of England his name was\\nDenys de Morbeque who for five years had attached himself\\nto the English, on account of having been banished in his\\nyounger days from France, for a murder committed in an\\naffray at St. Omer. It fortunately happened for this knight,\\nthat he was at the time near to the King of France, when he\\nwas so much pulled about. He, by dint of force, for he was\\nvery strong and robust, pushed through the crowd, and said\\nto the king, in good French, Sire, sire, surrender yourself\\nThe king, who found himself very disagreeably situated,\\nturning to him, asked, To whom shall I surrender myself\\nto whom Where is my cousin, the Prince of Wales If\\nI could see him, I would speak to him. Sire, replied Sir\\nDenys, he is not here; but surrender yourself to me, and I\\nwill lead you to him. Who are you? said the king.\\nSire, I am Denys de Morbeque, a knight from Artois; but I\\nserve the King of England because I cannot belong to France,\\nhaving forfeited all I possessed there. The king then\\ngave him his right-hand glove, and said, I surrender my-\\nself to you. There was much crowding and pushing about\\nfor every one was eager to cry out, I have taken him!\\nNeither the king nor his youngest son Philip were able to\\nget forward, and free themselves from the throng.\\nThe Prince [of Wales] asked them [his marshals] if they\\nknew any thing of the King of France: they replied, No,", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0034.jp2"}, "35": {"fulltext": "Froissart. 23\\nsir, not for a certainty; bnt we believe he must be either\\nkilled or made prisoner, since he has never quitted his bat-\\ntalion. The prince then, addressing the Earl of War-\\nwick and Lord Cobham, said, I beg of you to mount your\\nhorses, and ride over the field, so that on your return you\\nmay bring me some certain intelligence of him. The two\\nbarons, immediately mounting their horses, left the prince,\\nand made for a small hillock, that they might look about\\nthem. From their stand they perceived a crowd of men-\\nat-arms on foot, who were advancing very slowly. The\\nKing of France was in the midst of them, and in great dan-\\nger; for the English and Gascons had taken him from Sir\\nDenys de Morbeque, and were disputing who should have\\nhim, the stoutest bawling out, It is I that have got him.\\nNo, no, replied the others we have him. The king, to\\nescape from this peril, said, Gentlemen, gentlemen, I pray\\nyou conduct me and my son in a courteous manner to my\\ncousin the prince; and do not make such a riot about my\\ncapture, for I am so great a lord that I can make all suffi-\\nciently rich. These words, and others which fell from the\\nking, appeased them a little; but the disputes were always\\nbeginning again, and they did not move a step without riot-\\ning. When the two barons saw this troop of people, they\\ndescended from the hillock, and, sticking spurs into their\\nhorses, made up to them. On their arrival, they asked what\\nwas the matter. They were answered, that it was the King\\nof France, who had been made prisoner, and that upward\\nof ten knights and squires challenged him at the same time,\\nas belonging to each of them. The two barons then pushed\\nthrough the crowd by main force, and ordered all to draw\\naside. They commanded, in the name of the prince, and\\nunder pain of instant death, that every one should keep his\\ndistance, and not approach unless ordered or desired so to\\ndo. They all retreated behind the king and the two barons,\\ndismounting, advanced to the king with profound reverences,\\nand conducted him in a peaceable manner to the Prince of\\nWales.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0035.jp2"}, "36": {"fulltext": "24 Classic French Course in English.\\nWe continue our citation from Froissart with the\\nbrief chapter in which the admiring chronicler tells\\nthe gallant story of the Black Prince s behavior as\\nhost toward his royal captive, King John of France\\n(it was the evening after the battle)\\nWhen evening was come, the Prince of Wales gave a\\nsupper in his pavilion to the King of France, and to the\\ngreater part of the princes and barons who were prisoners.\\nThe prince seated the King of France, and his son the Lord\\nPhilip, at an elevated and well-covered table: with them\\nwere Sir James de Bourbon, the Lord John d Artois, the\\nearls of Tancarville, of Estampes, of Dammartin, of Gra-\\nville, and the Lord of Partenay. The other knights and\\nsquires were placed at different tables. The prince himself\\nserved the king s table, as well as the others, with every\\nmark of humility, and would not sit down at it, in spite of\\nall his entreaties for him so to do, saying that he was not\\nworthy of such an honor, nor did it appertain to him to seat\\nhimself at the table of so great a king, or of so valiant a\\nman as he had shown himself by his actions that day. He\\nadded, also, with a noble air, Dear sir, do not make a poor\\nmeal, because the Almighty God has not gratified your\\nwishes in the event of this day; for be assured that my lord\\nand father will show you every honor and friendship in his\\npower, and will arrange your ransom so reasonably, that you\\nwill henceforward always remain friends. In my opinion,\\nyou have cause to be glad that the success of this battle did\\nnot turn out as you desired; for you have this day acquired\\nsuch high renown for prowess, that you have surpassed all\\nthe best knights on your side. I do not, dear sir, say this\\nto natter you for all those of our side who have seen and\\nobserved the actions of each party, have unanimously\\nallowed this to be your due, and decree you the prize and\\ngarland for it. At the end of this speech, there were mur-\\nmurs of praise heard from every one; and the French said", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0036.jp2"}, "37": {"fulltext": "Froissart. 25\\nthe prince had spoken nobly and truly, and that he would\\nbe one of the most gallant princes in Christendom if God\\nshould grant him life to pursue his career of glory.\\nA splendid and a gracious figure the Black Prince\\nmakes in the pages of Froissart. It was great good\\nfortune for the posthumous fame of chivalry, that the\\ninstitution should have come by an artist so gifted\\nand so loyal as this Frenchman, to deliver its fea-\\ntures in portrait to after-times, before the living\\noriginal vanished forever from the view of histor}\\\\\\nHow much the fiction of Sir Walter Scott owes to\\nFroissart, and to Philip de Comines after Froissart,\\nthose only can understand who have read both the\\nold chronicles and the modern romances.\\nIt was one of the congenial labors of Sidney\\nLanier pure flame of genius that late burned it-\\nself out so swiftly among us to edit a reduction\\nor abridgment of Froissart s Chronicles dedicated\\nespecially to the use of the young. The Boy s\\nFroissart, he called it. This book is enriched with\\na wise and genial appreciation of Froissart s quality\\nby his American editor.\\nWhoever reads Froissart needs to remember that\\nthe old chronicler is too much enamoured of chivalry,\\nand is too easily dazzled by splendor of rank, to be\\na rigidly just censor of faults committed by knights\\nand nobles and kings. Froissart, in truth, seems\\nto have been nearly destitute of the sentiment of\\nhumanity. War to him was chiefly a game and a\\nspectacle.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0037.jp2"}, "38": {"fulltext": "26 Classic French Course in English.\\nOur presentation of Froissart must close with a\\nsingle passage additional, a picturesque one, in which\\nthe chronicler describes the style of living witnessed\\nby him at the court we may not unfitly so apply\\na royal word of the Count de Foix. The reader\\nmust understand, while he reads what we here show,\\nthat Froissart himself, in close connection, relates\\nat full, in the language of an informant of his, how\\nthis magnificent Count de Foix had previously killed,\\nwith a knife at his throat, his own and his only son.\\nI was truly sorry, so, at the conclusion of the\\nstory, Froissart, with characteristic direction of\\nhis sympathy, says, cw for the count his father,\\nwhom I found a magnificent, generous, and cour-\\nteous lord, and also for the country that was discon-\\ntented for want of an heir. Here is the promised\\npassage it occurs in the ninth chapter of the third\\nvolume\\nCount Gaston Phoebus de Foix, of whom I am now speak-\\ning, was at that time fifty-nine years old and I must say,\\nthat although I have seen very many knights, kings, princes,\\nand others, 1 have never seen any so handsome, either in the\\nform of his limbs and shape, or in countenance, which was\\nfair and ruddy, with gray and amorous eyes, that gave\\ndelight whenever he chose to express affection. He was so\\nperfectly formed, one could not praise him too much. He\\nloved earnestly the things he ought to love, and hated those\\nwhich it was becoming him so to hate. He was a prudent\\nknight, full of enterprise and wisdom. He had never any\\nmen of abandoned character with him, reigned prudently,\\nand was constant in his devotions. There were regular\\nnocturnals from the Psalter, prayers from the rituals to the", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0038.jp2"}, "39": {"fulltext": "Froissart. 27\\nVirgin, to the Holy Ghost, and from the burial service.\\nHe had every day distributed as alms, at his gate, five florins\\nin small coin, to all comers. He was liberal and courteous\\nin his gifts, and well knew how to take when it was proper,\\nand to give back where he had confidence. He mightily\\nloved dogs above all other animals, and during the summer\\nand winter amused himself much with hunting.\\nWhen he quitted his chamber at midnight for supper,\\ntwelve servants bore each a lighted torch before him, which\\nwere placed near his table, and gave a brilliant light to\\nthe apartment. The hall was full of knights and squires,\\nand there were plenty of tables laid out for any person who\\nchose to sup. No one spoke to him at his table, unless he\\nfirst began a conversation. He commonly ate heartily of\\npoultry, but only the wings and thighs; for in the daytime,\\nhe neither ate nor drank much. He had great pleasure in\\nhearing minstrels; as he himself was a proficient in the\\nscience, and made his secretaries sing songs, ballads, and\\nroundelays. He remained at table about two hours, and\\nwas pleased when fanciful dishes were served up to him,\\nwhich having seen, he immediately sent them to the tables\\nof his knights and squires.\\nIn short, every thing considered, though I had before been\\nin several courts of kings, dukes, princes, counts, and noble\\nladies, I was never at one that pleased me more, nor was I\\never more delighted with feats of arms, than at this of the\\nCount de Foix. There were knights and squires to be seen\\nin every chamber, hall, and court, going backwards and\\nforwards, and conversing on arms and amours. Every thing\\nhonorable was there to be found. All intelligence from\\ndistant countries was there to be learnt, for the gallantry of\\nthe count had brought visitors from all parts of the world.\\nIt was there I was informed of the greater part of those\\nevents which had happened in Spain, Portugal, Arragon,\\nNavarre, England, Scotland, and on the borders of Lan-\\nguedoc for I saw, during my residence, knights and squires", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0039.jp2"}, "40": {"fulltext": "28 Classic French Course in English.\\narrive from every nation. I therefore made inquiries from\\nthem, or from the count himself, who cheerfully conversed\\nwith me.\\nThe foregoing is one of the most celebrated pas-\\nsages of description in Froissart. At the same time\\nthat it discloses the form and spirit of those vanished\\ndays, which will never come again to the world, it\\ndiscloses likewise the character of the man, who\\nmust indeed have loved it all well, to have been\\nable so well to describe it.\\nWe take now a somewhat long forward step, in\\ngoing, as we do, at once from Froissart-to Rabelais.\\nComines, lying between, we must reluctantly pass,\\nwith thus barely mentioning his name.\\nIII.\\nRABELAIS.\\n1495-1553.\\nRabelais is one of the most famous of writers.\\nBut he is at the same time incomparably the coarsest.\\nThe real quality of such a writer, it is evidently\\nout of the question to exhibit at all adequately here.\\nBut equally out of the question it is to omit Rabelais\\naltogether from an account of French literature.\\nOf the life of Francois Rabelais the man, these", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0040.jp2"}, "41": {"fulltext": "Rabelais. 29\\nfew facts will be sufficient to know. In early\\nyouth he joined the monastic order of the Francis-\\ncans. That order hated letters but Rabelais loved\\nthem. He, in fact, conceived a voracious ambition\\nof knowledge. He became immensely learned.\\nThis fact, with what it implies of long labor pa-\\ntiently achieved, is enough to show that Rabelais\\nwas not without seriousness of character. But he\\nwas much more a merry-andrew than a pattern\\nmonk. He made interest enough with influential\\nfriends to get himself transferred from the Francis-\\ncans to the Benedictines, an order more favorable\\nto studious pursuits. But neither among the Bene-\\ndictines was this roistering spirit at ease. He left\\nthem irregularly, but managed to escape punishment\\nfor his irregularity. At last, after various vicissi-\\ntudes of occupation, he settled down as curate of\\nMeudon, where (the place, however, is doubtful, as\\nalso the date) in 1553 he died. He was past fifty\\nyears of age before he finished the work which has\\nmade him famous.\\nThis work is The Life of Gargantua and Pan-\\ntagruel, a grotesque and nondescript production,\\nfounded, probably, on some prior romance or tradi-\\ntionary tale of giants. The narrative of Rabelais is\\na tissue of adventures shocking every idea of veri-\\nsimilitude, and serving only as a vehicle for the\\nstrange humor of the writer. The work is replete\\nwith evidences of Rabelais s learning. It would be\\nuseless to attempt giving any abstract or analysis", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0041.jp2"}, "42": {"fulltext": "30 Classic French Course in English.\\nof a book which is simply a wild chaos of material\\njumbled together with little regard to logic, order,\\nor method of whatever sort. We shall better\\nrepresent its character by giving a few specimen\\nextracts.\\nRabelais begins his romance characteristically.\\nAccording as you understand him here, you judge\\nthe spirit of the whole work. Either he now gives\\nyou a clew by which, amid the mazes of apparent\\nsheer frivolity on his part, you may follow till you\\nwin your way to some veiled serious meaning that\\nhe had all the time, but never dared frankly to\\navow or else he is playfully misleading you on a\\nfalse scent, which, however long held to, will bring\\nyou out nowhere in short, is quizzing you. Let\\nthe reader judge for himself. Here is the opening\\npassage, the Author s Prologue, it is called in\\nthe English translation executed by Sir Thomas\\nUrquhart and Motteux a version, by the way,\\nwhich, with whatever faults of too much freedom, is\\nthe work of minds and consciences singularly sym-\\npathetic with the genius of the original the English\\nstudent is perhaps hardly at all at disadvantage, in\\ncomparison with the French, for the full appreciation\\nof Rabelais\\nMost noble and illustrious drinkers, and you thrice\\nprecious pockified blades (for to you, and none else, do I\\ndedicate my writings), Alcibiades, in that dialogue of Plato s\\nwhich is entitled, The Banquet, whilst he was setting forth\\nthe praises of his schoolmaster Socrates (without all question", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0042.jp2"}, "43": {"fulltext": "Rabelais. 31\\nthe prince of philosophers), amongst other discourses to that\\npurpose said that he resembled the Sileni. Sileni of old\\nwere little boxes, like those we now may see in the shops\\nof apothecaries, painted on the outside with wanton toyish\\nfigures, as harpies, satyrs, bridled geese, horned hares, sad-\\ndled ducks, flying goats, thiller harts, and other such coun-\\nterfeited pictures, at pleasure, to excite people unto laughter,\\nas Silenus himself, who was the foster-father of good Bac-\\nchus, was wont to do; but within those capricious caskets\\ncalled Sileni, were carefully preserved and kept many rich\\nand fine drugs, such as balm, ambergreese, amomon, musk,\\ncivet, with several kinds of precious stones, and other things\\nof great price. Just such another thing was Socrates; for\\nto have eyed his outside, and esteemed of him by his exte-\\nrior appearance, you would not have given the peel of an\\nonion for him, so deformed he was in body, and ridiculous\\nin his gesture. Opening this box, you would have found\\nwithin it a heavenly and inestimable drug, a more than hu-\\nman understanding, an admirable virtue, matchless learning,\\ninvincible courage, inimitable sobriety, certain contentment\\nof mind, perfect assurance, and an incredible disregard of\\nall that for which men commonly do so much watch, run,\\nsail, fight, travel, toil, and turmoil themselves.\\nWhereunto (in your opinion) doth this little flourish of\\na preamble tend? For so much as you, my good disciples,\\nand some other jolly fools of ease and leisure, are too\\nready to judge, that there is nothing in them but jests,\\nmockeries, lascivious discourse, and recreative lies;\\ntherefore is it, that you must open the book, and seriously\\nconsider of the matter treated in it. Then shall you find\\nthat it containeth things of far higher value than the box\\ndid promise; that is to say, that the subject thereof is not so\\nfoolish, as by the title at the first sight it would appear to\\nbe.\\nDid you ever see a dog with a marrow-bone in his\\nmouth? Like him, you must, by a sedulous lecture", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0043.jp2"}, "44": {"fulltext": "32 Classic French Course in English.\\n[reading], and frequent meditation, break the bone, and\\nsuck out the marrow; that is, my allegorical sense, or the\\nthings I to myself propose to be signified by these Pytha-\\ngorical symbols the most glorious doctrines and dread-\\nful mysteries, as well in what concerneth our religion, as\\nmatters of the public state and life economical.\\nUp to this point, the candid reader has probably\\nbeen conscious of a growing persuasion that this\\nauthor must be at bottom a serious if also a humor-\\nous man, a man, therefore, excusably intent not\\nto be misunderstood as a mere buffoon. But now\\nlet the candid reader proceed with the following,\\nand confess, upon his honor, if he is not scandalized\\nand perplexed. What shall be said of a writer who\\nthus plays with his reader?\\nDo you believe, upon your conscience, that Homer,\\nwhilst he was couching his Iliad and Odyssey, had any\\nthought upon those allegories which Plutarch, Heraclides\\nPonticus, Eustathius, Phornutus, squeezed out of him, and\\nwhich Politian filched again from them If you trust it,\\nwith neither hand nor foot do you come near to my opinion,\\nwhich judgeth them to have been as little dreamed of by\\nHomer, as the gospel sacraments were by Ovid, in his Meta-\\nmorphoses though a certain gulligut friar, and true bacon-\\npicker, would have undertaken to prove it, if, perhaps, he\\nhad met with as very fools as himself, and, as the proverb\\nsays, a lid worthy of such a kettle.\\nIf you give any credit thereto, why do not you the same\\nto these jovial new Chronicles of mine Albeit, when I\\ndid dictate them, I thought thereof no more than you, who\\npossibly were drinking the whilst, as I was. For, in the\\ncomposing of this lordly book, I never lost nor bestowed\\nany more, nor any other time, than what was appointed to", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0044.jp2"}, "45": {"fulltext": "Rabelais. 33\\nserve me for taking of my bodily refection that is, whilst I\\nwas eating and drinking. And, indeed, that is the fittest\\nand most proper hour, wherein to write these high matters\\nand deep sentences as Homer knew very well, the paragon\\nof all philologues, and Ennius, the father of the Latin\\npoets, as Horace calls him, although a certain sneaking\\njobbernol alleged that his verses smelled more of the wine\\nthan oil.\\nDoes this writer quiz his reader, or, in good faith,\\ngive him a needed hint Who shall decide\\nWe have let our first extract thus run on to some\\nlength, both for the reason that the passage is as\\nrepresentative as any we could properly offer of the\\nquality of Rabelais, and also for the reason that\\nthe key of interpretation is here placed in the hand\\nof the reader, for unlocking the enigma of this re-\\nmarkable book. The extraordinary horse-play of\\npleasantry, which makes Rabelais unreadable for the\\ngeneral public of to-day, begins so promptly, affect-\\ning the very prologue, that we could not present\\neven that piece of writing entire in our extract.\\nWe are informed that the circulation in England of\\nthe works of Rabelais, in translation, has been in-\\nterfered with by the English government, on the\\nground of their indecency. We are bound to admit,\\nthat, if any writings whatever were to be suppressed\\non that ground, the writings of Rabelais are certainly\\nentitled to be of the number. It is safe to say that\\nnever, no, not even in the boundless license of the\\ncomedy of Aristophanes, was more flagrant inde-\\ncency, and indecency proportionately* more redun-", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0045.jp2"}, "46": {"fulltext": "34 Classic French Course in English.\\ndant in volume, perpetrated in literature, than was\\ndone by Rabelais. Indecency, however, it is, rather\\nthan strict lasciviousness. Rabelais sinned against\\nmanners, more than he sinned against morals. But\\nhis obscenity is an ocean, without bottom or shore.\\nLiterally, he sticks at nothing that is coarse. Nay,\\nthis is absurdly short of expressing the fact. The\\ngenius of Rabelais teems with invention of coarse-\\nness, beyond what any one could conceive as pos-\\nsible, who had not taken his measure of possibility\\nfrom Rabelais himself. And his diction was as\\nopulent as his invention.\\nSuch is the character of Rabelais the author.\\nWhat, then, was it, if not fondness for paradox,\\nthat could prompt Coleridge to say, I could write\\na treatise in praise of the moral elevation of Rabe-\\nlais works, which would make the church stare\\nand the conventicle groan, and yet would be truth,\\nand nothing but the truth If any thing besides\\nfondness for paradox inspired Coleridge in saying\\nthis, it must, one would guess, have been belief on\\nhis part in the allegorical sense hidden deep under-\\nneath the monstrous mass of the Rabelaisian buf-\\nfoonery. A more judicial sentence is that of\\nHallam, the historian of the literature of Europe:\\nHe [Rabelais] is never serious in a single page,\\nand seems to have had little other aim, in his first\\ntwo volumes, than to pour out the exuberance of\\nhis animal gayety.\\nThe supply of animal gayety in this man was", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0046.jp2"}, "47": {"fulltext": "Rabelais. 35\\nsomething portentous. One cannot, however, but\\nfeel that he forces it sometimes, as sometimes did\\nDickens those exhaustless animal spirits of his. A\\nvery common trick of the Rabelaisian humor is to\\nmultiply specifications, or alternative expressions,\\none after another, almost without end. From the\\nsecond book of his romance, an afterthought,\\nprobably, of continuation to his unexpectedly suc-\\ncessful first book, we take the last paragraph of\\nthe prologue, which shows this. The veracious his-\\ntorian makes obtestation of the strict truth of his\\nnarrative, and imprecates all sorts of evil upon such\\nas do not believe it absolutely. We cleanse our\\nextract a little\\nAnd, therefore, to make an end of this Prologue, even\\nas I give myself to an hundred thousand panniers-full of\\nfair devils, body and soul, in case that I lie so much as\\none single word in this whole history; after the like manner,\\nSt. Anthony s fire burn you, Mahoom s disease whirl you,\\nthe squinance with a stitch in your side, and the wolf in\\nyour stomach truss you, the bloody flux seize upon you, the\\ncursed sharp inflammations of wild fire, as slender and thin\\nas cow s hair strengthened with quicksilver, enter into you,\\nand. like those of Sodom and Gomorrha, may you fall\\ninto sulphur, fire, and bottomless pits, in case you do not\\nfirmly believe all that I shall relate unto you in this present\\nChronicle.\\nSo much for Rabelais s prologue. Our readers\\nmust now see something of what, under pains and\\npenalties denounced so dire, they are bound to be-\\nlieve. We condense and defecate for this purpose", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0047.jp2"}, "48": {"fulltext": "36 Classic French Course in English.\\nthe thirty- eighth chapter of the first book, which is\\nstaggeringly entitled, How Gargantua did eat up\\nSix Pilgrims in a Sallad\\nThe story requireth that we relate that which happened\\nunto six pilgrims, who came from Sebastian near to Nantes;\\nand who, for shelter that night, being afraid of the enemy,\\nhad hid themselves in the garden upon the chickling peas,\\namong the cabbages and lettuces. Gargantua, finding him-\\nself somewhat dry, asked whether they could get any lettuce\\nto make him a sallad; and, hearing that there were the\\ngreatest and fairest in the country, for they were as great\\nas plum trees, or as walnut trees, he would go thither\\nhimself, and brought thence in his hand what he thought\\ngood, and withal carried away the six pilgrims, who were in\\nso great fear that they did not dare to speak nor cough.\\nWashing them, therefore, first at the fountain, the pilgrims\\nsaid one to another, softly, What shall we do? We are\\nalmost drowned here amongst these lettuce shall we speak\\nBut, if we speak, he will kill us for spies. And, as they\\nwere thus deliberating what to do, Gargantua put them,\\nwith the lettuce, into a platter of the house, as large as the\\nhuge tun of the White Friars of the Cistertian order; which\\ndone, with oil, vinegar, and salt, he ate them up, to refresh\\nhimself a little before supper, and had already swallowed up\\nfive of the pilgrims, the sixth being in the platter, totally\\nhid under a lettuce, except his bourbon, or staff, that ap-\\npeared, and nothing else. Which Grangousier [Gargantua s\\nfather] seeing, said to Gargantua, I think that is the horn\\nof a shell snail do not eat it. Why not said Gargan-\\ntua; they are good all this month: which he no sooner\\nsaid, but, drawing up the staff, and therewith taking up the\\npilgrim, he ate him very well, then drank a terrible draught\\nof excellent white wine. The pilgrims, thus devoured,\\nmade shift to save themselves, as well as they could, by\\ndrawing their bodies out of the reach of the grinders of his", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0048.jp2"}, "49": {"fulltext": "Hahelais. 37\\nteeth, but could not escape from thinking they had been put\\nin the lowest dungeon of a prison. And, when Gargantua\\nwhiffed the great draught, they thought to have drowned in\\nhis mouth, and the flood of wine had almost carried them\\naway into the gulf of his stomach. Xevertheless, skipj)ing\\nwith their bourbons, as St. Michael s palmers used to do,\\nthey sheltered themselves from the danger of that inunda-\\ntion under the banks of his teeth. But one of them, by\\nchance, groping, or sounding the country with his staff, to\\ntry whether they were in safety or no, struck hard against\\nthe cleft of a hollow tooth, and hit the mandibulary sinew\\nor nerve of the jaw, which put Gargantua to very great\\npain, so that he began to cry for the rage that he felt. To\\nease himself, therefore, of his smarting ache, he called for\\nhis tooth-picker, and, rubbing towards a young walnut-tree,\\nwhere they lay skulking, unnestled you my gentlemen pil-\\ngrims. For he caught one by the legs, another by the scrip,\\nanother by the pocket, another by the scarf, another by the\\nband of the breeches; and the poor fellow that had hurt\\nhim with the bourbon, him he hooked to him by [another\\npart of his clothes]. The pilgrims, thus dislodged, ran\\naway.\\nRabelais closes his story with jocose irreverent\\napplication of Scripture, a manner of his which\\ngives some color to the tradition of a biblical pun\\nmade by him on his death-bed.\\nThe closest English analogue to Eabelais is un-\\ndoubtedly Dean Swift. We probably never should\\nhave had Gulliver s Travels from Swift, if we\\nhad not first had Gargantua and Pantagruel from\\nEabelais. Swift, however, differs from Eabelais as\\nwell as resembles him. Whereas Eabelais is simply\\nmonstrous in invention, Swift in invention submits", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0049.jp2"}, "50": {"fulltext": "38 Classic French Course in English.\\nhimself loyally to law. Give Swift his world of\\nLiliput and Brobclingnag respectively, and all, after\\nthat, is quite natural and probable. The reduction\\nor the exaggeration is made upon a mathematically\\ncalculated scale. For such verisimilitude Rabelais\\ncares not a straw. His various inventions are\\nrecklessly independent one of another. A character-\\nistic of Swift thus is scrupulous conformit} 7 to whim-\\nsical law. Rabelais is remarkable for whimsical\\ndisregard of even his own whimseys. Voltaire put\\nthe matter with his usual felicity, Swift is Rabelais\\nin his senses.\\nOne of the most celebrated justly celebrated\\nof Rabelais s imaginations is that of the Abbey of\\nTheleme [Thelema]. This constitutes a kind of\\nRabelaisian Utopia. It was proper of the released\\nmonk to give his Utopian dream the form of an\\nabbe} T but an abbey in which the opposite should\\nobtain of all that he had so heartily hated in his own\\nmonastic experience. A humorously impossible\\nplace and state was the Abbey of Theleme, a kind\\nof sportive Brook Farm set far away in a world\\nunrealized. How those Thelemites enjoyed life,\\nto be sure It was like endless plum pudding\\nfor everybody to eat, and nobody to prepare\\nAll their life was spent not in laws, statutes, or rules,\\nbut according to their own free will and pleasure. They\\nrose out of their beds when they thought good; they did\\neat, drink, labor, sleep, when they had a mind to it, and\\nwere disposed for it. None did awake them, none did offer\\nto constrain them to eat, drink, nor to do any other thing;", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0050.jp2"}, "51": {"fulltext": "Rabelais. 39\\nfor so had Gargantua established it. Li all their rule, and\\nstrictest tie of their order, there was but this one clause to\\nbe observed,\\nDO WHAT THOU WILT.\\nBy this liberty they entered into a very laudable emu-\\nlation, to do all of them what they saw did please one. If\\nany of the gallants or ladies should say, Let us drink, they\\nwould all drink. If any one of them said, Let us play, they\\nall played. If one said, Let us go a walking into the fields,\\nthey went all. There was neither he nor she amongst\\nthem, but could read, write, sing, play upon several musical\\ninstruments, speak five or six several languages, and compose\\nin them all very quaintly, both in verse and prose. Never\\nwere seen so valiant knights, so noble and worthy, so dex-\\ntrous and skilful both on foot and a horseback, more brisk\\nand lively, more nimble and quick, or better handling all\\nmanner of weapons than were there. Never were seen\\nladies so proper and handsome, so miniard and dainty, less\\nforward, or more ready with their hand, and with their\\nneedle, in every honest and free action belonging to that sex,\\nthan were there. For this reason, when the time came, that\\nany man of the said abbey, either at the request of his\\nparents, or for some other cause, had a mind to go out of it,\\nhe carried along with him one of the ladies, namely her who\\nhad before that accepted him as her lover, and they were\\nmarried together.\\nThe foregoing is one of the most purely sweet\\nimaginative passages in Rabelais s works. The rep-\\nresentation, as a whole, sheathes, of course, a keen\\nsatire on the religious houses. Real religion, Rabe-\\nlais nowhere attacks.\\nThe same colossal Gargantua who had that eating\\nadventure with the six pilgrims, is made, in Rabelais s\\nsecond book, to write his youthful son Pantagruel", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0051.jp2"}, "52": {"fulltext": "40 Classic French Course in English.\\nalso a giant, but destined to be, when mature, a\\nmodel of all princely virtues a letter on education,\\nin which the most pious paternal exhortation occurs.\\nThe whole letter reads like some learned Puritan\\ndivine s composition. Here are a few specimen\\nsentences\\nFail not most carefully to peruse the books of the Greek,\\nArabian, and Latin physicians, not despising the Talinud-\\nists and Cabalists and by frequent anatomies get thee the\\nperfect knowledge of that other world, called the microcosm;\\nwhich is man. And at some of the hours of the day apply\\nthy mind to the study of the Holy Scriptures first, in Greek,\\nthe New Testament, with the Epistles of the Apostles and\\nthen the Old Testament in Hebrew. In brief, let me see thee\\nan abyss and bottomless pit of knowledge.\\nIt behoveth thee to serve, to love, to fear God, and\\non him to cast all thy thoughts and all thy hope, and, hy\\nfaith formed in charity, to cleave unto him, so that thou\\nmayst never be separated from him by thy sins. Suspect\\nthe abuses of the world. Set not thy heart upon vanity, for\\nthis life is transitory but the Word of the Lord endureth\\nforever.\\nFriar John is a mighty man of valor, who\\nfigures equivocally in the stor} 7 of Gargantua and\\nPantagruel. The Abbey of Theleme is given him in\\nreward of his services. Some have identified this\\nfighting monk with Martin Luther. The represen-\\ntation is, on the whole, so conducted as to leave the\\nreader s sympathies at least half enlisted in favor of\\nthe fellow, rough and roistering as he is.\\nPanurge is the hero of the romance of Pantagruel,\\nalmost more than Pantagruel himself. It would", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0052.jp2"}, "53": {"fulltext": "Rabelais. 41\\nbe unpardonable to dismiss Rabelais without first\\nmaking our readers knowPanurge by, at least, a few\\ntraits of his character and conduct. Panurge was\\na shifty but unscrupulous adventurer, whom Pan-\\ntagruel, pious prince as he was, coming upon him by\\nchance, took and kept under his patronage. Panurge\\nwas an arch-imp of mischief, mischief indulged in\\nthe form of obscene and malicious practical jokes.\\nRabelais describes his accomplishments in a long\\nstrain of discourse, from which we purge our selec-\\ntion to follow, thereby transforming Panurge into\\na comparatively proper and virtuous person\\nHe had threescore and three tricks to come by it\\n[money] at his need, of which the most honorable and most\\nordinary was in manner of thieving, secret purloining, and\\nfilching, for he was a wicked, leWd rogue, a cozener, drinker,\\nroysterer, rover, and a very dissolute and debauched fellow,\\nif there were any in Paris otherwise, and in all matters else,\\nthe best and most virtuous man in the world and he was\\nstill contriving some plot, and devising mischief against the\\nSerjeants and the watch.\\nAt one time he assembled three or four especial good\\nhacksters and roaring boys; made them in the evening\\ndrink like Templars, afterwards led them till they came\\nunder St. Genevieve, or about the college of Xavarre, and,\\nat the hour that the watch was coming up that way, which\\nhe knew by putting his sword upon the pavement, and his\\near by it, and, when he heard his sword shake, it was an\\ninfallible sign that the watch was near at that instant,\\nthen he and his companions took a tumbrel or garbage-cart,\\nand gave it the br angle, hurling it with all their force down\\nthe hill, and then ran away upon the other side; for in less\\nthan two days he knew all the streets, lanes, and turnings\\nin Paris, as well as his Dens det.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0053.jp2"}, "54": {"fulltext": "42 Classic French Course in English.\\nAt another time he laid, in some fair place where the\\nsaid watch was to pass, a train of gunpowder, and, at the\\nvery instant that they went along, set fire to it, and then\\nmade himself sport to see what good grace they had in\\nrunning away, thinking that St. Anthony s fire had caught\\nthem by the legs. In one of his pockets he had a great\\nmany little horns full of fleas and lice, which he borrowed\\nfrom the beggars of St. Innocent, and cast them, with small\\ncanes or quills to write with, into the necks of the daintiest\\ngentlewomen that he could find, yea, even in the church;\\nfor he never seated himself above in the choir, but always\\nin the body of the church amongst the women, both at mass,\\nat vespers, and at sermon.\\nColeridge, in his metaphysical way, keen at the\\nmoment on the scent of illustrations for the phi-\\nlosophy of Kant, said, Pantagruel is the Reason\\nPanurge the Understanding. Rabelais himself, in\\nthe fourth book of his romance, written in the last\\nyears of his life, defines the spirit of the work.\\nThis fourth book, the English translator says, is\\njustly thought his masterpiece. The same au-\\nthority adds with enthusiasm, Being wrote with\\nmore spirit, salt, and flame than the first part.\\nHere, then, is Rabelais s own expression, sincere or\\njocular, as you choose to take it, for what consti-\\ntutes the essence of his writing. We quote from\\nthe u Prologue\\nBy the means of a little Pantagruelism (which, you\\nknow, is a certain jollity of mind, pickled in the scorn of\\nfortune), you see me now at near seventy years of age,\\nhis translator says], hale and cheery, as sound as a bell, and\\nready to drink, if you will.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0054.jp2"}, "55": {"fulltext": "Rabelais. 43\\nIt is impossible to exaggerate the mad, rollicking\\nhumor, sticking at nothing, either in thought or in\\nexpression, with which especially this last book of\\nRabelais s work is written. But we have no more\\nspace for quotation.\\nColeridge s theory of interpretation for Rabelais s\\nwritings is hinted in his Table Talk, as follows\\nAfter any particularly deep thrust, Rabelais,\\nas if to break the blow, and to appear unconscious\\nof what he has done, writes a chapter or two of\\npure buffoonery.\\nThe truth seems to us to be, that Rabelais s su-\\npreme taste, like his supreme power, lay in the line\\nof humorous satire. He hated monkery, and he\\nsatirized the system as openly as he dared, this,\\nhowever, not so much in the love of truth and free-\\ndom, as in pure fondness for exercising his wit.\\nThat he was more than willing to make his ribald\\ndrollery the fool s mask from behind which he might\\naim safely his shafts of ridicule at what he despised\\nand hated, is indeed probable. But in this is sup-\\nplied to him no sufficient excuse for his obscene and\\nblasphemous pleasantry. Nor yet are the manners\\nof the age an excuse sufficient. Erasmus belonged\\nto the same age, and he disliked the monks not less.\\nBut what a contrast, in point of decency, between\\nRabelais and Erasmus", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0055.jp2"}, "56": {"fulltext": "44 Classic French Course in English.\\nIV.\\nMONTAIGNE.\\n1533-1592.\\nMontaigne is signally the author of one book.\\nHis Essays are the whole of him. He wrote\\nletters, to be sure, and he wrote journals of travel\\nin quest of health and pleasure. But these are\\nchiefly void of interest. Montaigne the Essayist\\nalone is emphatically the Montaigne that survives.\\nMontaigne the Essayist, that has become, as\\nit were, a personal name in literary history.\\nThe Essays are one hundred and seven in\\nnumber, divided into three books. They are very\\nunequal in length and they are on the most various\\ntopics, topics often the most whimsical in charac-\\nter. We give a few of his titles, taking them as\\nfound in Cotton s translation\\nThat men by various ways arrive at the same end;\\nWhether the governor of a place ought himself to go out to\\nparley; Of liars; Of quick or slow speech; A proceeding of\\nsome ambassadors; Yarious events from the same counsel;\\nOf cannibals; That we laugh and cry from the same thing;\\nOf smells; That the mind hinders itself; Of thumbs; Of\\nvirtue; Of coaches; Of managing the will; Of cripples;\\nOf experience.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0056.jp2"}, "57": {"fulltext": "Montaigne. 45\\nMontaigne s titles cannot be trusted to indicate\\nthe nature of the essays to which they belong. The\\nauthor s pen will not be bound. It runs on at its\\nown pleasure. Things the most unexpected are in-\\ncessantly turning up in Montaigne, things, proba-\\nbly, that were as unexpected to the writer when he\\nwas writing, as they will be to the reader when he\\nis reading. The writing, on whatever topic, in\\nwhatever vein, always revolves around the writer\\nfor its pivot. Montaigne, from no matter what\\napparent diversion, may constantly be depended\\nupon to bring up in due time at himself. The tether\\nis long and elastic, but it is tenacious, and it is\\nsecurely tied to Montaigne. This, as we shall pres-\\nently let the author himself make plain, is no acci-\\ndent, of which Montaigne was unconscious. It is\\nthe express idea on which the Essays were writ-\\nten. Montaigne, in his u Essays, is a pure and\\nperfect egotist, naked, and not ashamed. Egotism\\nis Montaigne s note, his differentia, in the world of\\nliterature. Other literary men have been egotists\\nsince. But Montaigne may be called the first,\\nand he is the greatest.\\nMontaigne was a Gascon, and Gasconisms adul-\\nterate the purity of his French. But his style a\\nlittle archaic now, and never finished to the nail\\nhad virtues of its own which have exercised a whole-\\nsome influence on classic French prose. It is sim-\\nple, direct, manly, genuine. It is fresh and racy of\\nthe writer. It is flexible to every turn, it is sensitive", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0057.jp2"}, "58": {"fulltext": "46 Classic French Course in English.\\nto every rise or fall, of the thought. It is a stead-\\nfast rebuke to raut and fustian. It quietly laughs\\nto scorn the folly of that style which writhes, in an\\nagony of expression, with neither thought nor feeling\\npresent to be expressed. Montaigne s Essays\\nhave been a great and a beneficent formative force\\nin the development of prose style in French.\\nFor substance, Montaigne is rich in practical\\nwisdom, his own by original reflection, or by dis-\\ncreet purveyal. He had read much, he had ob-\\nserved much, he had experienced much. The result\\nof all, digested in brooding thought, he put into his\\nEssays. These grew as he grew. He got him-\\nself transferred whole into them. Oat of them, in\\nturn, the world has been busy ever since dissolving\\nMontaigne.\\nMontaigne s Essays are, as we have said,\\nhimself. Such is his own way of putting the fact.\\nTo one admiring his essays to him, he frankly re-\\nplied, You will like me, if you like my essays, for\\nthey are myself. The originality, the creative\\ncharacter and force, of the Essays, lies in this\\nautobiographical quality in them. Their fascina-\\ntion, too, consists in the self-revelation they contain.\\nThis was, first, self-revelation on the part of the\\nwriter but no less it becomes, in each case, self-\\nrevelation in the experience of the reader. For, as\\nface answereth to face in the glass, so doth the\\nheart of man to man, from race to race, and from\\ngeneration to generation. If Montaigne, in his", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0058.jp2"}, "59": {"fulltext": "Montaigne. 47\\nEssays, held the mirror up to himself, he, in the\\nsame act, held up the mirror to you and to me.\\nThe image that we, reading, call Montaigne, is\\nreally ourselves. We never tire of gazing on it.\\nWe are all of us Narcissuses. This is why Mon-\\ntaigne is an immortal and a universal writer.\\nHere is Montaigne s Preface to his u Essays;\\nThe Author to the Reader, it is entitled\\nReader, thou hast here an honest book; it doth at the\\noutset forewarn thee that, in contriving the same, I have\\nproposed to myself no other than a domestic and private\\nend I have had no consideration at all either to thy service\\nor to my glory. My powers are not capable of any such de-\\nsign. I have dedicated it to the particular commodity of\\nmy kinsfolk and friends, so that, having lost me (which\\nthey must do shortly), they may therein recover some traits\\nof my conditions and humors, and by that means preserve\\nmore whole, and more life-like, the knowledge they had of\\nme. Had my intention been to seek the world s favor, I\\nshould surely have adorned myself with borrowed beauties.\\nI desire therein to be viewed as I appear in mine own genu-\\nine, simple, and ordinary manner, without study and artifice\\nfor it is myself I paint. My defects are therein to be read\\nto the life, and my imperfections and my natural form, so\\nfar as public reverence hath permitted me. If I had lived\\namong those nations which (they say) yet dwell under the\\nsweet liberty of nature s primitive laws, I assure thee I\\nwould most willingly have painted myself quite fully, and\\nquite naked. Thus, reader, myself am the matter of my\\nbook. There s no reason thou shouldst employ thy leisure\\nabout so frivolous and vain a subject. Therefore, farewell.\\nFrom Montaigne, the 12th of June, 1580.\\nMichel Eyquem de Montaigne, our author, as the", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0059.jp2"}, "60": {"fulltext": "48 Classic French Course in English.\\nforegoing date will have suggested, derived his most\\nfamiliar name from the place at which he was born\\nand at which he lived. Readers are not to take too\\nliterally Montaigne s notice of his dispensing with\\nborrowed beauties. He was, in fact, a famous\\nborrower. He himself warns his readers to be care-\\nful how they criticise him they may be flouting\\nunawares Seneca, Plutarch, or some other, equally\\nredoubtable, of the reverend ancients. Montaigne\\nis perhaps as signal an example as any in literature,\\nof the man of genius exercising his prescriptive\\nright to help himself to his own wherever he may\\nhappen to find it. But Montaigne has in turn been\\nfreely borrowed from. Bacon borrowed from him,\\nShakspeare borrowed from him, Dryden, Pope,\\nHume, Burke, Byron, these, with many more, in\\nEngland and, in France, Pascal, La Rochefou-\\ncauld, Voltaire, Rousseau, directly or indirectly,\\nalmost every writer since his day. No modern\\nwriter, perhaps, has gone in solution into subse-\\nquent literature more widely than Montaigne. But\\nno writer remains more solidly and insolubly entire.\\nWe go at once to chapter twenty-five of the first\\nbook of the Essays, entitled, in the English\\ntranslation, Of the education of children. The\\ntranslation we use henceforth throughout is the\\nclassic one of Charles Cotton, in a text of it edited\\nby Mr. William Carew Hazlitt. The preface,\\nalready given, Cotton omitted to translate. We\\nhave allowed Mr. Hazlitt to supply the deficiency.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0060.jp2"}, "61": {"fulltext": "Montaigne. 49\\nMontaigne addresses his educational views to a\\ncountess. Several others of his essays are similarly\\ninscribed to women. Mr. Emerson s excuse of\\nMontaigne for his coarseness, that he wrote for a\\ngeneration in which women were not expected to be\\nreaders, is thus seen to be curiously impertinent\\nto the actual case that existed. Of a far worse\\nfault in Montaigne than his coarseness, we mean\\nhis outright immorality, Mr. Emerson makes no\\nmention, and for it, therefore, provides no excuse.\\nWe shall ourselves, in due time, deal more openly\\nwith our readers on this point.\\nIt was for a *boy of quality that Montaigne\\naimed to adapt his suggestions on the subject of\\neducation. In this happy country of ours, all boys\\nare boys of quality and we shall go nowhere amiss\\nin selecting from the present essay\\nFor a boy of quality, then, I say, I would also have his\\nfriends solicitous to find him out a tutor who has rather a\\nwell-made than a well-filled head, seeking, indeed, both the\\none and the other, but rather of the two to prefer manners\\nand judgment to mere learning, and that this man should\\nexercise his charge after a new method.\\nTis the custom of pedagogues to be eternally thunder-\\ning in their pupil s ears, as they were pouring into a funnel,\\nwhilst the business of the pupil is only to repeat what the\\nothers have said: now, I would have a tutor to correct this\\nerror, and that, at the very first, he should, according to the\\ncapacity he has to deal with, put it to the test, permitting\\nhis pupil himself to taste things, and of himself to discern\\nand choose them, sometimes opening the way to him, anil\\nsometimes leaving him to open it for himself; that is, I", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0061.jp2"}, "62": {"fulltext": "50 Classic French Course in English.\\nwould not have him alone to invent and speak, but that he\\nshould also hear his pupil speak in turn. Let him\\nmake him put what he has learned into a hundred several\\nforms, and accommodate it to so many several subjects, to\\nsee if he yet rightly comprehends it, and has made it his\\nown. Tis a sign of crudity and indigestion to disgorge\\nwhat we eat in the same condition it was swallowed: the\\nstomach has not performed its office, unless it have altered\\nthe form and condition of what was committed to it to con-\\ncoct.\\nLet him make him examine and thoroughly sift every\\nthing he reads, and lodge nothing in his fancy upon simple\\nauthority and upon trust. Aristotle s principles will then be\\nno more principles to him than those of Epicurus and the\\nStoics: let this diversity of opinions be propounded to, and\\nlaid before, him; he will himself choose, if he be able; if\\nnot, he will remain in doubt.\\nChe, non men che saper, dubbiar m aggrata.\\nDante, Inferno, xl. 93.\\nThat doubting pleases me, not less than knowing.\\nLongfellow s Translation.\\nFor, if he embrace the opinions of Xenophon and Plato, by\\nhis own reason, they will no more be theirs, but become his\\nown. Who follows another, follows nothing, finds nothing,\\nnay, is inquisitive after nothing. Non sumus sub rege;\\nsibi quisque se vindicet. We are under no king; let each\\nlook to himself. Seneca, Ep. 33.] Let him, at least,\\nknow that he knows. It will be necessary that he imbibe\\ntheir knowledge, not that he be corrupted with their pre-\\ncepts; and no matter if he forget where he had his learning,\\nprovided he know how to apply it to his own use. Truth\\nand reason are common to every one, and are no more his\\nwho spake them first, than his who speaks them after; tis\\nno more according to Plato, than according to me, since\\nboth he and I equally see and understand them. Bees cull", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0062.jp2"}, "63": {"fulltext": "Montaigne. 51\\ntheir several sweets from this flower and that blossom, here\\nand there where they find them but themselves afterward\\nmake the honey, which is all and purely their own, and no\\nmore thyme and marjoram: so the several fragments he\\nborrows from others he will transform and shuffle together,\\nto compile a work that shall be absolutely his own that is to\\nsay, his judgment: his instruction, labor, and study tend\\nto nothing else but to form that. Conversation with\\nmen is of very great use, and travel into foreign countries\\nto be able chiefly to give an account of the humors,\\nmanners, customs, and laws of those nations where he has\\nbeen, and that we may whet and sharpen our wits by rub-\\nbing them against those of others.\\nIn this conversing with men, I mean also, and princi-\\npally, those who live only in the records of history: he\\nshall, by reading those books, converse with the great and\\nheroic souls of the best ages.\\nIt is difficult to find a stopping-place in discourse\\nso wise and so sweet. We come upon sentences\\nlike Plato for height and for beauty. An example\\nThe most manifest sign of wisdom is a continual\\ncheerfulness her state is like that of things in the\\nregions above the moon, always clear and serene.\\nBut the genius of Montaigne does not often soar,\\nthough even one little flight like that shows that it\\nhas wings. Montaigne s garnishes of quotation\\nfrom foreign tongues are often a cold-blooded de-\\nvice of afterthought with him. His first edition\\nwas without them, in many places where subse-\\nquently they appear. Readers familiar with Emer-\\nson will be reminded of him in perusing Montaigne.\\nEmerson himself said, It seemed to me [in read-", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0063.jp2"}, "64": {"fulltext": "52 Classic French Course in English.\\ning the Essays of Montaigne] as if I had myself\\nwritten the book in some former life, so sincerely it\\nspoke to my thoughts and experience. The rich\\nold English of Cotton s translation had evidently a\\nstrong influence on Emerson, to mould his own style\\nof expression. Emerson s trick of writing tis,\\nwas apparently caught from Cotton. The following\\nsentence, from the present essay of Montaigne,\\nmight very well have served Mr. Emerson for his\\nown rule of writing: Let it go before, or come\\nafter, a good sentence, or a thing well said, is\\nalways in season if it neither suit well with what\\nwent before, nor has much coherence with what fol-\\nlows after, it is good in itself. Montaigne, at any\\nrate, wrote his Essays on that easy principle.\\nThe logic of them is the logic of mere chance asso-\\nciation in thought. But, with Montaigne, what-\\never is true of Emerson, the association at least\\nis not occult and it is such as pleases the reader,\\nnot less than it pleased the writer. So this Gascon\\ngentleman of the olden time never tires us, and\\nnever loses us out of his hand. We go with him\\ncheerfully where he so blithely leads.\\nMontaigne tells us how he was himself trained\\nunder his father. The elder Montaigne, too, had his\\nideas on education, the subject which his son, in\\nthis essay, so instructively treats. The essayist leads\\nup to his autobiographical episode by an allusion to\\nthe value of the classical languages, and to the ques-\\ntion of method in studying them. He says", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0064.jp2"}, "65": {"fulltext": "Montaigne. 53\\nIn my infancy, and before I began to speak, he [my father]\\ncommitted me to the care of a German, totally ignorant\\nof onr language, but very fluent, and a great critic, in Latin.\\nThis man, whom he had fetched out of his own country, and\\nwhom he entertained with a very great salary, for this only\\nend, had me continually with him: to him there were also\\njoined two others, of inferior learning, to attend me, and to\\nrelieve him, who all of them spoke to me in no other lan-\\nguage but Latin. As to the rest of his family, it was an\\ninviolable rule, that neither himself nor my mother, man\\nnor maid, should speak any thing in my company, but such\\nLatin words as every one had learned only to gabble with\\nme. It is not to be imagined how great an advantage this\\nproved to the whole family my father and my mother by\\nthis means learned Latin enough to understand it perfectly\\nwell, and to speak it to such a degree as was sufficient for\\nany necessary use. as also those of the servants did, who\\nwere most frequently with me. In short, we Latined it at\\nsuch a rate, that it overflowed to all the neighboring villages,\\nwhere there yet remain, that have established themselves\\nby custom, several Latin appellations of arusans and their\\ntools. As for what concerns myself, I was above six years\\nof age before I understood either French or Perigordin\\nPerigordin is Montaigne s name for the dialect of his\\nprovince, Perigord (Gascony)], anymore than Arabic; and,\\nwithout art. book, grammar, or precept, whipping, or the\\nexpense of a tear, I had, by that time, learned to speak as\\npure Latin as my master himself, for I had no means of\\nmixing it up with any other.\\nWe are now to see how. helped by his wealth, the\\nfather was able to gratify a pleasant whimsey of his\\nown in the nurture of his boy. Highly aesthetic was\\nthe matin reveille that broke the slumbers of this\\nhopeful young heir of 3Iontaigne", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0065.jp2"}, "66": {"fulltext": "54 Classic French Course in English.\\nSome being of opinion that it troubles and disturbs the\\nbrains of children suddenly to wake them in the morning,\\nand to snatch them violently and over-hastily from sleep,\\nwherein they are much more profoundly involved than we,\\nhe [the father] caused me to be wakened by the sound of\\nsome musical instrument, and was never unprovided of a\\nmusician for that purpose. The good man, being ex-\\ntremely timorous of any way failing in a thing he had so\\nwholly set his heart upon, suffered himself at last to be\\noverruled by the common opinions he sent me, at six\\nyears of age, to the College of Guienne, at that time the\\nbest and most nourishing in France.\\nIn short, as in the case of Mr. Tulliver, the world\\nwas u too many for Eyquem p re; and, in the\\neducation of his son, the stout Gascon, having\\nstarted out well as dissenter, fell into dull con-\\nformity at last.\\nWe ought to give some idea of the odd instances,\\nclassic and other, with which Montaigne plentifully\\nbestrews his pages. He is writing of the Force\\nof Imagination. He says\\nA woman, fancying she had swallowed a pin in a piece\\nof bread, cried and lamented as though she had an intoler-\\nable pain in her throat, where she thought she felt it stick;\\nbut an ingenious fellow that was brought to her, seeing no\\noutward tumor nor alteration, supposing it to be only a con-\\nceit taken at some crust of bread that had hurt her as it\\nwent down, caused her to vomit, and, unseen, threw a\\ncrooked pin into the basin, which the woman no sooner\\nsaw, but, believing she had cast it up, she presently found\\nherself eased of her pain.\\nSuch as are addicted to the pleasures of the field, have,", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0066.jp2"}, "67": {"fulltext": "Montaigne. 55\\nI make no question, heard the story of the falconer, who,\\nhaving earnestly fixed his eyes upon a kite in the air, laid a\\nwager that he would bring her down with the sole power of\\nhis sight, and did so, as it was said for the tales I borrow,\\nI charge upon the consciences of those from whom I have\\nthem.\\nWe italicize the last foregoing words, to make\\nreaders see that Montaigne is not to be read for the\\ntruth of his instances. He uses what comes to\\nhand. He takes no trouble to verify. The dis-\\ncourses are my own, he says but even this, as\\nwe have hinted, must not be pressed too hard in\\ninterpretation. Whether a given reflection of Mon-\\ntaigne s is strictly his own, in the sense of not\\nhaving been first another s, who gave it to him, is\\nnot to be determined except upon very wide read-\\ning, very well remembered, in all the books that\\nMontaigne could have got under his eye. That was\\nfull fairly his own, he thought, which he had made\\nhis own by intelligent appropriation. And this,\\nperhaps, expresses in general the sound law of\\nproperty in the realm of mind. At any rate, Mon-\\ntaigne will wear no yoke of fast obligation. He\\nwill write as pleases him. Above all things else, he\\nlikes his freedom.\\nHere is one of those sagacious historical scep-\\nticisms, in which Montaigne was so fond of poising\\nhis mind between opposite views. It occurs in his\\nessay entitled, Of the Uncertainty of our Judg-\\nments.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0067.jp2"}, "68": {"fulltext": "56 Classic French Course in JEnglish.\\nAmongst other oversights Pompey is charged withal at\\nthe battle of Pharsalia, he is condemned for making his\\narmy stand still to receive the enemy s charge, by reason\\nthat (I shall here steal Plutarch s own words, which are\\nbetter than mine) he by so doing deprived himself of the\\nviolent impression the motion of running adds to the first\\nshock of arms, and hindered that clashing of the combatants\\nagainst one another, which is wont to give them greater im-\\npetuosity and fury, especially when they come to rush in\\nwith their utmost vigor, their courages increasing by the\\nshouts and the career; tis to render the soldiers ardor, as a\\nman may say, more reserved and cold. This is what he\\nsays. But, if Caesar had come by the worse, why might it\\nnot as well have been urged by another, that, on the con-\\ntrary, the strongest and most steady posture of fighting is\\nthat wherein a man stands planted firm, without motion;\\nand that they who are steady upon the march, closing up,\\nand reserving their force within themselves for the push of\\nthe business, have a great advantage against those who are\\ndisordered, and who have already spent half their breath in\\nrunning on precipitately to the charge? Besides that, an\\narmy is a body made up of so many individual members, it\\nis impossible for it to move in this fury with so exact a\\nmotion as not to break the order of battle, and that the best\\nof them are not engaged before their fellows can come on\\nto help them.\\nThe sententiousness of Montaigne may be illus-\\ntrated by transferring here a page of brief excerpts\\nfrom the Essays, collected by Mr. Bayle St. John\\nin his biography of the author. This apothegmatic\\nor proverbial quality in Montaigne had a very impor-\\ntant sequel of fruitful influence on subsequent French\\nwriters, as chapters to follow in this volume will\\nabundantly show. In reading the sentences sub-", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0068.jp2"}, "69": {"fulltext": "Montaigne. 57\\njoined, you will have the sensation of coming sud-\\ndenly upon a treasure-trove of coined proverbial\\nwisdom\\nOur minds are never at home, but ever beyond home.\\nI will take care, if possible, that my death shall say noth-\\ning that my life has not said.\\nLife in itself is neither good nor bad: it is the place of\\nwhat is good or bad.\\nKnowledge should not be stuck on to the mind, but incor-\\nporated in it.\\nIrresolution seems to me the most common and apparent\\nvice of our nature.\\nAge wrinkles the mind more than the face.\\nHabit is a second nature.\\nHunger cures love.\\nIt is easier to get money than to keep it.\\nAnger has often been the vehicle of courage.\\nIt is more difficult to command than to obey.\\nA liar should have a good memory.\\nAmbition is the daughter of presumption.\\nTo serve a prince, you must be discreet and a liar.\\nWe learn to live when life has passed.\\nThe mind is ill at ease when its companion has the colic.\\nWe are all richer than we think, but we are brought up\\nto go a-begging.\\nThe greatest masterpiece of man is to be born at\\nthe right time.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0069.jp2"}, "70": {"fulltext": "58 Classic French Course in English.\\nWe append a saying of Montaigne s not found\\nin Mr. St. John s collection\\nThere is no so good man who so squares all his thoughts\\nand actions to the laws, that he is not faulty enough to\\ndeserve hanging ten times in his life.\\nMontaigne was too intensely an egotist, in his\\ncharacter as man no less than in his character as\\nwriter, to have many personal relations that exhibit\\nhim in aspects engaging to our love. But one\\nfriendship of his is memorable, is even historic.\\nThe name of La Boetie is forever associated with\\nthe name of Montaigne. La Boetie is remarkable\\nfor being, as we suppose, absolutely the first voice\\nraised in France against the idea of monarchy. His\\nlittle treatise Contr Un (literally, Against\\nOne or Voluntary Servitude, is by many\\nesteemed among the most important literary pro-\\nductions of modern times. Others, again, Mr.\\nGeorge Saintsbury for example, consider it an\\nabsurdly overrated book. For our own part,\\nwe are inclined to give it conspicuous place in\\nthe history of free thought in France. La Boetie\\ndied young; and his Contr Un was published\\nposthumously, first by the Protestants, after\\nthe terrible day of St. Bartholomew. Our readers\\nmay judge for themselves whether a pamphlet in\\nwhich such passages as the following could occur,\\nmust not have had an historic effect upon the inflam-\\nmable sentiment of the French people. We take", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0070.jp2"}, "71": {"fulltext": "Montaigne. 59\\nMr. Bayle St. John s translation, bracketing a hint\\nor two of correction suggested by comparison of the\\noriginal French. The treatise of La Boetie is some-\\ntimes now printed with Montaigne s Essays, in\\nFrench editions of our author s works La Boetie\\nsays\\nYou sow your fruits [crops] that he [the king] may rav-\\nage them you furnish and fill your houses that he may have\\nsomething to steal you bring up your daughters that he may\\nslake his luxury; you bring up your sons that he may take\\nthem to be butchered in his wars, to be the ministers of his\\navarice, the executors of his vengeance; you disfigure your\\nforms by labor [your own selves you inure to toil] that he\\nmay cocker himself in delight, and wallow in nasty and\\ndisgusting pleasure.\\nMontaigne seems really to have loved this friend\\nof his, whom he reckoned the greatest man in France.\\nHis account of La Boetie s death is boldly, and not\\npresumptuously, paralleled by Mr. St. John with the\\nPhaedon of Plato. Noble writing, it certainly is,\\nthough its stateliness is a shade too self-conscious,\\nperhaps.\\nWe have thus far presented Montaigne in words\\nof his own such as may fairly be supposed likely to\\nprepossess the reader in his favor. We could mul-\\ntiply our extracts indefinitely in a like unexception-\\nable vein of writing. But to do so, and to stop\\nwith these, would misrepresent Montaigne. Mon-\\ntaigne is very far from being an innocent writer.\\nHis moral tone generally is low, and often it is", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0071.jp2"}, "72": {"fulltext": "60 Classic French Course in English.\\nexecrable. He is coarse, but coarseness is not the\\nworst of him. Indeed, he is cleanliness itself com-\\npared with Rabelais. But Rabelais is morality itself\\ncompared with Montaigne. Montaigne is corrupt\\nand corrupting. This feature of his writings, we\\nare necessarily forbidden to illustrate. In an essay\\nwritten in his old age, which we will not even\\nname, its general tenor is so evil, Montaigne holds\\nthe following language\\nI gently turn aside, and avert my eyes from the stormy\\nand cloudy sky I have before me, which, thanks be to God,\\nI regard without fear, but not without meditation and\\nstudy, and amuse myself in the remembrance of my better\\nyears\\nAnimus quod perdidit, optat,\\nAtque in prseterita se totus imagine versat.\\nPetronius, c. 128.\\nThe mind desires what it has lost, and in fancy flings\\nitself wholly into the past.\\nLet childhood look forward, and age backward: is not\\nthis the signification of Janus double face Let years\\nhaul me along if they will, but it shall be backward; as long\\nas my eyes can discern the pleasant season expired, I shall\\nnow and then turn them that way; though it escape from\\nmy blood and veins, I shall not, however, root the image of\\nit out of my memory\\nHoc est\\nVivere bis, vita posse priore frui.\\nMartial, x. 23, 7.\\nTis to live twice to be able to enjoy former life again.\\nHarmlessly, even engagingly, pensive seems the", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0072.jp2"}, "73": {"fulltext": "Montaigne. 61\\nforegoing strain of sentiment. Who could suppose\\nit a prelude to detailed reminiscence on the author s\\npart of sensual pleasures the basest enjoyed in\\nthe past? The venerable voluptuary keeps himself\\nin countenance for his lascivious vein, by writing as\\nfollows\\nI have enjoined myself to dare to say all that I dare to\\ndo; even thoughts that are not to be published, displease\\nme; the worst of my actions and qualities do not appear to\\nme so evil, as I find it evil and base not to dare to own\\nthem.\\nI am greedy of making myself known, and I care\\nnot to how many, provided it be truly. Many things\\nthat I would not say to a particular individual, I say to the\\npeople and, as to my most secret thoughts, send my most\\nintimate friends to my book. For my part, if any one\\nshould recommend me as a good pilot, as being very modest,\\nor very chaste, I should owe him no thanks [because the\\nrecommendation would be false].\\nWe must leave it as, however, Montaigne him-\\nself is far enough from leaving it to the imagina-\\no o o\\ntion of readers to conjecture what pleasures they\\nare, of which this worn-out debauchee (nearing\\ndeath, and thanking God that he nears it with-\\nout fear speaks in the following sentimental\\nstrain\\nIn farewells, we oftener than not heat our affections\\ntowards the things we take leave of I take my last leave of\\nthe pleasures of this world; these are our last embraces.\\nMr. Emerson, in his Representative Men,", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0073.jp2"}, "74": {"fulltext": "62 Classic French Course in English.\\nmakes Montaigne stand for The Sceptic. Sceptic\\nMontaigne was. He questioned, he considered, he\\ndoubted. He stood poised in equilibrium, in indif-\\nference, between contrary opinions. He saw rea-\\nsons on this side, but he saw reasons also on that,\\nand he did not clear his mind. Que sgai-je?\\nwas his motto What knowl? a question as\\nof hopeless ignorance, nay, as of ignorance also\\nvoid of desire to know. His life was one long in-\\nterrogation, a balancing of opposites, to the end.\\nSuch, speculatively, was Montaigne. Such, too,\\nspeculatively, was Pascal. The difference, however,\\nwas greater than the likeness, between these two\\nminds. Pascal, doubting, gave the world of spir-\\nitual things the benefit of his doubt. Montaigne,\\non the other hand, gave the benefit of his doubt to\\nthe world of sense. He was a sensualist, he was a\\nglutton, he was a lecher. He, for his portion, chose\\nthe good things of this life. His body he used to\\nget him pleasures of the body. In pleasures of the\\nbody he sunk and drowned his conscience, if he\\never had a conscience. But his intelligence sur-\\nvived. He became, at last, if he was not such\\nfrom the first, almost pure sense, without soul.\\nYet we have no doubt Montaigne was an agree-\\nable gentleman. We think we should have got on\\nwell with him as a neighbor of ours. He was a\\ntolerably decent father, provided the child were\\ngrown old enough to be company for him. His\\nown lawful children, while infants, had to go out", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0074.jp2"}, "75": {"fulltext": "Montaigne. 63\\nof the house for their nursing so it not unnaturally\\nhappened that all but one died in their infancy.\\nFive of such is the number that you can count in\\nhis own journalistic entries of family births and\\ndeaths. But, speaking as moral philosopher, in\\nhis Essays, he says, carelessly, that he had lost\\ntwo or three u without repining. This, per-\\nhaps, is affectation. But what affectation\\nMontaigne was well-to-do and he ranked as a\\ngentleman, if not as a great nobleman. He lived\\nin a castle, bequeathed to him, and by him be-\\nqueathed, a castle still standing, and full of per-\\nsonal association with its most famous owner. He\\noccupied a room in the tower, fitted up as a library.\\nOver the door of this room may still, we believe, be\\nread Montaigne s motto, Que sgal-je? Votaries\\nof Montaigne perform their pious pilgrimages to\\nthis shrine of their idolatry, year after year, cen-\\ntury after century.\\nFor, remember, it is now three centuries since\\nMontaigne wrote. He was before Bacon and\\nShakspeare. He was contemporary with Charles\\nIX., and with Henry of Navarre. But date has\\nlittle to do with such a writer as Montaigne. His\\nquality is sempiternal. He overlies the ages, as\\nthe long hulk of The Great Eastern overlay the\\nwaves of the sea, stretching from summit to sum-\\nmit. Not that, in the form of his literary work, he\\nwas altogether independent of time and of circum-\\nstance. Not that he was uninfluenced by his his-", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0075.jp2"}, "76": {"fulltext": "64 Classic French Course in English.\\ntoric place, in the essential spirit of his work. But,\\nmore than often happens, Montaigne may fairly be\\njudged out of himself alone. His message he\\nmight, indeed, have delivered differently but it\\nwould have been substantially the same message if\\nhe had been differently placed in the world, and in\\nhistory. We need hardly, therefore, add any thing\\nabout Montaigne s outward life. His true life is in\\nhis book.\\nMontaigne the Essayist is the consummate, the\\nideal, expression, practically incapable of improve-\\nment, of the spirit and wisdom of the world. This\\ncharacterization, we think, fairly and sufficiently\\nsums up the good and the bad of Montaigne. We\\nmight seem to describe no very mischievous thing.\\nBut to have the spirit and wisdom of this world\\nexpressed, to have it expressed as in a last authori-\\ntative form, a form to commend it, to flatter it, to\\njustify it, to make it seem sufficient, to erect it into\\na kind of gospel, that means much. It means\\nhardly less than to provide the world with a new\\nBible, a Bible of the world s own, a Bible that\\nshall approve itself as better than the Bible of the\\nOld and New Testaments. Montaigne s Essays\\nconstitute, in effect, such a book. The man of the\\nworld may, and, to say truth, does, in this vol-\\nume, find all his needed texts. Here is viaticum\\ndaily manna for him, to last the year round, and\\nto last year after year an inexhaustible breviary\\nfor the church of this world It is of the gravest", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0076.jp2"}, "77": {"fulltext": "Montaigne. 65\\nhistorical significance that Rabelais and Montaigne,\\nbut especially Montaigne, should, to such an extent,\\nfor now three full centuries, have been furnishing\\nthe daily intellectual food of Frenchmen.\\nPascal, in an interview with M. de Saci (care-\\nfully reported by the latter) in which the conversa-\\ntion was on the subject of Montaigne and Epictetus\\ncontrasted, these two authors Pascal acknowl-\\nedged to be the ones most constantly in his hand,\\nsaid gently of Montaigne, Montaigne is abso-\\nlutely pernicious to those who have any inclination\\ntoward irreligion, or toward vicious indulgences.\\nWe, for our part, are prepared, speaking more\\nbroadly than Pascal, to say that, to a somewhat\\nnumerous class of naturally dominant minds, Mon-\\ntaigne s Essays, in spite of all that there is good\\nin them, nay, greatly because of so much good in\\nthem, are, by their subtly insidious persuasion to\\nevil, upon the whole quite the most powerfully\\npernicious book known to us in literature, either\\nancient or modern.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0077.jp2"}, "78": {"fulltext": "66 Classic French Course in English.\\nLA ROCHEFOUCAULD 1613-1680 (La Bruyere:\\n1646 (?)-1696 Vauvenargues 1715-1747).\\nIn La Rochefoucauld we meet another eminent\\nexample of the author of one book. Letters,\\nMemoirs, and Maxims indeed name produc-\\ntions in three kinds, productions all of them notable,\\nand all still extant, from La Rochefoucauld s pen.\\nBut the Maxims are so much more famous than\\neither the Letters or the Memoirs, that their\\nauthor may be said to be known only by those. If\\nit were not for the Maxims, the Letters and\\nthe Memoirs would probably now be forgotten.\\nWe here may dismiss these from our minds, and con-\\ncentrate our attention exclusively upon the Max-\\nims. Voltaire said, The Memoirs of the Due\\nde La Rochefoucauld are read, but we know his\\n4 Maxims by heart.\\nLa Rochefoucauld s Maxims are detached sen-\\ntences of reflection and wisdom on human character\\nand conduct. They are about seven hundred in\\nnumber, but they are all comprised in a very small\\nvolume for they generally are each only two or\\nthree lines in length, and almost never does a single\\nmaxim occupy more than the half of a moderate-\\nsized page. The Maxims, detached, as we have", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0078.jp2"}, "79": {"fulltext": "La Rochefoucauld. 67\\ndescribed them, have no very marked logical se-\\nquence in the order in which they stand. They all,\\nhowever, have a profound mutual relation. An\\nunvarying monotone of sentiment, in fact, runs\\nthrough them. They are so many different expres-\\nsions, answering to so many different observations\\ntaken at different angles, of one and the same per-\\nsisting estimate of human nature. Self-love is\\nthe mainspring and motive of every thing we dD, or\\nsay, or feel, or think that is the total result of\\nthe Maxims of La Rochefoucauld.\\nThe writer s qualifications for treating his theme\\nwere unsurpassed. He had himself the right char-\\nacter, moral and intellectual his scheme of conduct\\nin life corresponded he wrote in the right language,\\nFrench and he was rightly situated in time, in place,\\nand in circumstance. He needed but to look closely\\nwithin him and without him, which he was gifted\\nwith eyes to do, and then report what he saw, in\\nthe language to which he was born. This he did,\\nand his Maxims are the fruit. His method was\\nlargely the sceptical method of Montaigne. His\\nresult, too, was much the same result as his master s.\\nBut the pupil surpassed the master in the quality of\\nhis work. There is a fineness, an exquisiteness, in\\nthe literary form of La Rochefoucauld, which Mon-\\ntaigne might indeed have disdained to seek, but\\nwhich he could never, even with seeking, have\\nattained. Each maxim of La Rochefoucauld is a\\ngem of purest ray serene, wrought to the last", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0079.jp2"}, "80": {"fulltext": "68 Classic French Course in English.\\ndegree of perfection in form with infinite artistic\\npains. Purity, precision, clearness, density, point,\\nare perfectly reconciled in La Rochefoucauld s style\\nwith ease, grace, and brilliancy of expression. The\\ninfluence of such literary finish, well bestowed on\\nthought worthy to receive it, has been incalculably\\npotent in raising the standard of French production\\nin prose. It was Voltaire s testimony, One of\\nthe works which has most contributed to form the\\nnational taste, and give it a spirit of accuracy and\\nprecision, was the little collection of Maxims by\\nFrancois Due de La Rochefoucauld.\\nThere is a high-bred air about La Rochefoucauld\\nthe writer, which well accords with the rank and\\ncharacter of the man La Rochefoucauld. He was\\nof one of the noblest families in France. His\\ninstincts were all aristocratic. His manners and his\\nmorals were those of his class. Brave, spirited, a\\ntouch of chivalry in him, honorable and amiable as\\nthe world reckons of its own, La Rochefoucauld ran\\na career consistent throughout with his own master-\\nprinciple, self-love. He had a wife whose conjugal\\nfidelity her husband seems to have thought a suffi-\\ncient supply in that virtue for both himself and her.\\nHe behaved himself accordingly. His illicit rela-\\ntions with other women were notorious. But they\\nunhappily did not make La Rochefoucauld in that\\nrespect at all peculiar among the distinguished\\nmen of his time. His brilliant female friends col-\\nlaborated with him in working out his Maxims.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0080.jp2"}, "81": {"fulltext": "La Rochefoucauld. 69\\nThese were the labor of years. They were pub-\\nlished in successive editions, during the lifetime of\\nthe author and some final maxims were added from\\nhis manuscripts after his death.\\nUsing, for the purpose, a very recent translation,\\nthat of A. S. Bolton (which, in one or two places,\\nwe venture to conform more exactly to the sense of\\nthe original) we give almost at hazard a few speci-\\nmens of these celebrated apothegms. We adopt\\nthe numbering given in the best Paris edition of the\\nMaxims:\\nISTo. 11. The passions often beget their contraries. Ava-\\nrice sometimes produces prodigality, and prodigality avarice:\\nwe are often firm from weakness, and daring from timidity.\\nNo. 13. Our self-love bears more impatiently the con-\\ndemnation of our tastes than of our opinions.\\nHow much just detraction from all mere natural\\nhuman greatness is contained in the following pene-\\ntrative maxim\\nNo. 18. Moderation is a fear of falling into the envy and\\ncontempt which those deserve who are intoxicated with their\\ngood fortune; it is a vain parade of the strength of our mind\\nand, in short, the moderation of men in their highest eleva-\\ntion is a desire to appear greater than their fortune.\\nWhat effectively quiet satire in these few words\\nNo. 19. We have strength enough to bear the ills of\\nothers.\\nThis man had seen the end of all perfection in the\\napparently great of this world. He could not bear", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0081.jp2"}, "82": {"fulltext": "70 Classic French Course in English.\\nthat such should flaunt a false plume before their\\nfellows\\nNo. 20. The steadfastness of sages is only the art of\\nlocking up their uneasiness in their hearts.\\nOf course, had it lain in the author s chosen line\\nto do so, he might, with as much apparent truth,\\nhave pointed out, that to lock up uneasiness in the\\nheart requires steadfastness no less nay, more\\nthan not to feel uneasiness.\\nThe inflation of philosophy vaunting itself is\\nthus softly eased of its painful distention\\nNo. 22. Philosophy triumphs easily over troubles passed\\nand troubles to come, but present troubles triumph over\\nit.\\nWhen Jesus once rebuked the fellow-disciples of\\nJames and John for blaming those brethren as self-\\nseekers, he acted on the same profound principle\\nwith that disclosed in the following maxim\\nNo. 34. If we had no pride, we should not complain of\\nthat of others.\\nHow impossible it is for that Proteus, self-love, to\\nelude the presence of mind, the inexorable eye, the\\nfast hand, of this incredulous Frenchman\\nNo. 39. Interest [self-love] speaks all sorts of languages,\\nand plays all sorts of parts, even that of disinterestedness.\\nNo. 49. We are never so happy, or so unhappy, as we\\nimagine.\\nNo. 78. The love of justice is, in most men, only the fear\\nof suffering injustice.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0082.jp2"}, "83": {"fulltext": "La Rochefoucauld. 71\\nWhat a subtly unsoldering distrust the following\\nmaxim introduces into the sentiment of mutual\\nfriendship\\nNo. 83. What men have called friendship, is only a\\npartnership, a mutual accommodation of interests, and an\\nexchange of good offices it is, in short, only a traffic, in\\nwhich self-love always proposes to gain something.\\nNo. 89o Every one complains of his memory, and no one\\ncomplains of his judgment.\\nHow striking, from its artful suppression of strik-\\ningness, is the first following, and what a wide,\\neasy sweep of well-bred satire it contains\\nNo. 93. Old men like to give good advice, to console them-\\nselves for being no longer able to give bad examples.\\nNo. 119. We are so much accustomed to disguise our-\\nselves to others, that, at last, we disguise ourselves to\\nourselves.\\nNo. 127. The true way to be deceived, is to think one s\\nself sharper than others.\\nThe plain-spoken proverb, A man that is his\\nown lawyer, has a fool for his client, finds a more\\npolished expression in the following\\nNo. 132. It is easier to be wise for others, than to be so\\nfor one s self.\\nHow pitilessly this inquisitor pursues his pre} r\\nthe human soul, into all its useless hiding-places\\nXo. 138. We would rather speak ill of ourselves, than not\\ntalk of ourselves.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0083.jp2"}, "84": {"fulltext": "72 Classic French Course in English.\\nThe following maxim, longer and less felici-\\ntously phrased than is usual with La Rochefou-\\ncauld, recalls that bitter definition of the bore,\\nOne who insists on talking about himself all the\\ntime that you are wishing to talk about your-\\nself:\\nNo. 139. One of the causes why we find so few people\\nwho appear reasonable and agreeable in conversation, is,\\nthat there is scarcely any one who does not think more of\\nwhat he wishes to say, than of replying exactly to what is\\nsaid to him. The cleverest and the most compliant think it\\nenough to show an attentive air; while we see in their eyes\\nand in their mind a wandering from what is said to them,\\nand a hurry to return to what they wish to say, instead of\\nconsidering that it is a bad way to please or to persuade\\nothers, to try so hard to please one s self, and that to listen\\nwell is one of the greatest accomplishments we can have in\\nconversation.\\nIf we are indignant at the maxims following, it is\\nprobably rather because they are partly true than\\nbecause they are wholly false\\nNo. 144. We are not fond of praising, and, without inter-\\nest, we never praise any one. Praise is a cunning flattery,\\nhidden and delicate, which, in different ways, pleases him\\nwho gives and him who receives it. The one takes it as a\\nreward for his merit the other gives it to show his equity\\nand his discernment.\\nNo. 146. We praise generally only to be praised.\\nNo. 147. Few are wise enough to prefer wholesome blame\\nto treacherous praise.\\nNo. 149. Disclaiming praise is a wish to be praised a\\nsecond time.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0084.jp2"}, "85": {"fulltext": "La Rochefoucauld. 73\\nXo. 152. If we did not flatter ourselves, the flattery of\\nothers could not hurt us.\\nNo. 184. We acknowledge our faults in order to atone,\\nby our sincerity, for the harm they do us in the minds of\\nothers.\\nNo. 199. The desire to appear able often prevents our\\nbecoming so.\\nNo. 201. Whoever thinks he can do without the world,\\ndeceives himself much; but whoever thinks the world can-\\nnot do without him, deceives himself much more.\\nWith the following, contrast Kuskin s noble para-\\ndox, that the soldier s business, rightly conceived,\\nis self-sacrifice his ideal purpose being, not to kill,\\nbut to be killed\\nXo. 214. Yalor, in private soldiers, is a perilous calling,\\nwhich they have taken to in order to gain their living.\\nHere is, perhaps, the most current of all La\\nKochefoucauld s maxims\\nXo. 218. Hypocrisy is a homage which vice renders to\\nvirtue.\\nOf the foregoing maxim, it may justly be said,\\nthat its truth and point depend upon the assump-\\ntion, implicit, that there is such a thing as virtue,\\nan assumption which the whole tenor of the\\n44 Maxims, in general, contradicts.\\nHow incisive the following\\nXo. 226. Too great eagerness to requite an obligation is\\na kind of ingratitude.\\nXo. 298. The gratitude of most men is only a secret desire\\nto receive greater favors.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0085.jp2"}, "86": {"fulltext": "74 Classic French Course in English.\\nNo. 304. We often forgive those who bore us, but we\\ncannot forgive those whom we bore.\\nNo. 313. Why should we have memory enough to retain\\neven the smallest particulars of what has happened to us,\\nand yet not have enough to remember how often we have\\ntold them to the same individual\\nThe first following maxim satirizes both princes\\nand courtiers. It might be entitled, How to in-\\nsult a prince, and not suffer for your temerity\\nNo. 320. To praise princes for virtues they have not, is\\nto insult them with impunity.\\nNo. 347. We find few sensible people, except those who\\nare of our way of thinking.\\nNo. 409. We should often be ashamed of our best actions,\\nif the world saw the motives which cause them.\\nNo. 424. We boast of faults the reverse of those we have\\nwhen we are weak, we boast of being stubborn.\\nHere, at length, is a maxim that does not depress,\\nthat animates you\\nNo. 432. To praise noble actions heartily, is in some sort\\nto take part in them.\\nThe following is much less exhilarating\\nNo. 454. There are few instances in which we should\\nmake a bad bargain, by giving up the good that is said of us,\\non condition that nothing bad be said.\\nThis, also\\nNo. 458. Our enemies come nearer to the truth, in the\\nopinions they form of us, than we do ourselves.\\nHere is a celebrated maxim, vainly suppressed\\nby the author, after first publication", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0086.jp2"}, "87": {"fulltext": "La Rochefoucauld. 75\\nNo. 583. In the adversity of our best friends, we always\\nfind something which does not displease us.\\nBefore La Rochefoucauld, Montaigne had said,\\nEven in the midst of compassion, we feel within us\\nan unaccountable bitter-sweet titillation of ill-natured\\npleasure in seeing another suffer; and Burke,\\nafter both, wrote (in his Sublime and Beautiful\\nwith a heavier hand, I am convinced that we have\\na degree of delight, and that no small one, in the\\nreal misfortunes and pains of others.\\nLa Rochefoucauld is not fairly cynical, more than\\nis Montaigne. But, as a man, he wins upon you\\nless. His maxims are like hard and sharp crystals,\\nprecipitated from the worldly wisdom blandly solute\\nand dilute in Montaigne.\\nThe wise of this world reject the dogma of human\\ndepravity, as taught in the Bible. They willingly\\naccept it, nay, accept it complacently, hugging\\nthemselves for their own penetration, as taught\\nin the Maxims of La Rochefoucauld.\\nJean de La Bruyere is personally almost as little\\nknown as if he were an ancient of the Greek or\\nRoman world, surviving, like Juvenal, only in his\\nliterary production. Bossuet got him employed to\\nteach history to a great duke, who became his\\npatron, and settled a life-long annuity upon him.\\nHe published his one book, the Characters, in\\n1687, was made member of the French Academy in", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0087.jp2"}, "88": {"fulltext": "76 Classic French Course in English.\\n1693, and died in 1696. That, in short, is La\\nBruyere s biograph} 7\\nHis book is universally considered one of the most\\nfinished products of the human mind. It is not a\\ngreat work, it lacks the unity and the majesty of\\ndesign necessary for that. It consists simply of de-\\ntached thoughts and observations on a variety of\\nsubjects. It shows the author to have been a man\\nof deep and wise reflection, but especially a con-\\nsummate master of style. The book is one to read\\nin, rather than to read. It is full of food to thought.\\nThe very beginning exhibits a self-consciousness on\\nthe writer s part very different from that spontaneous\\nsimplicity in which truly great books originate. La\\nBruyere begins\\nEvery thing has been said; and one comes too late, after\\nmore than seven thousand years that there have been men,\\nand men who have thought.\\nLa Bruyere has something to say, and that at\\nlength unusual for him, of pulpit eloquence. We\\nselect a few specimen sentences\\nChristian eloquence has become a spectacle. That gos-\\npel sadness, which is its soul, is no longer to be observed m\\nit; its place is supplied by advantages of facial expression,\\nby inflexions of the voice, by regularity of gesticulation, by\\nchoice of words, and by long categories. The sacred word\\nis no longer listened to seriously; it is a kind of amusement,\\none among many; it is a game in which there is rivalry, and\\nin which there are those who lay wagers.\\nProfane eloquence has been transferred, so to speak, from", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0088.jp2"}, "89": {"fulltext": "La Bruyere. 11\\nthe bar, where it is no longer employed, to the pulpit,\\nwhere it ought not to be found.\\nMatches of eloquence are made at the very foot of the\\naltar, and in the presence of the mysteries. He who listens\\nsits in judgment on him who preaches, to condemn or to\\napplaud, and is no more converted by the discourse which\\nhe praises than by that which he pronounces against. The\\norator pleases some, displeases others, and has an under-\\nstanding with all in one thing, that as he does not seek\\nto render them better, so they do not think of becoming\\nbetter.\\nThe almost cynical acerbity of the preceding is\\nostensibly relieved of an obvious application to\\ncertain illustrious contemporary examples among\\npreachers by the following open allusion to Bossuet\\nand Bourdaloue\\nThe Bishop of Meaux [Bossuet] and Father Bourdaloue\\nmake me think of Demosthenes and Cicero. Both of them,\\nmasters of pulpit eloquence, have had the fortune of great\\nmodels; the one has made bad critics, the other, bad\\nimitators.\\nHere is a happy instance of La Bruy re s success-\\nful pains in redeeming a commonplace sentiment by\\nmeans of a striking form of expression the writer\\nis disapproving the use of oaths in support of one s\\ntestimony\\nAn honest man who says, Yes, or ISo, deserves to be\\nbelieved his character swears for him.\\nHighly satiric in his quiet way, La Bruyere knew\\nhow to be. Witness the following thrust at a con-", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0089.jp2"}, "90": {"fulltext": "78 Classic French Course in Unglish.\\ntemporary author, not named by the satirist, but, no\\ndoubt, recognized by the public of the time\\nHe maintains that the ancients, however unequal and\\nnegligent they may be, have fine traits he points these out\\nand they are so fine that they make his criticism readable.\\nHow painstakingly, how self-consciously, La\\nBruy re did his literary work, is evidenced by the\\nfollowing\\nA good author, and one who writes with care, often\\nhas the experience of finding that the expression which he\\nwas a long time in search of without reaching it, and\\nwhich at length he has found, is that which was the most\\nsimple, the most natural, and that which, as it would seem,\\nshould have presented itself at first, and without effort.\\nWe feel that the quality of La Bruy re is such as\\nto fit him for the admiration and enjoyment of but a\\ncomparatively small class of readers. He was some-\\nwhat over-exquisite. His art at times became arti-\\nfice infinite labor of style to make commonplace\\nthought seem valuable by dint of perfect expression.\\nWe dismiss La Bruyere with a single additional\\nextract, his celebrated parallel between Corneille\\nand Racine\\nCorneille subjects us to his characters and to his ideas;\\nRacine accommodates himself to ours. The one paints men\\nas they ought to be; the other paints them as they are.\\nThere is more in the former of what one admires, and\\nof what one ought even to imitate; there is more in the\\nlatter of what one observes in others, or of what one expe-\\nriences in one s self. The one inspires, astonishes, masters,", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0090.jp2"}, "91": {"fulltext": "La Bruyere. 79\\ninstructs; the other pleases, moves, touches, penetrates.\\nWhatever there is most beautiful, most noble, most imperial,\\nin the reason is made use of by the former; by the latter,\\nwhatever is most seductive and most delicate in passion.\\nYou find in the former, maxims, rules, and precepts; in the\\nlatter, taste and sentiment. You are more absorbed in the\\nplays of Corneille; you are more shaken and more softened\\nin those of Racine. Corneille is more moral Eacine, more\\nnatural. The one appears to make Sophocles his model the\\nother owes more to Euripides.\\nLess than half a century after La Rochefoucauld\\nand La Bruyere had shown the way, Vauvenargues\\nfollowed in a similar style of authorship, promising\\nalmost to rival the fame of his two predecessors.\\nThis writer, during his brief life (he died at thirty-\\ntwo), produced one not inconsiderable literary work\\nmore integral and regular in form, entitled, Intro-\\nduction to the Knowledge of the Human Mind\\nbut it is his disconnected thoughts and observations\\nchiefly that continue to preserve his name.\\nLuc de Clapiers, Marquis de Vauvenargues, though\\nnobly born, was poor. His health was frail. He\\ndid not receive a good education in his 3 outh. In-\\ndeed, he was still in his youth when he went to the\\nwars. His culture always remained narrow. He\\ndid not know Greek and Latin, when to know Greek\\nand Latin was, as it were, the whole of scholarship.\\nTo crown his accidental disqualifications for liter-\\nary work, he fell a victim to the small-pox, which\\nleft him wrecked in body. This occurred almost", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0091.jp2"}, "92": {"fulltext": "80 Classic French Course in English.\\nimmediately after he abandoned a military career\\nwhich had been fruitful to him of hardship, but not\\nof promotion. In spite of all that was thus against\\nhim, Vauvenargues, in those years, few and evil,\\nthat were his, thought finely and justly enough to\\nearn for himself a lasting place in the literary history\\nof his nation. He was in the eighteenth century of\\nFrance, without being of it. You have to separate\\nhim in thought from the infidels and the c c philoso-\\nphers of his time. He belongs in spirit to an\\nearlier age. His moral and intellectual kindred was\\nwith such as Pascal, far more than with such as\\nVoltaire. Vauvenargues is, however, a writer for\\nthe few, instead of for the many. His fame is high,\\nbut it is not wide. Historically, he forms a step-\\nping-stone of transition to a somewhat similar nine-\\nteenth-century name, that of Joubert. A very few\\nsentences of his will suffice to indicate to our readers\\nthe quality of Vauvenargues. Self-evidently, the\\nfollowing antithesis drawn by him between Corneille\\nand Racine is subtly and ingeniously thought, as\\nwell as very happily expressed this, whatever\\nmay be considered to be its aptness in point of\\nliterary appreciation\\nCorneille s heroes often say great things without inspiring\\nthem; Racine s inspire them without saying them.\\nHere is a good saying\\nIt is a great sign of mediocrity always to be moderate in\\npraising.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0092.jp2"}, "93": {"fulltext": "La Fontaine. 81\\nThere is worldly wisdom also here\\nHe who knows how to turn his prodigalities to good\\naccount, practises a large and noble economy.\\nVirgil s They are able, because they seem to\\nthemselves to be able, is recalled by this\\nThe consciousness of our strength makes our strength\\ngreater.\\nSo much for Vauvenargues.\\nVI.\\nLA FONTAINE.\\n1621-1695.\\nLa Fontaine enjoys a unique fame. He has abso-\\nlutely no fellow in the firmament of literature.\\nHe is the only fabulist, of any age or any nation,\\nthat, on the score simply of his fables, is admitted\\nto be poet as well as fabulist. There is perhaps no\\nother literary name whatever among the French, by\\nlong proof more secure, than is La Fontaine s, of\\nuniversal and of immortal renown. Such a fame is,\\nof course, not the most resplendent in the world but\\nto have been the first, and to remain thus far the\\nonly, writer of fables enjoying recognition as true\\npoetry, this surely is an achievement entitling La", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0093.jp2"}, "94": {"fulltext": "82 Classic French Course in English.\\nFontaine to monumental mention in any sketch, how*\\never summary, of French literature.\\nJean de La Fontaine was humbly born, at Chateau*\\nThierry in Champagne. His early education was\\nsadly neglected. At twenty years of age he was\\nstill phenomenally ignorant. About this time, being\\nnow better situated, he developed a taste for the\\nclassics and for poetry. With La Fontaine the man,\\nit is the sadly familiar French story of debauched\\nmanners in life and in literary production. We\\ncannot acquit him, but we are to condemn him only\\nin common with the most of his age and of his na-\\ntion. As the world goes, La Fontaine was a good\\nfellow, never lacking friends. These were held fast\\nin loyalty to the poet, not so much by any ster-\\nling worth of character felt in him, as by an ex-\\nhaustless, easy-going good-nature, that, despite his\\nsocial insipidity, made La Fontaine the most accept-\\nable of every-day companions. It would be easy to\\nrepeat many stories illustrative of this personal qual-\\nity in La Fontaine, while to tell a single story illus-\\ntrative of any lofty trait in his character would be\\nperhaps impossible. Still, La Fontaine seemed not\\nungrateful for the benefits he received from others\\nand gratitude, no commonplace virtue, let us accord-\\ningly reckon to the credit of a man in general so\\nslenderly equipped with positive claims to admiring\\npersonal regard. The mirror of bonhomie (easy-\\nhearted good-fellowship), he always was. Indeed,\\nthat significant, almost untranslatable, French word", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0094.jp2"}, "95": {"fulltext": "La Fontaine. 83\\nmight have been coined to fit La Fontaine s case.\\nOn his amiable side a full hemisphere or more of\\nthe man it sums him up completely. Twenty years\\nlong, this mirror of bonhomie was domiciliated,\\nlike a pet animal, under the hospitable roof of the\\ncelebrated Madame de la Sabliere. There was truth\\nas well as humor implied in what she said one day\\nI have sent away all my domestics I have kept\\nonly my dog, my cat, and La Fontaine.\\nBut La Fontaine had that in him which kept the\\nfriendship of serious men. Moliere, a grave even\\nmelancholy spirit, however gay in his comedies\\nBoileau and Racine, decorous both of them, at least\\nin manners, constituted, together with La Fontaine,\\na kind of private Academy, existing on a diminu-\\ntive scale, which was not without its important influ-\\nence on French letters. La Fontaine seems to have\\nbeen a sort of Goldsmith in this club of wits, the\\nbutt of many pleasantries from his colleagues, called\\nout by his habit of absent-mindedness. St. Augus-\\ntine was one night the subject of an elaborate eulogy,\\nwhich La Fontaine lost the benefit of, through a\\nreverie of his own indulged meantime on a quite dif-\\nferent character. Catching, however, at the name,\\nLa Fontaine, as he came to himself for a moment,\\nbetrayed the secret of his absent thoughts by asking,\\nDo you think St. Augustine had as much wit as\\nRabelais? Take care, Monsieur La Fontaine:\\nyou have put one of your stockings on wrong side\\nout, he had actually done so, was the only", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0095.jp2"}, "96": {"fulltext": "84 Classic French Course in English.\\nanswer vouchsafed to his question. The speaker in\\nthis case was a doctor of the Sorbonne (brother to\\nBoileau), present as guest. The story is told of\\nLa Fontaine, that egged on to groundless jealousy\\nof his wife, a wife whom he never really loved, and\\nwhom he soon would finally abandon, he challenged\\na military friend of his to combat with swords. The\\nfriend was amazed, and, amazed, reluctantly fought\\nwith La Fontaine, whom he easily put at his mercy.\\nNow, what is this for? he demanded. The pub-\\nlic says you visit my house for my wife s sake, not\\nfor mine/ said La Fontaine. u Then I never will\\ncome again. Far from it, responds La Fon-\\ntaine, seizing his friend s hand. J have satisfied\\nthe public. Now you must come to my house every\\nday, or I will fight you again. The two went back\\nin company, and breakfasted together in mutual good\\nhumor.\\nA trait or two more, and there will have been\\nenough of the man La Fontaine. It is said that\\nwhen, on the death of Madame de la Sablicre, La\\nFontaine was homeless, he was met on the street by\\na friend, who exclaimed, I was looking for you\\ncome to my house, and live with me! U I was\\non the way there, La Fontaine characteristically\\nreplied. At seventy, La Fontaine went through a\\nprocess of conversion, so called, in which he pro-\\nfessed repentance of his sins. On the genuineness\\nof this inward experience of La Fontaine, it is not\\nfor a fellow-creature of his, especially at this dis-", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0096.jp2"}, "97": {"fulltext": "La Fontaine. 85\\ntance of time, to pronounce. When he died, at\\nseventy-three, Fenelon could say of him (in Latin),\\n4i La Fontaine is no more! He is no more; and\\nwith him have gone the playful jokes, the merry\\nlaugh, the artless graces, and the sweet Muses\\nLa Fontaine s earliest works were Contes, so\\nstyled that is, stories, tales, or romances. These\\nare in character such that the subsequent happy\\nchange in manners, if not in morals, has made them\\nunreadable, for their indecency. We need con-\\ncern ourselves only with the Fables, for it is on\\nthese that La Fontaine s fame securely rests. The\\nbasis of story in them was not generally original with\\nLa Fontaine. He took whatever fittest came to his\\nhand. With much modesty, he attributed all to\\n^Esop and Phaedrus. But invention of his own is\\nnot altogether wanting to his books of fables. Still,\\nit is chiefly the consummate artful artlessness of the\\nform that constitutes the individual merit of La\\nFontaine s productions. With something, too, of\\nthe air of real poetry, he has undoubtedly invested\\nhis verse.\\nWe give, first, the brief fable which is said to\\nhave been the prime favorite of the author himself.\\nIt is the fable of The Oak and the Reed. Of this\\nfable, French critics have not scrupled to speak in\\nterms of almost the very highest praise. Chamfort\\nsays, Let one consider, that, within the limit of\\nthirty lines, La Fontaine, doing nothing but yield\\nhimself to the current of his story, has taken on", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0097.jp2"}, "98": {"fulltext": "86 Classic French Course in English.\\nevery tone, that of poetry the most graceful, that of\\npoetry the most lofty, and one will not hesitate to\\naffirm, that, at the epoch at which this fable ap-\\npeared, there was nothing comparable to it in the\\nFrench language. There are, to speak precisely,\\nthirty-two lines in the fable. In this one case, let\\nus try representing La Fontaine s compression by\\nour English form. For the rest of our specimens,\\nwe shall use Elizur Wright s translation, a meri-\\ntorious one, still master of the field which, near fifty\\nyears ago, it entered as pioneer. Mr. Wright here\\nexpands La Fontaine s thirty-two verses to forty-\\nfour. The additions are not ungraceful, but they\\nencumber somewhat the Attic neatness and sim-\\nplicity of the original. We ought to say, that La\\nFontaine boldly broke with the tradition which had\\nbeen making Alexandrines lines of six feet\\nobligatory in French verse. He rhymes irregularly,\\nat choice, and makes his verses long or short, as\\npleases him. The closing verse of the present piece\\nis, in accordance with the intended majesty of the\\nrepresentation, an Alexandrine.\\nThe Oak one day said to the Reed,\\nJustly might you dame Nature blame:\\nA wren s weight would bow down your frame;\\nThe lightest wind that chance may make\\nDimple the surface of the lake\\nYour head bends low indeed,\\nThe while, like Caucasus, my front\\nTo meet the branding sun is wont,\\nKay, more, to take the tempest s brunt.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0098.jp2"}, "99": {"fulltext": "La Fontaine. 87\\nA blast you feel, I feel a breeze.\\nHad you been born beneath my roof,\\nWide-spread, of leafage weather-proof,\\nLess had you known your life to tease\\nI should have sheltered you from storm.\\nBut oftenest you rear your form\\nOn the moist limits of the realm of wind.\\nNature, methinks, against you sore has sinned.\\nYour pity/ answers him the Reed,\\nBespeaks you kind but spare your pain;\\nI more than you may winds disdain.\\nI bend, and break not. You, indeed,\\nAgainst their dreadful strokes till now\\nHave stood, nor tamed your back to bow:\\nBut wait we for the end.\\nScarce had he spoke,\\nWhen fiercely from the far horizon broke\\nThe wildest of the children, fullest fraught\\nWith terror, that till then the North had brought.\\nThe tree holds good the reed it bends.\\nThe wind redoubled might expends,\\nAnd so well works that from his bed\\nHim it uproots who nigh to heaven his head\\nHeld, and whose feet reached to the kingdom of the\\ndead.\\nIn the fable of the u Rat retired from the\\nWorld, La Fontaine rallies the monks. With French\\nfinesse, he hits his mark by expressly avoiding it.\\nWhat think you I mean by my disobliging rat? A\\nmonk No, but a Mahometan devotee I take it\\nfor granted that a monk is always ready with his\\nhelp to the needy", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0099.jp2"}, "100": {"fulltext": "88 Classic French Course in English.\\nThe sage Levantines have a tale\\nAbout a rat that weary grew\\nOf all the cares which life assail,\\nAnd to a Holland cheese withdrew.\\nHis solitude was there profound,\\nExtending through his world so round.\\nOur hermit lived on that within;\\nAnd soon his industry had been\\nWith claws and teeth so good,\\nThat in his novel heritage,\\nHe had in store for wants of age,\\nBoth house and livelihood.\\nWhat more could any rat desire\\nHe grew fat, fair, and round.\\nGod s blessings thus redound\\nTo those who in his vows retire.\\nOne day this personage devout,\\nWhose kindness none might doubt,\\nWas asked, by certain delegates\\nThat came from Rat United States,\\nFor some small aid, for they\\nTo foreign parts were on their way,\\nFor succor in the great cat-war\\nKatopolis beleaguered sore,\\nTheir whole republic drained and poor,\\nNo morsel in their scrips they bore.\\nSlight boon they craved, of succor sure\\nIn days at utmost three or four.\\nMy friends, the hermit said,\\nTo worldly things I m dead.\\nHow can a poor recluse\\nTo such a mission be of use\\nWhat can he do but pray\\nThat God will aid it on its way\\nAnd so, my friends, it is my prayer\\nThat God will have you in his care.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0100.jp2"}, "101": {"fulltext": "La Fontaine. 89\\nHis well-fed saintship said no more,\\nBut in their faces shut the door.\\nWhat think you, reader, is the service,\\nFor which I use this niggard rat\\nTo paint a monk No, but a dervise.\\nA monk, I think, however fat,\\nMust be more bountiful than that.\\nThe fable entitled Death and the Dying is\\nmuch admired for its union of pathos with wit.\\nThe Two Doves is another of La Fontaine s\\nmore tender inspirations. The Mogul s Dream\\nis a somewhat ambitious flight of the fabulist s\\nmuse. On the whole, however, the masterpiece\\namong the fables of La Fontaine is that of The\\nAnimals Sick of the Plague. Such at least is the\\nopinion of critics in general. The idea of this fable\\nis not original with La Fontaine. The homilists of\\nthe middle ages used a similar fiction to enforce\\non priests the duty of impartiality in administering\\nthe sacrament, so called, of confession. We give\\nthis famous fable as our closing specimen of La\\nFontaine\\nThe sorest ill that Heaven hath\\nSent on this lower world in wrath,\\nThe plague (to call it by its name),\\nOne single day of which\\nWould Pluto s ferryman enrich,\\nWaged war on beasts, both wild and tame.\\nThey died not all, but all were sick:\\nNo hunting now, by force or trick,", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0101.jp2"}, "102": {"fulltext": "90 Classic French Course in English.\\nTo save what might so soon expire.\\nNo food excited their desire\\nNor wolf nor fox now watched to slay\\nThe innocent and tender prey.\\nThe turtles fled,\\nSo love and therefore joy were dead.\\nThe lion council held, and said,\\nMy friends, I do believe\\nThis awful scourge for which we grieve,\\nIs for our sins a punishment\\nMost righteously by Heaven sent.\\nLet us our guiltiest beast resign,\\nA sacrifice to wrath divine.\\nPerhaps this offering, truly small,\\nMay gain the life and health of all.\\nBy history we find it noted\\nThat lives have been just so devoted.\\nThen let us all turn eyes within,\\nAnd ferret out the hidden sin.\\nHimself, let no one spare nor flatter,\\nBut make clean conscience in the matter.\\nFor me, my appetite has played the glutton\\nToo much and often upon mutton.\\nWhat harm had e er my victims done\\nI answer, truly, None.\\nPerhaps, sometimes, by hunger pressed,\\nI ve eat the shepherd with the rest.\\nI yield myself if need there be;\\nAnd yet I think, in equity,\\nEach should confess his sins with me;\\nFor laws of right and justice cry,\\nThe guiltiest alone should die.\\nSire, said the fox, your majesty\\nIs humbler than a king should be,\\nAnd over-squeamish in the case.\\nWhat! eating stupid sheep a crime\\nNo, never, sire, at any time.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0102.jp2"}, "103": {"fulltext": "La Fontaine. 91\\nIt rather was an act of grace,\\nA mark of honor to their race.\\nAnd as to shepherds, one may swear,\\nThe fate your majesty describes,\\nIs recompense less full than fair\\nFor such usurpers o er our tribes.\\nThus Keuard glibly spoke,\\nAnd loud applause from listeners broke.\\nOf neither tiger, boar, nor bear,\\nDid any keen inquirer dare\\nTo ask for crimes of high degree\\nThe fighters, biters, scratchers, all\\nFrom every mortal sin were free;\\nThe very dogs, both great and small,\\nWere saints, as far as dogs could be.\\nThe ass, confessing in his turn,\\nThus spoke in tones of deep concern\\nI happened through a mead to pass;\\nThe monks, its owners, were at mass:\\nKeen hunger, leisure, tender grass,\\nAnd, add to these the devil, too,\\nAll tempted me the deed to do.\\nI browsed the bigness of my tongue\\nSince truth must out, I own it wrong.\\nOn this, a hue and cry arose,\\nAs if the beasts were all his foes.\\nA wolf, haranguing lawyer-wise,\\nDenounced the ass for sacrifice,\\nThe bald-pate, scabby, ragged lout,\\nBy whom the plague had come, no doubt.\\nHis fault was judged a hanging crime.\\nWhat! eat another s grass Oh, shame!\\nThe noose of rope, and death sublime,\\nFor that offence were all too tame\\nAnd soon poor Grizzle felt the same.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0103.jp2"}, "104": {"fulltext": "92 Classic French Course in English.\\nThus human courts acquit the strong,\\nAnd doom the weak, as therefore wrong.\\nIt is suitable to add, in conclusion, that La Fon-\\ntaine is a crucial author for disclosing the irrecon-\\ncilable difference that exists, at bottom, between\\nthe Englishman s and the Frenchman s idea of\\npoetry. No English-speaker, heir of Shakspeare\\nand Milton, will ever be able to satisfy a French-\\nman with admiration such as he can conscientiously\\nprofess for the poetry of La Fontaine.\\nVII.\\nMOLIERE.\\n1623-1673.\\nMoliere is confessedly the greatest writer of\\ncomedy in the world. Greek Menander might have\\ndisputed the palm but Menander s works have per-\\nished, and his greatness must be guessed. Who\\nknows but we guess him too great? Moliere s\\nworks survive, and his greatness may be measured.\\nWe have stinted our praise. Moliere is not only\\nthe foremost name in a certain department of litera-\\nture he is one of the foremost names in literature.\\nThe names are few on which critics are willing to\\nbestow this distinction. But critics generally agree\\nin bestowing this distinction on Moliere.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0104.jp2"}, "105": {"fulltext": "Moliere. 93\\nMoli re s comedy is by no means mere farce.\\nFarces he wrote, undoubtedly and some element\\nof farce, perhaps, entered to qualify nearly every\\ncomedy that flowed from his pen. But it is not for\\nhis farce that Moliere is rated one of the few great-\\nest producers of literature. Moliere s comedy con-\\nstitutes to Moliere the patent that it does of high\\ndegree in genius, not because it provokes laughter,\\nbut because, amid laughter provoked, it not seldom\\nreveals, as if with flashes of lightning, lightning\\nplayful, indeed, but lightning that might have been\\ndeadly, the secrets of the nethermost abyss of\\nhuman nature. Not human manners merely, those\\nof a time, or of a race, but human attributes, those\\nof all times, and of all races, are the things with\\nwhich, in his higher comedies, Moliere deals. Some\\ntransient whim of fashion may in these supply to\\nhim the mould of form that he uses, but it is human\\nnature itself that supplies to Moliere the substance\\nof his dramatic creations. Now and again, if you\\nread Moliere wisely and deeply, you find your laugh-\\nter at comedy fairly frozen in T our throat, by a\\ngelid horror seizing you, to feel that these follies or\\nthese crimes displayed belong to that human nature,\\none and the same everywhere and always, of which\\nalso you yourself partake. Comedy, Dante, too,\\ncalled his poem, which included the Inferno.\\nAnd a Dantesque quality, not of method, but of\\npower, is to be felt in Moliere.\\nThis character in Moliere the writer, accords", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0105.jp2"}, "106": {"fulltext": "94 Classic French Course in EnglisJt.\\nwith the character of the man Moliere. It might\\nnot have seemed natural to say of Moliere, as was\\nsaid of Dante, There goes the man that has been\\nin hell. But Moliere was melancholy enough in\\ntemper and in mien to have well inspired an ex-\\nclamation such as, There goes the man that has\\nseen the human heart.\\nA poet as well as a dramatist, his own fellow-\\ncountrymen, at least, feel Moliere to be. In Victor\\nHugo s list of the eight greatest poets of all time,\\ntwo are Hebrews (Job and Isaiah), two Greeks\\n(Homer and iEschylus), one is a Roman (Lucre-\\ntius), one an Italian (Dante), one an Englishman\\n(Shakspeare), seven. The eighth could hardly\\nfail to be a Frenchman, and that Frenchman is\\nMoliere. Mr. Swinburne might perhaps make the\\nlist nine, but he would certainly include Victor Hugo\\nhimself.\\nCuriously enough, Moliere is not this great\\nwriter s real name. It is a stage name. It was\\nassumed by the bearer when he was about twenty-\\nfour years of age, on occasion of his becoming one\\nin a strolling band of players, in 1646 or there-\\nabout. This band, originally composed of amateurs,\\ndeveloped into a professional dramatic company,\\nwhich passed through various transformations, until,\\nfrom being at first grandiloquently self-styled,\\nL lllustre Theatre, it was, twenty years after, rec-\\nognized by the national title of Theatre Francais.\\nMoliere s real name was Jean Baptiste Poquelin.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0106.jp2"}, "107": {"fulltext": "Moliere. 95\\nYoung Poquelin s bent, early encouraged by see-\\ning plays and ballets, was strongly toward the stage.\\nThe drama, under the quickening patronage of\\nLouis XIII. s lordly minister, Cardinal Richelieu,\\nwas a great public interest of those times in Paris.\\nMoli re s evil star, too, it was perhaps in part that\\nbrought him back to Paris, from Orleans. He ad-\\nmired a certain actress in the capital. She became\\nthe companion probably not innocent companion\\nof his wandering life as actor. A sister of this\\nactress a sister young enough to be daughter,\\ninstead of sister Moli re finally married. She led\\nher jealous husband a wretched conjugal life. A\\npeculiarly dark tradition of shame, connected with\\nMoli re s marriage, has lately been to a good degree\\ndispelled. But it is not possible to redeem this\\ngreat man s fame to chastity and honor. He paid\\nheavily, in like misery of his own, for whatever\\npangs of jealousy he inflicted. There was some-\\ntimes true tragedy for himself hidden within the\\ncomedy that he acted for others. (Moli re, to the\\nvery end of his life, acted in the comedies that he\\nwrote.) When some play of his represented the\\ntorments of jealousy in the heart of a husband, it\\nwas probably not so much acting, as it was real life,\\nthat the spectators saw proceeding on the stage be-\\ntween Moli re and his wife, confronted with each\\nother in performing the piece.\\nDespite his faults, Moli re was cast in a noble,\\ngenerous mould, of character as well as of genius.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0107.jp2"}, "108": {"fulltext": "96 Classic French Course in English.\\nExpostulated with for persisting to appear on the\\nstage when his health was such that he put his life\\nat stake in so doing, he replied that the men and\\nwomen of his company depended for their bread on\\nthe play s going through, and appear he would. He\\nactually died an hour or so after playing the part of\\nthe Imaginary Invalid in his comedy of that name.\\nThat piece was the last work of his pen.\\nMoliere produced in all some thirty dramatic\\npieces, from among which we select a few of the\\nmost celebrated for brief description and illustra-\\ntion.\\nThe Bourgeois Gentilhomme Shopkeeper\\nturned Gentleman partakes of the nature of the\\nfarce quite as much as it does of the comedy. But\\nit is farce such as only a man of genius could pro-\\nduce. In it Moli re ridicules the airs and affectations\\nof a rich man vulgarly ambitious to figure in a social\\nrank too exalted for his birth, his breeding, or his\\nmerit. Jourdain is the name under which Moli re\\nsatirizes such a character. We give a fragment\\nfrom one of the scenes. M. Jourdain is in process\\nof fitting himself for that higher position in society\\nto which he aspires. He will equip himself with\\nthe necessary knowledge. To this end he employs a\\nprofessor of philosophy to come and give him lessons\\nat his house\\nM. Jourdain. I have the greatest desire in the world to\\nbe learned; and it vexes me more than I can tell, that my", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0108.jp2"}, "109": {"fulltext": "Moliere. 97\\nfather and mother did not make me learn thoroughly all the\\nsciences when I was young.\\nProfessor of Philosophy. This is a praiseworthy feel-\\ning. Nam sine doctrina vita est quasi mortis imago. You\\nunderstand this, and you have, no doubt, a knowledge of\\nLatin\\nM. Jour. Yes but act as if I had none. Explain to me\\nthe meaning of it.\\nProf. Phil. The meaning of it is, that, without science,\\nlife is an image of death.\\nM. Jour. That Latin is quite right.\\nProf. Phil. Have you any principles, any rudiments, of\\nscience\\nM. Jour. Oh, yes! I can read and write.\\nProf. Phil. With what would you like to begin Shall\\nI teach you logic\\nM. Jour. And what may this logic be\\nProf. Phil. It is that which teaches us the three opera-\\ntions of the mind.\\nM. Jour. What are they these three operations of the\\nmind?\\nProf. Phil. The first, the second, and the third. The\\nfirst is to conceive well by means of universals; the second,\\nto judge well by means of categories and the third, to draw\\na conclusion aright by means of the figures Barbara, Cela-\\nrent, Darii, Ferio, Baralipton, etc.\\nM. Jour. Pooh what repulsive words This logic does\\nnot by any means suit me. Teach me something more en-\\nlivening.\\nProf. Phil. Will you learn moral philosophy\\nM. Jour. Moral philosophy\\nProf. Phil. Yes.\\nM. Jour. What does it say, this moral philosophy\\nProf. Phil. It treats of happiness, teaches men to mod-\\nerate their passions, and\\nM. Jour. No, none of that. I am devilishly hot-tern-", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0109.jp2"}, "110": {"fulltext": "98 Classic French Course in English.\\npered, and morality, or no morality, I like to give full vent\\nto my anger whenever I have a mind to it.\\nProf. Phil. Would you like to learn physics\\nM. Jo uu. And what have physics to say for themselves?\\nProf. Phil. Physics are that science which explains the\\nprinciples of natural things and the properties of bodies;\\nwhich discourses of the nature of the elements, of metals,\\nminerals, stones, plants, and animals which teaches us the\\ncause of all the meteors, the rainbow, the ignis fatuus,\\ncomets, lightning, thunder, thunderbolts, rain, snow, hail,\\nand whirlwinds.\\nM. Jo uk. There is too much hullaballoo in all that, too\\nmuch riot and rumpus.\\nProf. Phil. Very good.\\nM. Jour. And now I want to intrust you with a great\\nsecret. 1 am in love with a lady of quality, and I should be\\nglad if you would help me to write something to her in a short\\nletter which I mean to drop at her feet.\\nProf. Phil. Yery well.\\nM. Jour. That will be gallant, will it not\\nProf. Phil. Undoubtedly. Is it verse you wish to write\\nto her\\nM. Jour. Oh, no not verse.\\nProf. Phil. You only wish prose\\nM. Jour. No. I wish for neither verse nor prose.\\nProf. Phil. It must be one or the other.\\nM. Jour. Why\\nProf. Phil. Because, sir, there is nothing by which we\\ncan express ourselves except prose or verse.\\nM. Jour. There is nothing but prose or verse\\nProf. Phil. No, sir. Whatever is not prose, is verse;\\nand whatever is not verse, is prose.\\nM. Jour. And when we speak, what is that, then\\nProf. Phil. Prose.\\nM. Jour. What! when I say, Nicole, bring me my\\nslippers, and give me my nightcap, is that prose", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0110.jp2"}, "111": {"fulltext": "Moliere. 99\\nProf. Phil. Yes, sir.\\nM. Jour Upon my word, I have been speaking prose\\nthese forty years without being aware of it and I am under\\nthe greatest obligation to you for informing me of it. Well,\\nthen, I wish to write to her in a letter, Fair Marchioness,\\nyour beautiful eyes make me die of love; but I would have\\nthis worded in a genteel manner, and turned prettily.\\nProf. Phil. Say that the fire of her eyes has reduced\\nyour heart to ashes that you suffer day and night for her,\\ntortures\\nM. Jour. No, no, no, I don t any of that. I simply wish\\nfor what I tell you, Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes\\nmake me die of love.\\nProf. Phil. Still, you might amplify the thing a little.\\nM. Jour. No, I tell you, I will have nothing but these\\nvery words in the letter; but they must be put in a fashion-\\nable way, and arranged as they should be. Pray show me a\\nlittle, so that I may see the different ways in which they can\\nbe put.\\nProf. Phil. They may be put first of all, as you have\\nsaid, Fair Marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of\\nlove; or else, Of love die make me, fair Marchioness, your\\nbeautiful eyes; or, Your beautiful eyes of love make me,\\nfair Marchioness, die; or, Die of love your beautiful eyes,\\nfair Marchioness, make me; or else, Me make your beau-\\ntiful eyes die, fair Marchioness, of love.\\nM. Jour. But of all these ways, which is the best\\nProf. Phil. The one you said, Fair Marchioness,\\nyour beautiful eyes make me die of love.\\ni M. Jour. Yet I have never studied, and I did all right\\noff at the first shot.\\nThe u Bourgeois Gentilhomme is a very amusing\\ncomedy throughout.\\nFrom Les Femmes Savantes The Learned", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0111.jp2"}, "112": {"fulltext": "100 Classic French Course in English.\\nWomen The Blue-Stockings/ we might per-\\nhaps freely render the title we present one scene\\nto indicate the nature of the comedy. There had\\ngrown to be a fashion in Paris, among certain women\\nhigh in social rank, of pretending to the distinction\\nof skill in literary criticism, and of proficiency in\\nscience. It was the Hotel de Rambouillet reduced\\nto absurdity. That fashionable affectation Moliere\\nmade the subject of his comedy, The Learned\\nWomen.\\nIn the following extracts, Moliere satirizes, under\\nthe name of Trissotin, a contemporary writer, one\\nCotin. The poem which Trissotin reads for the\\nlearned women to criticise and admire, is an actual\\nproduction of this gentleman. Imagine the domestic\\ncoterie assembled, and Trissotin, the poet, their\\nguest. He is present, prepared to regale them with\\nwhat he calls his sonnet. We need to explain that\\nthe original poem is thus inscribed u To Mademoi-\\nselle de Longueville, now Duchess of Namur, on\\nher Quartan Fever. The conceit of the sonneteer\\nis that the fever is an enemy luxuriously lodged in\\nthe lovely person of its victim, and there insidiously\\nplotting against her life\\nTbissotin. Sonnet to the Princess Urania on her Fever.\\nYour prudence sure is fast asleep,\\nThat thus luxuriously you keep\\nAnd lodge magnificently so\\nYour very hardest-hearted foe.\\nBelise. Ah! what a pretty beginning!\\nArmande. What a charming turn it has!", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0112.jp2"}, "113": {"fulltext": "Moliere. 101\\nPhilaminte. He alone possesses the talent of making\\neasy verses.\\nArm. We must yield to prudence fast asleep.\\nBel. Lodge one s very hardest-hearted foe is full of\\ncharms for me.\\nPhil. I like luxuriously and magnificently these two\\nadverbs joined together sound admirably.\\nBel. Let us hear the rest.\\nTriss. Your prudence sure is fast asleep,\\nThat thus luxuriously you keep\\nAnd lodge magnificently so\\nYour very hardest-hearted foe.\\nArm. Prudence fast asleep.\\nBel. To lodge one s foe.\\nPhil. Luxuriously and magnificently.\\nTriss. Drive forth that foe, whate er men say,\\nFrom out your chamber, decked so gay,\\nWhere, ingrate vile, with murderous knife,\\nBold she assails your lovely life.\\nBel. Ah gently. Allow me to breathe, I beseech you.\\nArm. Give us time to admire, I beg.\\nPhil. One feels, at hearing these verses, an indescribable\\nsomething which goes through one s inmost soul, and makes\\none feel quite faint.\\nArm. Drive forth that foe, whatever men say,\\nFrom out your chamber, decked so gay\\nHow prettily chamber, decked so gay, is said here! And\\nwith what wit the metaphor is introduced\\nPhil. Drive forth that foe, whate er men say.\\nAh! in what an admirable taste that whate er men say is!\\nTo my mind, the passage is invaluable.\\nArm. My heart is also in love with whate er men say.\\nBel. I am of your opinion: whate ?r men say is a happy\\nexpression.\\nArm. I wish I had written it.\\nBel. It is worth a whole poem.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0113.jp2"}, "114": {"fulltext": "102 Classic French Course in English.\\nPhil. But do you, like me, thoroughly understand the\\nwit of it\\nArm. and Bel. Oh! Oh!\\nPhil. Drive forth that foe, whatever men say.\\nAlthough another should take the fever s part, pay no\\nattention laugh at the gossips.\\nDrive forth that foe, whate er men say,\\nWhate er men say, whatever men say.\\nThis whate er men say, says a great deal more than it\\nseems. I do not know if every one is like me, but I discover\\nin it a hundred meanings.\\nBel. It is true that it says more than its size seems to\\nimply.\\nPhil, (to Trissotin). But when you wrote this charm-\\ning whate er men say, did you yourself understand all its\\nenergy Did you realize all that it tells us And did you\\nthen think that you were writing something so witty\\nTriss. Ah! ah!\\nArm. I have likewise the ingrate in my head, this\\nungrateful, unjust, uncivil fever that ill-treats people who\\nentertain her.\\nPhil. In short, both the stanzas are admirable. Let us\\ncome quickly to the triplets, I pray.\\nArm. Ah! once more, whate er men say, I beg.\\nTriss. Drive forth that foe, whate er men say,\\nPhil., Arm., and Bel. Whate er men say\\nTriss. From out your chamber, decked so gay,\\nPhil., Arm., and Bel. Chamber decked so gay\\nTriss. Where, ingrate vile, with murderous knife,\\nPhil., Arm., and Bel. That ingrate fever!\\nTriss. Bold she assails your lovely life.\\nPhil. Your lovely life!\\nArm. and Bel. Ah!\\nTriss. What reckless of your ladyhood,\\nStill fiercely seeks to shed your blood,\\nPhil., Arm., and Bel. Ah!", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0114.jp2"}, "115": {"fulltext": "Moliere. 103\\nTriss. And day and night to work you harm.\\nWhen to the baths sometime you ve brought her,\\nNo more ado, with your own arm\\nWhelm her and drown her in the water.\\nPhil. Ah It is quite overpowering.\\nBel. I faint.\\nArm. I die from pleasure.\\nPhil. A thousand sweet thrills seize one.\\nArm. When to the baths sometime you ve brought her,\\nBel. No more ado, with your own arm\\nPhil. Whelm her and drown her in the water.\\nWith your own arm, drown her there in the baths.\\nArm. In your verses we meet at each step with charming\\nbeauty.\\nBel. One promenades through them with rapture.\\nPhil. One treads on fine things only.\\nArm. They are little lanes all strewn with roses.\\nTriss. Then, the sonnet seems to you\\nPhil. Admirable, new and never did any one make any\\nthing more beautiful.\\nBel. (to Henriette). What! my niece, you listen to\\nwhat has been read without emotion! You play there but a\\nsorry part\\nHen. We each of us play the best part we can, my aunt;\\nand to be a wit does not depend on our will.\\nTriss. My verses, perhaps, are tedious to you.\\nHen. No. I do not listen.\\nPhil. Ah Let us hear the epigram.\\nBut our readers, we think, will consent to spare\\nthe epigram. They will relish, however, a fragment\\ntaken from a subsequent part of the same protracted\\nscene. The conversation has made the transition\\nfrom literary criticism to philosophy, in Moliere s\\ntime a fashionable study rendered such by the con-", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0115.jp2"}, "116": {"fulltext": "104 Classic French Course in English.\\ntemporary genius and fame of Descartes. Armande\\nresents the limitations imposed upon her sex\\nArm. It is insulting our sex too grossly to limit our\\nintelligence to the power of judging of a skirt, of the make\\nof a garment, of the beauties of lace, or of a new brocade.\\nBel. We must rise above this shameful condition, and\\nbravely proclaim our emancipation.\\nTriss. Every one knows my respect for the fairer sex, and\\nthat, if I render homage to the brightness of their eyes, I also\\nhonor the splendor of their intellect.\\nPhil. And our sex does you justice in this respect: but\\nwe will show to certain minds who treat us with proud con-\\ntempt, that women also have knowledge; that, like men,\\nthey can hold learned meetings regulated, too, by better\\nrules; that they wish to unite what elsewhere is kept apart,\\njoin noble language to deep learning, reveal nature s laws by\\na thousand experiments; and, on all questions proposed,\\nadmit every party, and ally themselves to none.\\nTriss. For order, I prefer peripateticism.\\nPhil. For abstractions, I love platonism.\\nArm. Epicurus pleases me, for his tenets are solid.\\nBel. I agree with the doctrine of atoms but I find it\\ndifficult to understand a vacuum, and I much prefer subtile\\nmatter.\\nTriss. I quite agree with Descartes about magnetism.\\nArm. I like his vortices.\\nPhil. And I, his falling worlds.\\nArm. I long to see our assembly opened, and to distin-\\nguish ourselves by some great discovery.\\nTriss. Much is expected from your enlightened knowl-\\nedge, for nature has hidden few things from you.\\nPhil. For my part, I have, without boasting, already\\nmade one discovery; I have plainly seen men in the moon.\\nBel. I have not, I believe, as yet quite distinguished\\nmen, but I have seen steeples as plainly as I see you.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0116.jp2"}, "117": {"fulltext": "Moliere. 105\\nArm. In addition to natural philosophy, we will dive into\\ngrammar, history, verse, ethics, and politics.\\nPhil. I find in ethics charms which delight my heart\\nit was formerly the admiration of great geniuses but I give\\nthe preference to the Stoics, and I think nothing so grand as\\ntheir founder.\\nu Les Precieuses Ridicules is an earlier and\\nlighter treatment of the same theme. The object of\\nridicule in both these pieces was a lapsed and degen-\\nerate form of what originally was a thing worthy of\\nrespect, and even of praise. At the Hotel de Ram-\\nbouillet, conversation was cultivated as a fine art.\\nThere was, no doubt, something overstrained in the\\nstandards which the ladies of that circle enforced.\\nTheir mutual communication was all conducted in a\\npeculiar style of language, the natural deterioration\\nof which was into a kind of euphuism, such as Eng-\\nlish readers will remember to have seen exemplified\\nin Walter Scott s Sir Piercie Shafton. These ladies\\ncalled each other, with demonstrative fondness, Ma\\nprecieuse. Hence at last the term precieuse as a\\ndesignation of ridicule. Madame de Sevigne was\\na pi*ecieuse. But she, with man} of her peers, was\\ntoo rich in sarcastic common sense to be a precieuse\\nridicule. Moli re himself, thrifty master of policy\\nthat he was, took pains to explain that he did not\\nsatirize the real thing, but only the affectation.\\nu Tartuffe, or the Impostor, is perhaps the most\\ncelebrated of all Moli re s plays. Scarcely comedy,\\nscarcely tragedy, it partakes of both characters.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0117.jp2"}, "118": {"fulltext": "106 Classic French Course in English.\\nLike tragedy, serious in purpose, it has a happy\\nending like comedy. Pity and terror are absent\\nor, if not quite absent, these sentiments are present\\nraised only to a pitch distinctly below the tragic.\\nIndignation is the chief passion excited, or detesta-\\ntion, perhaps, rather than indignation. This feeling\\nis provided at last with its full satisfaction in the\\ncondign punishment visited on the impostor.\\nThe original Tartuffe, like the most of Mo-\\nli re s comedies, is written in rhymed verse. We\\ncould not, with any effort, make the English-reading\\nstudent of Moli re sufficiently feel how much is lost\\nwhen the form is lost which the creations of this\\ngreat genius took, in their native French, under his\\nown master hand. A satisfactory metrical render-\\ning is out of the question. The sense, at least, if\\nnot the incommunicable spirit, of the original is\\nvery well given in Mr. C. H. Wall s version, which\\nwe use.\\nThe story of Tartuffe is briefly this: Tar-\\ntuffe, the hero, is a pure villain. He mixes no\\nadulteration of good in his composition. He is hy-\\npocrisy itself, the strictly genuine article. Tartuffe\\nhas completely imposed upon one Orgon, a man of\\nwealth and standing. Orgon, with his wife, and\\nwith his mother, in fact, believes in him absolutely.\\nThese people have received the canting rascal into\\ntheir house, and are about to bestow upon him their\\ndaughter in marriage. The following scene from\\nact first shows the skill with which Moliere could", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0118.jp2"}, "119": {"fulltext": "Moliere. 107\\nexhibit, in a few strokes of bold exaggeration, the\\ninfatuation of Orgon s regard for Tartuffe. Orgon\\nhas been absent from home. He returns, and meets\\nCleante, his brother, whom, in his eagerness, he\\nbegs to excuse his not answering a question just\\naddressed to him\\nOrgon (to Cleante). Brother, pray excuse me: you\\nwill kindly allow me to allay my anxiety by asking news of\\nthe family. To Dorine, a maid-servant.) Has every thing\\ngone on well these last two days What has happened\\nHow is everybody\\nDor. The day before yesterday our mistress was very\\nfeverish from morning to night, and suffered from a most\\nextraordinary headache.\\nOrg. And Tartuffe\\nDor. Tartuffe He is wonderfully well, stout and fat,\\nwith blooming cheeks and ruddy lips.\\nOrg. Poor man!\\nDor. In the evening she felt very faint, and the pain in\\nher head was so great that she could not touch any thing at\\nsupper.\\nOrg. And Tartuffe\\nDor. He ate his supper by himself before her, and very\\ndevoutly devoured a brace of partridges, and half a leg of\\nmutton hashed.\\nOrg. Poor man\\nDor. She spent the whole of the night without getting\\none wink of sleep she was very feverish, and we had to sit\\nup with her until the morning.\\nOrg. And Tartuffe\\nDor. Overcome by a pleasant sleepiness, he passed from\\nthe table to his room, and got at once into his warmed bed,\\nwhere he slept comfortably till the next morning.\\nOrg. Poor man", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0119.jp2"}, "120": {"fulltext": "108 Classic French Course in English.\\nDor. At last yielding to our persuasions, she consented\\nto be bled, and immediately felt relieved.\\nOrg. And Tartuffe\\nDor. He took heart right valiantly, and fortifying his\\nsoul against all evils, to make up for the blood which our\\nlady had lost, drank at breakfast four large bumpers of wine.\\nOrg. Poor man\\nDor. Now, at last, they are both well; and I will go and\\ntell our lady how glad you are to hear of her recovery.\\nTartuffe repays the trust and love of his benefac-\\ntor by making improper advances to that benefac-\\ntor s wife. Orgon s son, who does not share his\\nfather s confidence in Tartuffe, happens to be an\\nunseen witness of the man s infamous conduct. He\\nexposes the hypocrite to Orgon, with the result of\\nbeing himself expelled from the house for his pains\\nwhile Tartuffe, in recompense for the injury done to\\nhis feelings, is presented with a gift-deed of Orgon s\\nestate. But now Orgon s wife contrives to let her\\nhusband see and hear for himself the vileness of\\nTartuffe. This done, Orgon confronts the villain,\\nand, with just indignation, orders him out of his\\nhouse. Tartuffe reminds Orgon that the shoe is on\\nthe other foot that he is himself now owner there,\\nand that it is Orgon, instead of Tartuffe, who must\\ngo. Orgon has an interview with his mother, who is\\nexasperatingly sure still that Tartuffe is a maligned\\ngood man\\nMadame Pernelle. I can never believe, my son, that\\nhe would commit so base an action.\\nOrg. What", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0120.jp2"}, "121": {"fulltext": "Moliere. 109\\nPer. Good people are always subject to envy.\\nOrg. What do you mean, mother\\nPer. That you live after a strange sort here, and that\\nI am but too well aware of the ill will they all bear him.\\nOrg. What has this ill will to do with what I have just\\ntold you\\nPer. I have told it you a hundred times when you were\\nyoung, that in this world virtue is ever liable to persecution,\\nand tnat, although the envious die, envy never dies.\\nOrg. But what has this to do with what has happened\\nto-day\\nPer. They have concocted a hundred foolish stories\\nagainst him.\\nOrg. I have already told you that I saw it all myself.\\nPer. The malice of evil-disposed persons is very great.\\nOrg. You would make me swear, mother! I tell you\\nthat I saw his audacious attempt with my own eyes.\\nPer. Evil tongues have always some venom to pour\\nforth; and here below, there is nothing proof against them.\\nOrg. You are maintaining a very senseless argument.\\nI saw it, I tell you, saw it with my own eyes what you\\ncan call s-a-w, saw! Must I din it over and over into your\\nears, and shout as loud as half a dozen people\\nPer. Gracious goodness! appearances often deceive us!\\nWe must not always judge by what we see.\\nOrg. I shall go mad\\nPer. We are by nature prone to judge wrongly, and\\ngood is often mistaken for evil.\\nOrg I ought to look upon his desire of seducing my\\nwife as charitable\\nPer. You ought to have good reasons before you accuse\\nanother, and you should have waited till you were quite\\nsure of the fact.\\nOrg. Heaven save the mark how could I be more sure\\nI suppose, mother, I ought to have waited till you will\\nmake me say something foolish.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0121.jp2"}, "122": {"fulltext": "110 Classic French Course in English.\\nPer. In short, his soul is possessed with too pure a\\nzeal and I cannot possibly conceive that he would think of\\nattempting what you accuse him of.\\nOrg. If you were not my mother, I really don t know\\nwhat I might now say to you, you make me so savage.\\nThe short remainder of the scene has for its im-\\nportant idea, the suggestion that under the existing\\ncircumstances some sort of peace ought to be\\npatched up between Orgon and Tartuffe. Mean-\\ntime one Loyal is observed coming, whereupon the\\nfourth scene of act fifth opens\\nLoy. (to Dorine at the farther part of the stage). Good-\\nday, my dear sister; pray let me speak to your master.\\nDor. He is with friends, and I do not think he can see\\nany one just now.\\nLoy. I would not he intrusive. I feel sure that he will\\nfind nothing unpleasant in my visit: in fact, I come for\\nsomething which will be very gratifying to him.\\nDor. What is your name\\nLoy. Only tell him that I come from Mr. Tartuffe, for\\nhis benefit.\\nDor. (to Orgon). It is a man who comes in a civil way\\nfrom Mr. Tartuffe, on some business which will make you\\nglad, he says.\\nCle. (to Orgon). You must see who it is, and what the\\nman wants.\\nOrg. (to Cle ante). He is coming, perhaps, to settle\\nmatters between us in a friendly way. How, in this case,\\nought I to behave to him\\nCle. Don t show any resentment, and, if he speaks of\\nan agreement, listen to him.\\nLoy. (to Orgon). Your servant, sir! May heaven pun-\\nish whoever wrongs you! and may it be as favorable to you,\\nsir, as I wish!", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0122.jp2"}, "123": {"fulltext": "Holier e. Ill\\nOrg. (aside to Cl^ante). This pleasant beginning\\nagrees with my cod jectures, and argues some sort of recon-\\nciliation.\\nLoy. All your family was always dear to me, and I\\nserved your father.\\nOrg. Sir, I am sorry and ashamed to say that I do not\\nknow who you are, neither do I remember your name.\\nLoy. My name is Loyal I was born in Normandy, and\\nam a royal bailiff in spite of envy. For the last forty years\\nI have had the good fortune to fill the office, thanks to\\nHeaven, with great credit; and I come, sir, with your leave,\\nto serve you the writ of a certain order.\\nOrg. What you are here\\nLoy. Gently, sir, I beg. It is merely a summons, a\\nnotice for you to leave this place, you and yours; to take\\naway all your goods and chattels, and make room for others,\\nwithout delay or adjournment, as hereby decreed.\\nOrg. I leave this place\\nLoy. Yes, sir; if you please. The house incontestably\\nbelongs, as you are well aware, to the good Mr. Tartuffe.\\nHe is now lord and master of your estates, according to a\\ndeed I have in my keeping. It is in due form, and cannot\\nbe challenged.\\nDamis (to Mr. Loyal). This great impudence is, in-\\ndeed, worthy of all admiration.\\nLoy. (to Damis). Sir, I have nothing at all to do with\\nyou. (Pointing to Orgon.) My business is with this gen-\\ntleman. He is tractable and gentle, and knows too well the\\nduty of a gentleman to try to oppose authority.\\nOrg. But\\nLoy. Yes, sir: I know that you would not, for any\\nthing, show contumacy; and that you will allow me, like a\\nreasonable man, to execute the orders I have received.\\nThe scene gives in conclusion some spirited by-\\nplay of asides and interruptions from indignant mem-", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0123.jp2"}, "124": {"fulltext": "112 Classic French Course in English.\\nbers of the family. Then follows scene fifth, one\\nexchange of conversation from which will sufficiently\\nindicate the progress of the plot\\nOkg. Well, mother, you see whether I am right; and you\\ncan judge of the rest by the writ. Do you at last acknowl-\\nedge his rascality\\nPer. I am thunderstruck, and can scarcely believe my\\neyes and ears.\\nThe next scene introduces Val re, the noble lover\\nof that daughter whom the infatuated father was\\nbent on sacrificing to Tartuffe. Val re comes to\\nannounce that Tartuffe, the villain, has accused Or-\\ngon to the king. Orgon must fly. Vale re offers\\nhim his own carriage and money, will, in fact,\\nhimself keep him company till he reaches a place of\\nsafety. As Orgon, taking hasty leave of his family,\\nturns to go, he is encountered by the following\\nscene will show whom\\nTar. (stopping Orgon). Gently, sir, gently; not so fast,\\nI beg. You have not far to go to find a lodging, and you are\\na prisoner in the king s name.\\nOrg. Wretch you had reserved this shaft for the last;\\nby it you finish me, and crown all your perfidies.\\nTar. Your abuse has no power to disturb me, and I\\nknow how to suffer every thing for the sake of Heaven.\\nCle. Your moderation is really great, we must acknowl-\\nedge.\\nDa. How impudently the infamous wretch sports with\\nHeaven!\\nTar. Your anger cannot move me. I have no other\\nwish but to fulfil my duty.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0124.jp2"}, "125": {"fulltext": "Moliere. 113\\nMarianne. You may claim great glory from the per-\\nformance of this duty it is a very honorable employment\\nfor you.\\nTar. The employment cannot be otherwise than glori-\\nous, when it comes from the power that sends me here.\\nOrg. But do you remember that my charitable hand,\\nungrateful scoundrel, raised you from a state of misery\\nTar. Yes, I know what help I have received from you;\\nbut the interest of my king is my first duty. The just obli-\\ngation of this sacred duty stifles in my heart all other claims\\nand I would sacrifice to it friend, wife, relations, and myself\\nwith them.\\nElmire. The impostor\\nDor. With what treacherous cunning he makes a cloak\\nof all that men revere\\nTar. (to the Officer). I beg of you, sir, to deliver me\\nfrom all this noise, and to act according to the orders you\\nhave received.\\nOfficer. I have certainly put off too long the discharge\\nof my duty, and you very rightly remind me of it. To execute\\nmy order, follow me immediately to the prison in which a\\nplace is assigned to you.\\nTar. Who I, sir\\nOfficer. Yes, you.\\nTar. Why to prison\\nOfficer. To you I have no account to render. To Or-\\ngon. Pray, sir, recover from your great alarm. We live\\nunder a king [Louis XIV.] who is an enemy to fraud, a king\\nwho can read the heart, and whom all the arts of impostors\\ncannot deceive. His great mind, endowed with delicate dis-\\ncernment, at all times sees things in their true light.\\nHe annuls, by his sovereign will, the terms of the contract by\\nwhich you gave him [Tartuffe] your property. He moreover\\nforgives you this secret offence in which you were involved\\nby the flight of your friend. This to reward the zeal which\\nyou once showed for him in maintaining his rights, and to", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0125.jp2"}, "126": {"fulltext": "114 Classic French Course in English.\\nprove that his heart, when it is least expected, knows how\\nto recompense a good action. Merit with him is never lost,\\nand he remembers good better than evil.\\nDor. Heaven be thanked\\nPer. Ah I breathe again.\\nEl. What a favorable end to our troubles!\\nMar. Who would have foretold it\\nOrg. (to Tartuffe, as the Officer leads Mm off). Ah,\\nwretch! now you are\\nTartuffe thus disposed of, the play promptly ends,\\nwith a vanishing glimpse afforded us of a happy\\nmarriage in prospect for Valere with the daughter.\\nMoliere is said to have had a personal aim in\\ndrawing the character of Tartuffe. This, at least,\\nwas like Dante. There is not much sweet laughter\\nin such a comedy. But there is a power that is\\ndreadful.\\nEach succeeding generation of Frenchmen supplies\\nits bright and ingenious wits who produce comedy.\\nBut as there is no second Shakspeare, so there is\\nbut one Moliere.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0126.jp2"}, "127": {"fulltext": "Pascal. 115\\nVIII.\\nPASCAL.\\n1623-1662.\\nPascal s fame is distinctly the fame of a man of\\ngenius. He achieved notable things. But it is\\nwhat he might have done, still more than what he\\ndid, that fixes his estimation in the world of mind.\\nBlaise Pascal is one of the chief intellectual glories\\nof France.\\nPascal, the boy, had a strong natural bent toward\\nmathematics. The story is that his father, in order\\nto turn his son s whole force on the study of lan-\\nguages, put out of the lad s reach all books treating\\nhis favorite subject. Thus shut up to his own\\nresources, the masterful little fellow, about his\\neighth year, drawing charcoal diagrams on the floor,\\nmade perceptible progress in working out geometry\\nfor himself. At sixteen he produced a treatise on\\nconic sections that excited the wonder and incredu-\\nlity of Descartes. Later, he experimented in ba-\\nrometry, and pursued investigations in mechanics.\\nLater still, he made what seemed to be approaches\\ntoward Newton s binomial theorem.\\nVivid religious convictions meantime deeply\\naffected Pascal s mind. His health, never robust,\\nbegan to give way. His physicians prescribed", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0127.jp2"}, "128": {"fulltext": "116 Classic French Course in English.\\nmental diversion, and forced him into society. That\\nmedicine, taken at first with reluctance, proved dan-\\ngerously delightful to Pascal s vivacious and suscep-\\ntible spirit. His pious sister Jacqueline warned her\\nbrother that he was going too far. But he was still\\nmore effectively warned by an accident, in whicli he\\nalmost miraculously escaped from death. With-\\ndrawing from the world, he adopted a course of\\nascetic practices, in which he continued till he died\\nin his thirty-ninth year. He wore about his waist an\\niron girdle armed with sharp points and this he\\nwould press smartly with his elbow when he detected\\nhimself at fault in his spirit.\\nNotwithstanding what Pascal did or attempted,\\nworthy of fame, in science, it was his fortune to\\nbecome chiefly renowned by literary achievement.\\nHis, in fact, would now be a half -forgotten name if\\nhe had not written the u Provincial Letters and\\nthe Thoughts.\\nThe Provincial Letters is an abbreviated title.\\nThe title in full originally was, u Letters written\\nby Louis de Montalte to a Provincial, one of his\\nfriends, and to the Reverend Fathers, the Jesuits,\\non the subject of the morality and the policy of\\nthose Fathers.\\nOf the Provincial Letters, several English\\ntranslations have been made. No one of these that\\nwe have been able to find, seems entirely satisfac-\\ntory. There is an elusive quality to Pascal s style,\\nand in losing this you seem to lose something of", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0128.jp2"}, "129": {"fulltext": "Pascal. 117\\nPascal s thought. For with Pascal the thought and\\nthe style penetrate each other inextricably and\\nalmost indistinguishably. You cannot print a smile,\\nan inflection of the voice, a glance of the eye, a\\nFrench shrug of the shoulders. And such modula-\\ntions of the thought seem everywhere to lurk in the\\nturns and phrases of Pascal s inimitable French.\\nTo translate them is impossible.\\nPascal is beyond question the greatest modern\\nmaster of that indescribably delicate art in expres-\\nsion, which, from its illustrious ancient exemplar,\\nhas received the name of the Socratic irony. With\\nthis fine weapon, in great part, it was, wielded like a\\nmagician s invisible wand, that Pascal did his mem-\\norable execution on the Jesuitical system of morals\\nand casuistry, in the Provincial Letters. In\\ngreat part, we say for the flaming moral earnestness\\nof the man could not abide only to play with his\\nadversaries, to the end of the famous dispute. His\\nlighter cimeter blade he flung aside before he had\\ndone, and, toward the last, brandished a sword that\\nhad weight as well as edge and temper. The skill\\nthat could halve a feather in the air with the sword\\nof Salaclin was proved to be also strength that could\\ncleave a suit of mail with the brand of Richard the\\nLion-hearted.\\nIt is universally acknowledged, that the French\\nlanguage has never in any hands been a more\\nobedient instrument of intellectual power than it\\nwas in the hands of Pascal. He is rated the earli-", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0129.jp2"}, "130": {"fulltext": "118 Classic French Course in English.\\nest writer to produce what may be called the final\\nFrench prose. ct The creator of French style,\\nYilleinain boldly calls him. Pascal s style remains\\nto this day almost perfectly free from adhesions of\\narchaism in diction and in construction. Pascal\\nshowed, as it were at once, what the French lan-\\nguage was capable of doing in response to the\\ndemands of a master. It was the joint achievement\\nof genius, of taste, and of skill, working together in\\nan exquisite balance and harmony.\\nlint let us be entirely frank. The u Provincial Let-\\nters of Pascal are now, to the general reader, not so\\ninteresting as from their fame one would seem enti-\\ntled to expect. You cannot read them intelligently\\nwithout considerable previous study. You need to\\nhave learned, imperfectly, with labor, a thousand\\ntilings that every contemporary reader of Pascal\\nperfectly knew, as if by simply breathing, the ne-\\ncessary knowledge being then, so to speak, abroad in\\nthe air. Even thus, you cannot possibly derive that\\nvivid delight from perusing in bulk the Provincial\\nLetters now, which the successive numbers of the\\nseries, appearing at brief irregular intervals, commu-\\nnicated to the eagerly expecting French public, at a\\ntime when the topics discussed were topics of a pres-\\nent and pressing practical interest. Still, with what-\\never disadvantage unavoidably attending, we must\\ngive our readers a taste of the quality of rascal s\\nProvincial Letters.\\nWe select a passage at the commencement of the", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0130.jp2"}, "131": {"fulltext": "Pascal. 119\\nSeventh Letter. We use the translation of Mr.\\nThomas M Crie. This succeeds very well in con-\\nveying the sense, though it necessarily fails to convey\\neither the vivacity or the eloquence, of the incompar-\\nable original. The first occasion of the Provincial\\nLetters was a championship proposed to Pascal\\nto be taken up by him on behalf of his beleaguered\\nand endangered friend Arnauld, the Port-Royalist.\\n(Port Royal was a Roman-Catholic abbey, situated\\nsome eight miles to the south-west of Versailles, and\\ntherefore not very remote from Paris.) Arnauld\\nwas for substance of doctrine really a Calvinist,\\nthough he quite sincerely disclaimed being such and\\nit was for his defence of Calvinism (under its ancient\\nform of Augustinianism) that he was threatened,\\nthrough Jesuit enmity, with condemnation for heret-\\nical opinion. The problem was to enlist the senti-\\nment of general society in his favor. The friends\\nin council at Port Royal said to Pascal, You must\\ndo this. Pascal said, I will try. In a few\\ndays, the first letter of a series destined to such\\nfame, was submitted for judgment to Port Royal\\nand approved. It was printed anonymously. The\\nsuccess was instantaneous and brilliant. A second\\nletter followed, and a third. Soon, from strict per-\\nsonal defence of Arnauld, the writer went on to take\\nup a line of offence and aggression. He carried the\\nwar into Africa. He attacked the Jesuits as teachers\\nof immoral doctrine.\\nThe plan of these later letters was, to have a Paris", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0131.jp2"}, "132": {"fulltext": "120 Classic French Course in English.\\ngentleman write to a friend of his in the country (the\\nprovincial detailing interviews held by him with\\na Jesuit priest of the city. The supposed Parisian\\ngentleman, in his interviews with the supposed Jesuit\\nfather, affects the air of a very simple-hearted seeker\\nafter truth. He represents himself as, by his inno-\\ncent-seeming docility, leading his Jesuit teacher on\\nto make the most astonishingly frank exposures of\\nthe secrets of the casuistical system held and taught\\nby his order.\\nThe Seventh Letter tells the story of how Jesuit\\nconfessors were instructed to manage their penitents\\nin a matter made immortally famous by the wit and\\ngenius of Pascal, the matter of tc directing the inten-\\ntion. There is nothing in the Provincial Letters\\nbetter suited than this at the same time to interest\\nthe general reader, and to display the quality of these\\nrenowned productions. (We do not scruple to change\\nour chosen translation \u00c2\u00aba little, at points where it\\nseems to us susceptible of some easy improvement.)\\nRemember it is an imaginary Parisian gentleman\\nwho now writes to a friend of his in the country\\nYou know, he said, that the ruling passion of per-\\nsons in that rank of life [the rank of gentleman] is the point\\nof honor/ which is perpetually driving them into acts of vio-\\nlence apparently quite at variance with Christian piety; so\\nthat, in fact, they would he almost all of them excluded from\\nour confessionals, had not our fathers relaxed a little from\\nthe strictness of religion, to accommodate themselves to the\\nweakness of humanity. Anxious to keep on good terms, both\\nwith the gospel, by doing their duty to God, and with the", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0132.jp2"}, "133": {"fulltext": "Pascal. 121\\nmen of the world, by showing charity to their neighbor, they\\nneeded all the wisdom they possessed to devise expedients for\\nso nicely adjusting matters as to permit these gentlemen to\\nadopt the methods usually resorted to for vindicating their\\nhonor without wounding their consciences, and thus recon-\\ncile things apparently so opposite to each other as piety and\\nthe point of honor.\\nI should certainly [so replies M. Montalte, with the\\nmost exquisite irony couched under a cover of admiring sim-\\nplicity], I should certainly have considered the thing per-\\nfectly impracticable, if I had not known, from what I have\\nseen of your fathers, that they are capable of doing with ease\\nwhat is impossible to other men. This led me to anticipate\\nthat they must have discovered some method for meeting the\\ndifficulty, a method which I admire, even before knowing\\nit, and which I pray you to explain to me.\\nSince that is your view of the matter, replied the monk,\\nI cannot refuse you. Know, then, that this marvellous\\nprinciple is our grand method of directing the intention\\nthe importance of which, in our moral system, is such, that\\nI might almost venture to compare it with the doctrine of\\nprobability. You have had some glimpses of it in passing,\\nfrom certain maxims which I mentioned to you. For exam-\\nple, when I was showing you how servants might execute\\ncertain troublesome jobs with a safe conscience, did you not\\nremark that it was simply by diverting their intention from\\nthe evil to which they were accessory, to the profit which\\nthey might reap from the transaction Now, that is what\\nwe call directing the intention. You saw, too, that, were it\\nnot for a similar divergence of the mind, those who give\\nmoney for benefices might be downright simoniacs. But I\\nwill now show you this grand method in all its glory, as it\\napplies to the subject of homicide, a crime which it justifies\\nin a thousand instances, in order that, from this startling\\nresult, you may form an idea of all that it is calculated to\\neffect.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0133.jp2"}, "134": {"fulltext": "122 Classic French Course in English.\\nI foresee already, said I, that, according to this mode,\\nevery thing will be permitted: it will stick at nothing.\\nYou always fly from the one extreme to the other, re-\\nplied the monk prithee avoid that habit. For just to\\nshow you that we are far from permitting every thing, let\\nme tell you that we never suffer such a thing as a formal in-\\ntention to sin, with the sole design of sinning and, if any\\nperson whatever should persist in having no other end but\\nevil in the evil that he does, we break with him at once such\\nconduct is diabolical. This holds true, without exception of\\nage, sex, or rank. But when the person is not of such a\\nwretched disposition as this, we try to put in practice our\\nmethod of directing the intention, which consists in his pro-\\nposing to himself, as the end of his actions, some allowable\\nobject. Not that we do not endeavor, as far as we can, to\\ndissuade men from doing things forbidden but, when we can-\\nnot prevent the action, we at least purify the motive, and thus\\ncorrect the viciousness of the mean by the goodness of the\\nend. Such is the way in which our fathers have contrived to\\npermit those acts of violence to which men usually resort in\\nvindication of their honor. They have no more to do than\\nto turn off their intention from the desire of vengeance,\\nwhich is criminal, and direct it to a desire to defend their\\nhonor, which, according to us, is quite warrantable. And\\nin this way our doctors discharge all their duty towards God\\nand towards man. By permitting the action, they gratify\\nthe world and by purifying the intention, they give satis-\\nfaction to the gospel. This is a secret, sir, which was\\nentirely unknown to the ancients the world is indebted for\\nthe discovery entirely to our doctors. You understand it\\nnow, I hope?\\nPerfectly, was my reply. To men you grant the\\noutward material effect of the action, and to God you give\\nthe inward and spiritual movement of the intention and,\\nby this equitable partition, you form an alliance between the\\nlaws of God and the laws of men. But, my dear sir, to be", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0134.jp2"}, "135": {"fulltext": "Pascal. 123\\nfrank with you, I can hardly trust your premises, and I sus-\\npect that your authors will tell another tale.\\nYou do me injustice, rejoined the monk I advance\\nnothing but what I am ready to prove, and that by such a\\nrich array of passages, that altogether their number, their\\nauthority, and their reasonings, will fill you with admira-\\ntion. To show you, for example, the alliance which our\\nfathers have formed between the maxims of the gospel and\\nthose of the world, by thus regulating the intention, let me\\nrefer you to Reginald. {In praxi., liv. xxi., num. 62, p. 260.)\\n[These, and all that follow, are verifiable citations from real\\nand undisputed Jesuit authorities, not to this day repudiated\\nby that order.] Private persons are forbidden to avenge\\nthemselves for St. Paul says to the Romans (ch. 12th),\\nRecompense to no man evil for evil; and Ecclesiasticus\\nsays (ch. 28th), He that taketh vengeance shall draw on\\nhimself the vengeance of God, and his sins will not be for-\\ngotten. Besides all that is said in the gospel about forgiv-\\ning offences, as in the 6th and 18th chapters of St. Matthew.\\nWell, father, if after that, he [Reginald] says any thing\\ncontrary to the Scripture, it will, at least, not be from lack\\nof scriptural knowledge. Pray, how does he conclude\\nYou shall hear, he said. From all this it appears\\nthat a military man may demand satisfaction on the spot\\nfrom the person who has injured him not, indeed, with\\nthe intention of rendering evil for evil, but with that of pre-\\nserving his honor non at malum pro malo reddat, sed ut\\nconservat honorem. See you how carefully, because the\\nScripture condemns it, they guard against the intention of\\nrendering evil for evil This is what they will tolerate on\\nno account. Thus Lessius observes (De Just., liv. ii., c. 9,\\nd. 12, n. 79), that, If a man has received a blow on the face,\\nhe must on no account have an intention to avenge himself\\nbut he may lawfully have an intention to avert infamy, and\\nmay, with that view, repel the insult immediately, even at\\nthe point of the sword etiam cum gladio. 9 So far are we", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0135.jp2"}, "136": {"fulltext": "124 Classic French Course in English.\\nfrom permitting any one to cherish the design of taking ven-\\ngeance on his enemies, that our fathers will not allow any-\\neven to wish their death by a movement of hatred. If\\nyour enemy is disposed to injure you/ says Escobar, you\\nhave no right to wish his death, by a movement of hatred\\nthough you may, with a view to save yourself from harm.\\nSo legitimate, indeed, is this wish, with such an intention,\\nthat our great Hurtado de Mendoza says that we may pray\\nGod to visit with speedy death those who are bent on persecut-\\ning us, if there is no other way of escaping from it. (In\\nhis book, De Spe, vol. ii., d. 15, sec. 4, 48.)\\nMay it please your reverence, said I, the Church has\\nforgotten to insert a petition to that effect among her\\nprayers.\\nThey have not put every thing into the prayers that\\none may lawfully ask of God, answered the monk. Be-\\nsides, in the present case, the thing was impossible, for this\\nsame opinion is of more recent standing than the Breviary.\\nYou are not a good chronologist, friend. But, not to wander\\nfrom the point, let me request your attention to the following\\npassage, cited by Diana from Gaspar Hurtado (De Sub.\\nPecc, diff. 9 Diana, p. 5 tr. 14, r. 99), one of Escobar s\\nf our-and-twenty fathers An incumbent may, without any\\nmortal sin, desire the decease of a life-renter on his benefice,\\nand a son that of his father, and rejoice when it happens\\nprovided always it is for the sake of the profit that is to\\naccrue from the event, and not from personal aversion.\\nGood, cried I. That is certainly a very happy hit,\\nand I can easily see that the doctrine admits of a wide appli-\\ncation. But yet there are certain cases, the solution of\\nwhich, though of great importance for gentlemen, might\\npresent still greater difficulties.\\nPropose such, if you please, that we may see, said the\\nmonk.\\nShow me, with all your directing of the intention, re-\\nturned I, that it is allowable to fight a duel.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0136.jp2"}, "137": {"fulltext": "Pascal. 125\\nOur great Hurtado de Mendoza, said the father, will\\nsatisfy you on that point in a twinkling. If a gentleman,\\nsays he, in a passage cited by Diana, who is challenged to\\nfight a duel, is well known to have no religion, and if the\\nvices to which he is openly and unscrupulously addicted, are\\nsuch as would lead people to conclude, in the event of his\\nrefusing to fight, that he is actuated, not by the fear of God,\\nbut by cowardice, and induce them to say of him that he was\\na hen, and not a man gallina, et non vir in that case he\\nmay, to save his honor, appear at the appointed spot not,\\nindeed, with the express intention of fighting a duel, but\\nmerely with that of defending himself, should the person\\nwho challenged him come there unjustly to attack him. His\\naction in this case, viewed by itself, will be perfectly indiffer-\\nent for what moral evil is there in one s stepping into a\\nfield, taking a stroll in expectation of meeting a person, and\\ndefending one s self in the event of being attacked And\\nthus the gentleman is guilty of no sin whatever for in fact,\\nit cannot be called accepting a challenge at all, his intention\\nbeing directed to other circumstances, and the acceptance of\\na challenge consisting in an express intention to fight,\\nwhich we are supposing the gentleman never had.\\nThe humorous irony of Pascal, in the Provincial\\nLetters, plays like the diffusive sheen of an aurora\\nborealis over the whole surface of the composition.\\nIt does not often deliver itself startlingly in sudden\\ndischarges as of lightning. You need to school your\\nsense somewhat, not to miss a fine effect now and\\nthen. Consider the broadness and coarseness in\\npleasantry, that, before Pascal, had been common,\\nalmost universal, in controversy, and you will better\\nunderstand what a creative touch it was of genius,\\nof feeling, and of taste, that brought into literature", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0137.jp2"}, "138": {"fulltext": "126 Classic French Course in English.\\nthe far more than Attic, the ineffable Christian,\\npurity of that wit and humor in the u Provincial Let-\\nters which will make these writings live as long as\\nmen anywhere continue to read the productions of\\npast ages. Erasmus, perhaps, came the nearest of\\nall modern predecessors to anticipating the purified\\npleasantry of Pascal.\\nIt will be interesting and instructive to see Pascal s\\nown statement of his reasons for adopting the ban-\\ntering style which he did in the Provincial Letters/\\nas well as of the sense of responsibility to be faithful\\nand fair, under which he wrote. Pascal says\\nI have been asked why I employed a pleasant, jocose, and\\ndiverting style. I reply I thought it a duty to write so\\nas to be comprehended by women and men of the world,\\nthat they might know the danger of their maxims and prop-\\nositions which were then universally propagated. I\\nhave been asked, lastly, if I myself read all the books which\\nI quoted. I answer, No. If I had done so, I must have\\npassed a great part of my life in reading very bad books\\nbut I read Escobar twice through, and I employed some of\\nmy friends in reading the others. But I did not make use\\nof a single passage without having myself read it in the\\nbook from which it is cited, without having examined the\\nsubject of which it treats, and without having read what\\nwent before and followed, so that I might run no risk of\\nquoting an objection as an answer, which would have been\\nblameworthy and unfair.\\nOf the wit of the Provincial Letters, their wit\\nand their controversial effectiveness, the specimens\\ngiven will have afforded readers some approximate", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0138.jp2"}, "139": {"fulltext": "Pascal. 127\\nidea. We must deny ourselves the gratification of\\npresenting a brief passage, which we had selected\\nand translated for the purpose, to exemplify from\\nthe same source Pascal s serious eloquence. It was\\nVoltaire who said of these productions Moli re s\\nbest comedies do not excel them in wit, nor the\\ncompositions of Bossuet in sublimity. Something\\nof Bossuet s sublimity, or of a sublimity perhaps\\nfiner than Bossuet s, our readers will discover in\\ncitations to follow from the Thoughts.\\nPascal s Thoughts, the printed book, has a\\nremarkable history. It was a posthumous publica-\\ntion. The author died, leaving behind him a con-\\nsiderable number of detached fragments of compo-\\nsition, first jottings of thought on a subject that had\\nlong occupied his mind. These precious manuscripts\\nwere almost undecipherable. The writer had used\\nfor his purpose any chance scrap of paper, old\\nwrapping, for example, or margin of letter, that, at\\nthe critical moment of happy conception, was nearest\\nhis hand. Sentences, words even, were often left\\nunfinished. There was no coherence, no sequence,\\nno arrangement. It was, however, among his friends\\nperfectly well understood that Pascal for years had\\nmeditated a work on religion designed to demon-\\nstrate the truth of Christianity. For this he had\\nbeen thinking arduously. Fortunately he had even,\\nin a memorable conversation, sketched his project\\nat some length to his Port Royal friends. With so\\nmuch, scarcely more, in the way of clew, to guide", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0139.jp2"}, "140": {"fulltext": "128 Classic French Course in English.\\ntheir editorial work, these friends prepared and\\nissued a volume of Pascal s Thoughts. With\\nthe most loyal intentions, the Port-Royalists un-\\nwisely edited too much. They pieced out incom-\\npletenesses, they provided clauses or sentences of\\nconnection, they toned down expressions deemed\\ntoo bold, they improved Pascal s style After\\nhaving suffered such things from his friends, the\\nposthumous Pascal, later, fell into the hands of an\\nenemy. The infidel Condorcet published an edition\\nof the Thoughts. Whereas the Port-Royalists\\nhad suppressed to placate the Jesuits, Condorcet\\nsuppressed to please the philosophers. Between\\nthose on the one side, and these on the other, Pascal s\\nThoughts had experienced what might well have\\nkilled any production of the human mind that could\\ndie. It was not till near the middle of the present\\ncentury that Cousin called the attention of the\\nworld to the fact that we had not yet, but that\\nwe* still might have, a true edition of Pascal s\\nThoughts. M. Faugere took the hint, and con-\\nsulting the original manuscripts, preserved in the\\nnational library at Paris, produced, with infinite\\neditorial labor, almost two hundred years after the\\nthinker s death, the first satisfactory edition of Pas-\\ncal s Thoughts. Since Faugere, M. Havet has\\nalso published an edition of Pascal s works entire,\\nby him now first adequately annotated and explained.\\nThe arrangement of the Thoughts varies in\\norder, according to the varying judgment of editors.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0140.jp2"}, "141": {"fulltext": "Pascal 129\\nWe use, for our extracts, a current translation, which\\nwe modify at our discretion, by comparison of the\\noriginal text as given in M. Havet s elaborate work.\\nOur first extract is a passage in which the writer\\nsupposes a sceptic of the more shallow, trifling sort,\\nto speako This sceptic represents his own state of\\nmind in the following strain as of soliloquy\\nI I do not know who put me into the world, nor what the\\nworld is, nor what I am myself. I am in a frightful igno-\\nrance of all things. I do not know what my body is, what\\nmy senses are, what my soul is, and that very part of me\\nwhich thinks what I am saying, which reflects upon every\\nthing and upon itself, and is no better acquainted with itself\\nthan with any thing else. I see these appalling spaces of\\nthe universe which enclose me, and I find myself tethered\\nin one corner of this immense expansion without knowing\\nwhy I am stationed in this place rather than in another, or\\nwhy this moment of time which is given me to live is as-\\nsigned me at this point rather than at another of the whole\\neternity that has preceded me, and of that which is to fol-\\nlow me.\\nI I see nothing but infinities on every side, which enclose\\nme like an atom, and like a shadow which endures but for\\nan instant, and returns no more.\\n6 All that I know, is that I am soon to die but what I am\\nmost ignorant of, is that very death which I am unable to\\navoid.\\n1 As I know not whence I came, so I know not whither I\\ngo and I know only, that in leaving this world I fall for-\\never either into nothingness or into the hands of an angry\\nGod, without knowing which of these two conditions is to\\nbe eternally my lot. Such is my state, full of misery, of\\nweakness, and of uncertainty.\\ni And from all this I conclude, that I ought to pass all the", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0141.jp2"}, "142": {"fulltext": "loO Classic French Course in English*\\ndays of my life without a thought of trying to learn what\\nis to befall me hereafter. Perhaps in my doubts l might\\nfind some enlightenment; but 1 am unwilling to take the\\ntrouble, or go a single slop in search of it; and, treating\\nWith contempt those who perplex themselves with such\\nsolicitude, my purpose is to go forward without forethought\\nand without tear to try the great event, and passively to\\napproach death in uncertainty of the eternity of my future\\ncondition.\\nWho would desire to have for a friend a man who dis-\\ncourses in this manner Who would select such a one for\\nthe confidant of his affairs Who would have recourse to\\nsuch a ono in his afflictions And, in tine, for what use of\\nlife could such a man be destined\\nThe central thought on which the projected apolo-\\ngetic of Pascal was to revolve as on a pivot, is the\\ncontrasted greatness and wretchedness of man,\\nwith Divine Revelation, in its doctrine oi a fall on\\nman s part from original nobleness, supplying the\\nneeded link, and the only link conceivable, of expla-\\nnation, to unite the one with the other, the human\\ngreatness with the human wretchedness. This con-\\ntrast of dignity and disgrace should constantly be\\nin the mind of the reader of the Thoughts of\\nPascal. It will often be found to throw a very\\nnecessary light upon the meaning of the separate\\nfragments that make up the series.\\nWe now present a brief fragment asserting, with\\nvivid metaphor, at the same time the fragility of\\nman s frame and the majesty of man s nature.\\nThis is a very famous Thought", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0142.jp2"}, "143": {"fulltext": "Pascal. 131\\nMan is but a reed, the weakest in nature, but he is a\\nthinking reed. It is not necessary that the entire universe\\narm itself to crush him. An exhalation, a drop of water,\\nsuffices to kill him. But were the universe to crush him,\\nman would still be more noble than that which kills him,\\nbecause he knows that he is dying, and knows the advantage\\nthat the universe has over him. The universe knows\\nnothing of it.\\nOur whole dignity consists, then, in thought.\\nOne is reminded of the memorable saying of a\\ncelebrated philosopher: In the universe there is\\nnothing great but man in man there is nothing\\ngreat but mind.\\nWhat a sudden, almost ludicrous, reduction in\\nscale, the greatness of Csesar, as conqueror, is made\\nto suffer when looked at in the way in which Pascal\\nasks you to look at it in the following Thought!\\n(Remember that Caesar, when he began fighting for\\nuniversal empire, was fifty-one years of age\\nCsesar was too old, it seems to me, to amuse himself with\\nconquering the world. This amusement was well enough\\nfor Augustus or Alexander they were young people, whom\\nit is difficult to stop but Caesar ought to have been more\\nmature.\\nThat is as if you should reverse the tube of your\\ntelescope, with the result of seeing the object ob-\\nserved made smaller instead of larger.\\nThe following sentence might be a Maxim of\\nLa Rochefoucauld. Pascal was, no doubt, a debtor\\nto him as well as to Montaigne", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0143.jp2"}, "144": {"fulltext": "132 Classic French Course in English.\\nI lay it down as a fact, that, if all men knew what others\\nsay of them, there would not be four friends in the world.\\nHere is one of the most current of Pascal s say-\\nings\\nKivers are highways that move on and bear us whither\\nwe wish to go.\\nThe following Thought condenses the sub-\\nstance of the book proposed, into three short sen-\\ntences\\nThe knowledge of God without that of our misery produces\\npride. The knowledge of our misery without that of God\\ngives despair. The knowledge of Jesus Christ is intermedi-\\nate, because therein we find God and our misery.\\nThe prevalent seeming severity and intellectual\\ncoldness of Pascal s Thoughts yield to a touch\\nfrom the heart, and become pathetic, in such utter-\\nances as the following, supposed to be addressed by\\nthe Saviour to the penitent seeking to be saved\\nConsole thyself thou wouldst not seek me if thou hadst\\nnot found me.\\nI thought on thee in my agony such drops of blood I\\nshed for thee.\\nIt is austerity again, but not unjust austerity, that\\nspeaks as follows\\nReligion is a thing so great that those who would not take\\nthe pains to seek it if it is obscure, should be deprived of it.\\nWhat do they complain of, then, if it is such that they could\\nfind it by seeking it", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0144.jp2"}, "145": {"fulltext": "Pascal. 133\\nBut we must take our leave of Pascal. His was\\na suffering as well as an aspiring spirit. He suf-\\nfered because he aspired. But, at least, he did not\\nsuffer long. He aspired himself quickly away.\\nToward the last he wrought at a problem in his first\\nfavorite study, that of mathematics, and left behind\\nhim, as a memorial of his later life, a remarkable\\nresult of investigation on the curve called the cycloid.\\nDuring his final illness he pierced himself through\\nwith many sorrows, unnecessary sorrows, sorrows,\\ntoo, that bore a double edge, hurting not only him,\\nbut also his kindred, in practising, from mistaken\\nreligious motives, a hard repression upon his natural\\ninstinct to love, and to welcome love. He thought\\nthat God should be all, the creature nothing. The\\nthought was half true, but it was half false. God\\nshould, indeed, be all. But, in God, the creature\\nalso should be something.\\nIn French history, we may say, in the history of\\nthe world, if there are few brighter, there also are\\nfew purer, fames than the fame of Pascal.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0145.jp2"}, "146": {"fulltext": "134 Classic French Course in English.\\nIX.\\nMADAME DE SEVIGN6.\\n1626-1696.\\nOf Madame de Sevign6, if it were permitted here\\nto make a pun and a paradox, one might justly and\\ndescriptively say that she was not a woman of letters,\\nbut only a woman of letters. For Madame de\\nSevigne s addiction to literature was not at all that\\nof an author by profession. She simply wrote ad-\\nmirable private letters, in great profusion, and\\nbecame famous thereby.\\nMadame de Sevigne s fame is partly her merit,\\nbut it is also partly her good fortune. She was\\nrightly placed to be what she was. This will appear\\nfrom a sketch of her life, and still more from speci-\\nmens to be exhibited of her own epistolary writing.\\nMarie de Rabutin-Chantal was her maiden name.\\nShe was born a baroness. She was married, young,\\na marchioness. First early left an orphan, she was\\nafterward early left a widow, not too early, how-\\never, to have become the mother of two children,\\na son and a daughter. The daughter grew to be the\\nlife-long idol of the widowed mother s heart. The\\nletters she wrote to this daughter, married, and living\\nremote from her, compose the greater part of that\\nvoluminous epistolary production by which Madame", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0146.jp2"}, "147": {"fulltext": "Madame de Sevigne. 135\\nde Sevigne became, without her ever aiming at such\\na result, or probably ever thinking of it, one of the\\nclassics of the French language.\\nMadame de Sevigne was wealthy as orphan\\nheiress, and she should have been wealthy as widow.\\nBut her husband was profligate, and he wasted her\\nsubstance. She turned out to be a thoroughly\\ncapable woman of affairs who managed her property\\nwell. During her long and stainless widowhood\\nher husband fell in a shameful duel when she was\\nbut twenty-five years old, and she lived to be\\nseventy she divided her time between her estate,\\nThe Rocks, in Brittany, and her residence in Paris.\\nThis period was all embraced within the protracted\\nreign of Louis XIV., perhaps, upon the whole, the\\nmost memorable age in the history of France.\\nBeautiful, and, if not brilliantly beautiful, at\\nleast brilliantly witty, Madame de Sevigne was\\nvirtuous in that chief sense of feminine virtue\\namid an almost universal empire of profligacy around\\nher. Her social advantages were unsurpassed, and\\nher social success was equal to her advantages. She\\nhad the woman courtier s supreme triumph in being\\nonce led out to dance by the king her own junior\\nby a dozen years no vulgar king, remember, but\\nthe c great Louis XIV. Her cynical cousin, himself\\na writer of power, who had been repulsed in dishon-\\norable proffers of love by the young marchioness\\nduring the lifetime of her husband, we mean Count\\nBussy, says, in a scurrilous work of his, that Ma-", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0147.jp2"}, "148": {"fulltext": "136 Classic French Course in English.\\ndame de S\u00c2\u00a3vigne remarked, on returning to her seat\\nafter her dancing-bout with the king, that Louis pos-\\nsessed great qualities, and would certainly obscure\\nthe lustre of all his predecessors. I could not\\nhelp laughing in her face, the ungallant cousin\\ndeclared, seeing what had produced this pane-\\ngyric/ Probably, indeed, the young woman was\\npleased. But, whatever may have been her faults\\nor her follies, nothing can rob Madame de S6vign6\\nof the glory that is hers, in having been strong\\nenough in womanly and motherly honor to preserve,\\nagainst many dazzling temptations, amid general\\nbad example, and even under malignant aspersions,\\na chaste and spotless name. When it is added, that,\\nbesides access to the royal court itself, this gifted\\nwoman enjoyed the familiar acquaintance of La\\nRochefoucauld and other high-bred wits, less famous,\\nnot a few, enough will have been said to show\\nthat her position was such as to give her talent its\\nbest possible chance. The French history of the\\ntimes of Louis XIV. is hinted in glimpses the most\\nvivid and the most suggestive, throughout the whole\\nseries of the letters.\\nWe owe it to our readers (and to Madame de\\nSevigne no less) first of all to let them see a speci-\\nmen of the affectionate adulation that this French\\nwoman of rank, and of fashion, literally in almost\\nevery letter of hers, effuses on her daughter, a\\ndaughter who, by the way, seems very languidly to\\nhave responded to such demonstrations", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0148.jp2"}, "149": {"fulltext": "Madame de SSvignS. 137\\nThe Rocks, Sunday, June 28, 1671.\\nYou have amply made up to me my late losses I have\\nreceived two letters from you which have filled me with\\ntransports of joy. The pleasure I take in reading them is\\nbeyond all imagination. If I have in any way contributed\\nto the improvement of your style I did it in the thought that\\nI was laboring for the pleasure of others, not for my own.\\nBut Providence, who has seen fit to separate us so often,\\nand to p|^ce us at such immense distances from each other,\\nhas repaid me a little for the privation in the charms of\\nyour correspondence, and still more in the satisfaction you\\nexpress in your situation, and the beauty of your castle; you\\nrepresent it to me with an air of grandeur and magnificence\\nthat enchants me. I once saw a similar account of it by\\nthe first Madame de Grignan; but I little thought at that\\ntime, that all these beauties were one day to be at your\\ncommand. I am very much obliged to you for having\\ngiven me so particular an account of it. If I could be tired\\nin reading your letters, it would not only betray a very\\nbad taste in me, but would likewise show that I could\\nhave very little love or friendship for you. Divest yourself\\nof the dislike you have taken to circumstantial details.\\nI have often told you, and you ought yourself to feel the\\ntruth of this remark, that they are as dear to us from those\\nwe love, as they are tedious and disagreeable from others.\\nIf they are displeasing to us, it is only from the indifference\\nwe feel for those who write them. Admitting this observa-\\ntion to be true, I leave you to judge what pleasure yours\\nafford me. It is a fine thing, truly, to play the great lady,\\nas you do at present.\\nConceive the foregoing multiplied by the whole\\nnumber of the separate letters composing the cor-\\nrespondence, and you will have no exaggerated idea\\nof the display that Madame de S6vigne makes of her", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0149.jp2"}, "150": {"fulltext": "138 Classic French Course in English.\\nregard for her daughter. This regard was a passion,\\nmorbid, no doubt, b}^ excess, and, even at that, ex-\\ntravagantly demonstrated but it was fundamentally\\nsincere. Madame de Sevigne* idealized her absent\\ndaughter, and literally loved but only her. We\\nneed not wholly admire such maternal affection.\\nBut we should not criticise it too severely.\\nWe choose next a marvellously vivid instanta-\\nneous view, in words, of a court afternoon and\\nevening at Versailles. This letter, too, is addressed\\nto the daughter Madame de Grignan, by her mar-\\nried name. It bears date, Paris, Wednesday,\\n29th July. The year is 1676, and the writer is\\njust fifty\\nI was at Versailles last Saturday with the Villarses.\\nAt three the king, the queen, Monsieur [eldest brother to the\\nking], Madame [that brother s wife], Mademoiselle [that\\nbrother s eldest unmarried daughter], and every thing else\\nwhich is royal, together with Madame de Montespan [the\\ncelebrated mistress of the king] and train, and all the\\ncourtiers, and all the ladies, all, in short, which consti-\\ntutes the court of France, is assembled in the beautiful\\napartment of the king s, which you remember. All is fur-\\nnished divinely, all is magnificent. Such a thing as heat is\\nunknown you pass from one place to another without the\\nslightest pressure. A game at reversis [the description is of\\na gambling scene, in which Dangeau figures as a cool and\\nskilful gamester] gives the company a form and a settlement.\\nThe king and Madame de Montespan keep a bank together\\ndifferent tables are occupied by Monsieur, the queen, and\\nMadame de Soubise, Dangeau and party, Langlee and party.\\nEverywhere you see heaps of louis d ors they have no other", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0150.jp2"}, "151": {"fulltext": "Madame de Sevigne. 139\\ncounters. I saw Dangeau play, and thought what fools we\\nall were beside him. He dreams of nothing but what con-\\ncerns the game he wins where others lose he neglects\\nnothing, profits by every thing, never has his attention\\ndiverted in short, his science bids defiance to chance. Two\\nhundred thousand francs in ten days, a hundred thousand\\ncrowns in a month, these are the pretty memorandums he\\nputs down in his pocket-book. He was kind enough to say\\nthat I was partners with him, so that I got an excellent seat.\\nI made my obeisance to the king, as you told me and he\\nreturned it as if I had been young and handsome. The\\nduke said a thousand kind things without minding a word\\nhe uttered. Marshal de Lorges attacked me in the name of\\nthe Chevalier de Grignan in short, tutti quanti [the whole\\ncompany]. You know what it is to get a word from every-\\nbody you meet. Madame de Montespan talked to me of\\nBourbon, and asked me how I liked Yichi, and whether the\\nplace did me good. She said that Bourbon, instead of curing\\na pain in one of her knees, injured both. Her size\\nis reduced by a good half, and yet her complexion, her eyes,\\nand her lips, are as fine as ever. She was dressed all in\\nFrench point, her hair in a thousand ringlets, the two side\\nones hanging low on her cheeks, black ribbons on her head,\\npearls (the same that belonged to Madame del Hopital), the\\nloveliest diamond earrings, three or four bodkins nothing\\nelse on the head in short, a triumphant beauty, worthy the\\nadmiration of all the foreign ambassadors. She was accused\\nof preventing the whole French nation from seeing the king\\nshe has restored him, you see, to their eyes and you cannot\\nconceive the joy it has given all the world, and the splendor\\nit has thrown upon the court. This charming confusion,\\nwithout confusion, of all which is the most select, continues\\nfrom three till six. If couriers arrive, the king retires a\\nmoment to read the despatches, and returns. There is\\nalways some music going on, to which he listens, and which\\nhas an excellent effect. He talks with such of the ladies as", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0151.jp2"}, "152": {"fulltext": "140 Classic French Course in English.\\nare accustomed to enjoy that honor. At six the car-\\nriages are at the door. The king is in one of them with\\nMadame de Montespan, Monsieur and Madame de Thianges,\\nand honest d Heudicourt in a fool s paradise on the stool.\\nYou know how these open carriages are made they do not\\nsit face to face, but all looking the same way. The queen\\noccupies another with the princess and the rest come flock-\\ning after, as it may happen. There are then gondolas on\\nthe canal, and music and at ten they come back, and then\\nthere is a play and twelve strikes, and they go to supper\\nand thus rolls round the Saturday. If I were to tell you\\nhow often you were asked after, how many questions were\\nput to me without waiting for answers, how often I neg-\\nlected to answer, how little they cared, and how much less\\nI did, you would see the iniqaa corte [wicked court] before\\nyou in all its perfection. However, it never was so pleasant\\nbefore, and everybody wishes it may last.\\nThere is your picture. Picture, pure and simple,\\nit is comment none, least of all, moralizing com-\\nment. The wish is sighed by everybody/ that\\nsuch pleasant things may last. Well, they did\\nlast the writer s time. But meanwhile the French\\nrevolution was a-preparing. A hundred years later\\nit will come, with its terrible reprisals.\\nWe have gone away from the usual translations\\nto find the foregoing extract in an article published\\nforty years ago and more, in the Edinburgh Re-\\nview. Again we draw from the same source\\nthis time, the description of a visit paid by a com-\\npany of grand folks, of whom the writer of the letter\\nwas one, to an iron-foundery", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0152.jp2"}, "153": {"fulltext": "Madame de Sevigne. 141\\nFriday, 1st Oct. (1677).\\nYesterday evening at Cone, we descended into a veritable\\nhell, the true forges of Vulcan. Eight or ten Cyclops were\\nat work, forging, not arms for ^Eneas, but anchors for ships.\\nYou never saw strokes redoubled so justly, nor with so\\nadmirable a cadence. We stood in the middle of four fur-\\nnaces and the demons came passing about us, all melting\\nin sweat, with pale faces, wild-staring eyes, savage mus-\\ntaches, and hair long and black, a sight enough to frighten\\nless well-bred folks than ourselves. As for me, I could not\\ncomprehend the possibility of refusing any thing which these\\ngentlemen, in their hell, might have chosen to exact. We\\ngot out at last, by the help of a shower of silver, with which\\nwe took care to refresh their souls, and facilitate our exit.\\nOnce more\\nParis, 29th November (1679).\\nI have been to the wedding of Madame de Louvois. How\\nshall I describe it Magnificence, illuminations, all France,\\ndresses all gold and brocade, jewels, braziers full of fire, and\\nstands full of flowers, confusions of carriages, cries out of\\ndoors, lighted torches, pushings back, people run over; in\\nshort, a whirlwind, a distraction questions without an-\\nswers, compliments without knowing what is said, civilities\\nwithout knowing who is spoken to, feet entangled in trains.\\nFrom the midst of all this, issue inquiries after your health,\\nwhich not being answered as quick as lightning, the\\ninquirers pass on, contented to remain in the state of igno-\\nrance and indifference in which they [the inquiries] were\\nmade. O vanity of vanities Pretty little De Mouchy has\\nhad the small-pox. vanity, et csetera\\nYet again. The gay writer has been sobered,\\nperhaps hurt, by a friend s frankly writing to her,\\nYou are old. To her daughter", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0153.jp2"}, "154": {"fulltext": "142 Classic French Course in English.\\nSo you were struck with the expression of Madame de la\\nFayette blended with so much friendship. Twas a truth,\\nI own, which I ought to have borne in mind; and yet I\\nmust confess it astonished me, for I do not yet perceive in\\nmyself any such decay. Nevertheless, I cannot help making\\nmany reflections and calculations, and I find the conditions\\nof life hard enough. It seems to me that I have been\\ndragged, against my will, to the fatal period when old age\\nmust be endured I see it I have come to it and I\\nwould fain, if I could help it, not go any farther not ad-\\nvance a step more in the road of infirmities, of pains, of\\nlosses of memory, of disfigurements ready to do me outrage\\nand I hear a voice which says, You must go on in spite of\\nyourself or, if you will not go on, you must die; and\\nthis is another extremity from which nature revolts. Such\\nis the lot, however, of all who advance beyond middle life.\\nWhat is their resource To think of the will of God and\\nof universal law, and so restore reason to its place, and be\\npatient. Be you, then, patient accordingly, my dear child,\\nand let not your affection soften into such tears as reason\\nmust condemn.\\nShe dates a letter, and recalls that the day was\\nthe anniversary of an event in her life\\nParis, Friday, Feb. 5, 1672.\\nThis day thousand years I was married.\\nHere is a passage with power in it. The great war\\nminister of Louis has died. Madame de Sevigne\\nwas now sixty-five years old. The letter is to her\\ncousin Coulanges\\nI am so astonished at the news of the sudden death of M.\\nde Louvois, that I am at a loss how to speak of it. Dead,\\nhowever, he is, this great minister, this potent being, who", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0154.jp2"}, "155": {"fulltext": "Madame de Sevigne. 143\\noccupied so great a place; whose me (le moi), as M. Nicole\\nsays, had so wide a dominion; who was the centre of so\\nmany orbs. What affairs had he not to manage! what\\ndesigns, what projects, what secrets! what interests to\\nunravel, what wars to undertake, what intrigues, what\\nnoble games at chess to play and to direct Ah my God,\\ngrant me a little time I want to give check to the Duke of\\nSavoy checkmate to the Prince of Orange. No, no, you\\nshall not have a moment, not a single moment. Are events\\nlike these to be talked of? Not they. We must reflect\\nupon them in our closets.\\nA glimpse of Bourclaloue\\nAh, that Bourdaloue! his sermon on the Passion was,\\nthey say, the most perfect thing of the kind that can be\\nimagined; it was the same he preached last year, but\\nrevised and altered with the assistance of some of his\\nfriends, that it might be wholly inimitable. How can one\\nlove God, if one never hears him properly spoken of You\\nmust really possess a greater portion of grace than others.\\nA distinguished caterer or steward, a gentleman\\ndescribed as possessing talent enough to have gov-\\nerned a province, commits suicide on a professional\\npoint of honor:\\nParis, Sunday, April 26, 1671.\\nI have just learned from Moreuil, of what passed at Chan-\\ntilly with regard to poor Yatel. I wrote to you last Friday\\nthat he had stabbed himself these are the particulars of\\nthe affair: The king arrived there on Thursday night; the\\nwalk, and the collation, which was served in a place set\\napart for the purpose, and strewed with jonquils, were just\\nas they should be. Supper was served; but there was no\\nroast meat at one or two of the tables, on account of Yatel s", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0155.jp2"}, "156": {"fulltext": "144 Classic French Course in English.\\nhaving been obliged to provide several dinners more than\\nwere expected. This affected his spirits and he was heard\\nto say several times, I have lost my honor! I cannot bear\\nthis disgrace! My head is quite bewildered, said he to\\nGourville. I have not had a wink of sleep these twelve\\nnights; I wish you would assist me in giving orders.\\nGourville did all he could to comfort and assist him, but\\nthe failure of the roast meat (which, however, did not\\nhappen at the king s table, but at some of the other twenty-\\nfive) was always uppermost with him. Gourville men-\\ntioned it to the prince [Conde, the great Conde, the king s\\nhost], who went directly to Yatel s apartment, and said to\\nhim, Every thing is extremely well conducted, Vatel;\\nnothing could be more admirable than his Majesty s\\nsupper. Your highness s goodness, replied he, over-\\nwhelms me; I am sensible that there was a deficiency of\\nroast meat at two tables. Not at all, said the\\nprince; do not perplex yourself, and all will go well.\\nMidnight came; the fireworks did not succeed; they were\\ncovered with a thick cloud; they cost sixteen thousand\\nfrancs. At four o clock in the morning Vatel went round\\nand found everybody asleep; he met one of the under-\\npurveyors, who was just come in with only two loads of\\nfish. What! said he, is this all? Yes, sir,\\nsaid the man, not knowing that Yatel had despatched other\\npeople to all the seaports around. Yatel waited for some\\ntime; the other purveyors did not arrive; his head grew\\ndistracted; he thought there was no more fish to be had.\\nHe flew to Gourville: Sir, said he, I cannot outlive\\nthis disgrace. Gourville laughed at him. Yatel, however,\\nwent to his apartment, and setting the hilt of his sword\\nagainst the door, after two ineffectual attempts, succeeded,\\nin the third, in forcing his sword through his heart. At\\nthat instant the couriers arrived with the fish Yatel was\\ninquired after to distribute it. They ran to his apartment,\\nknocked at the door, but received no answer; upon which", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0156.jp2"}, "157": {"fulltext": "Madame de SevignS. 145\\nthey broke it open, and found him weltering in his blood.\\nA messenger was immediately despatched to acquaint the\\nprince with what had happened, who was like a man in\\ndespair. The Duke wept, for his Burgundy journey de-\\npended upon Vatel\\nThe italics here are our own. We felt that we\\nmust use them.\\nIs it not all pathetic? But how exquisitely\\ncharacteristic of the nation and of the times\\nPoor Vatel, is the extent to which Madame de\\nSevigne allows herself to go in sympathy. Her\\nheart never bleeds very freely for anybody except\\nher daughter. Madame de Sevigne s heart, indeed,\\nwe grieve to fear, was somewhat hard.\\nIn another letter, after a long strain as worldly\\nas any one could wish to see, this lively woman thus\\ntouches, with a sincerity as unquestionable as the\\nlevity is, on the point of personal religion\\nBut, my dear child, the greatest inclination I have at\\npresent is to be a little religious. I plague La Mousse\\nabout it every day. I belong neither to God nor to the\\ndevil. I am quite weary of such a situation; though,\\nbetween you and me, I look upon it as the most natural one\\nin the world. I am not the devil s, because I fear God, and\\nhave at the bottom a principle of religion; then, on the\\nother hand, I am not properly God s, because his law\\nappears hard and irksome to me, and I cannot bring myself\\nto acts of self-denial so that altogether I am one of those\\ncalled lukewarm Christians, the great number of which does\\nnot in the least surprise me, for I perfectly understand their\\nsentiments, and the reasons that influence them. However,", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0157.jp2"}, "158": {"fulltext": "146 Classic French Course in English,\\nwe are told that this is a state highly displeasing to God if\\nso, we must get out of it. Alas this is the difficulty. Was\\never any thing so mad as I am, to be thus eternally pestering\\nyou with my rhapsodies\\nMadame de S6vign6 involuntarily becomes a\\nmaxim-maker\\nThe other day I made a maxim off-hand, without once\\nthinking of it; and I liked it so well that I fancied I had\\ntaken it out of M. de la Rochefoucauld s. Pray tell me\\nwhether it is so or not, for in that case my memory is more\\nto be praised than my judgment. I said, with all the ease\\nin the world, that ingratitude begets reproach, as ac-\\nknowledgment begets new favors. Pray, where did this\\ncome from Have I read it Did I dream it Is it my\\nown idea Nothing can be truer than the thing itself, nor\\nthan that I am totally ignorant how I came by it. I found\\nit properly arranged in my brain, and at the end of my\\ntongue.\\nThe partial mother lets her daughter know whom\\nthe maxim was meant for. She says, It is in-\\ntended for your brother. This young fellow had,\\nwe suspect, been first earning his mother s re-\\nproaches for spendthrift habits, and then getting\\nmore money from her by acknowledgment.\\nShe hears that son of hers read some chapters\\nout of Rabelais, which were enough, she de-\\nclares, to make us die with laughing. I cannot\\naffect, she says, a prudery which is not natural\\nto me. No, indeed, a prude this woman was not.\\nShe had the strong aesthetic stomach of her time.\\nIt is queer to have Rabelais rubbing cheek and jowl", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0158.jp2"}, "159": {"fulltext": "Madame de Sevigne. 147\\nwith Nicole We are going to begin a moral treatise\\nof Nicole s a severe Port-Royalist, in one and the\\nsame letter. But this is French above all, it is\\nMadame de Sevigne\\\\ By the way, she and her\\nfriends, first and last, die a thousand jolly deaths\\ntk with laughing.\\nA contemporary allusion to Tartuffe, with\\nmore French manners implied\\nThe other day La Biglesse played Tartuffe to the life.\\nBeing at table, she happened to tell a fib about some trifle or\\nother, which I noticed, and told her of it she cast her eyes\\nto the ground, and with a very demure air, Yes, indeed,\\nmadam, said she, I am the greatest liar in the world I am\\nvery much obliged to you for telling me of it. We all\\nburst out a-laughing, for it was exactly the tone of Tartuffe,\\nYes, brother, I am a wretch, a vessel of iniquity.\\nM. de La Rochefoucauld appears often by name\\nin the letters. Here he appears anonymously by\\nhis effect\\nWarm affections are never tranquil a maxim.\\nNot a very sapid bit of gnomic wisdom, certainly.\\nWe must immediately make up to our readers, on\\nMadame de Sevigne s behalf, for the insipidity of the\\nforegoing maxim of hers, by giving here two or\\nthree far more sententious excerpts from the letters,\\nexcerpts collected by another\\nThere may be so great a weight of obligation that there is\\nno way of being delivered from it but by ingratitude.\\nLong sicknesses wear out grief, and long hopes wear out\\njoy.", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0159.jp2"}, "160": {"fulltext": "148 Classic French Course in English.\\nShadow is never long taken for substance you must be,\\nif you would appear to be. The world is not unjust long.\\nMadame de Sevigne* makes a confession, which\\nwill comfort readers who may have experienced the\\nsame difficulty as that of which she speaks\\nI send you M. de Rochefoucauld s Maxims, revised and\\ncorrected, with additions it is a present to you from him-\\nself. Some of them I can make shift to guess the meaning\\nof but there are others that, to my shame be it spoken, I\\ncannot understand at all. God knows how it will be with\\nyou.\\nWhat was it changed this woman s mood to seri-\\nous? She could not have been hearing Massillon s\\ncelebrated sermon on the fewness of the elect, for\\nMassillon was yet only a boy of nine years she may\\nhave been reading Pascal s Thoughts, Pascal\\nhad been dead ten years, and the u Thoughts had\\nbeen published or she may have been listening to\\none of those sifting, heart-searching discourses of\\nBourdaloue, the date of her letter is March 16,\\n1672, and during the Lent of that year Bourdaloue\\npreached at Versailles, when she wrote sombrely as\\nfollows\\nYou ask me if I am as fond of life as ever. I must own\\nto you that I experience mortifications, and severe ones too\\nbut I am still unhappy at the thoughts of death I consider\\nit so great a misfortune to see the termination of all my\\npursuits, that I should desire nothing better, if it were prac-\\nticable, than to begin life again. I find myself engaged in a\\nscene of confusion and trouble I was embarked in life with-", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0160.jp2"}, "161": {"fulltext": "Madame de SevignS. 149\\nout my own consent, and know I must leave it again this\\ndistracts me, for how shall I leave it In what manner\\nBy what door At what time In what disposition Am\\nI to suffer a thousand pains and torments that will make me\\ndie in a state of despair Shall I lose my senses Am I to\\ndie by some sudden accident How shall I stand with God\\nWhat shall I have to offer to him Will fear and necessity\\nmake my peace with him Shall I have no other sentiment\\nbut that of fear What have I to hope Am I worthy of\\nheaven Or have I deserved the torments of hell Dread-\\nful alternative Alarming uncertainty Can there be\\ngreater madness than to place our eternal salvation in un-\\ncertainty Yet what is more natural, or can be more easily\\naccounted for, than the foolish manner in which I have spent\\nmy life I am frequently buried in thoughts of this nature,\\nand then death appears so dreadful to me that I hate life\\nmore for leading me to it, than I do for all the thorns that\\nare strewed in its way. You will ask me, then, if I would\\nwish to live forever Far from it but, if I had been con-\\nsulted, I would very gladly have died in my nurse s arms it\\nwould have spared me many vexations and would have in-\\nsured heaven to me at a very easy rate but let us talk of\\nsomething else.\\nA memorable sarcasm saved for us by Madame de\\nSevigne, at the very close of one of her letters\\nGuillenagues said yesterday that Pelisson abused the priv-\\nilege men have of being ugly.\\nEeaders familiar with Dickens s Tale of Two\\nCities, will recognize in the following narrative a\\nstate of society not unlike that described by the\\nnovelist as immediately preceding the French Rev-\\nolution", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0161.jp2"}, "162": {"fulltext": "150 Classic French Course in English.\\nThe Archbishop of Kheims, as he returned yesterday from\\nSt. Germain, met with a curious adventure. He drove at his\\nusual rate, like a whirlwind. If he thinks himself a great\\nman, his servants think him still greater. They passed\\nthrough Nanterre, when they met a man on horseback, and\\nin an insolent tone bid him clear the way. The poor man\\nused his utmost endeavors to avoid the danger that threat-\\nened him, but his horse proved unmanageable. To make\\nshort of it, the coach-and-six turned them both topsy-turvy\\nbut at the same time the coach, too, was completely over-\\nturned. In an instant the horse and the man, instead of\\namusing themselves with having their limbs broken, rose\\nalmost miraculously the man remounted, and galloped\\naway, and is galloping still, for aught I know while the ser-\\nvants, the archbishop s coachman, and the archbishop him-\\nself at the head of them, cried out, Stop that villain, stop\\nhim thrash him soundly! The rage of the archbishop\\nwas so great, that afterward, in relating the adventure, he\\nsaid, if he could have caught the rascal, he would have broke\\nall his bones, and cut off both his ears.\\nIf such things were clone by the aristocracy\\nand the spiritual aristocracy at that in the green\\ntree, what might not be expected in the dry?\\nThe writer makes no comment draws no moral.\\nAdieu, my dear, delightful child. I cannot ex-\\npress my eagerness to see you, are her next words.\\nShe rattles along, three short sentences more, and\\nfinishes her letter.\\nWe should still not have done with these letters,\\nwere we to go on a hundred pages, or two hundred,\\nfarther. Readers have already seen truly what\\nMadame de Sevigne is. They have only not seen\\nfully all that she is. And that they would not see", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0162.jp2"}, "163": {"fulltext": "Corneille. 151\\nshort of reading her letters entire. Horace Wal-\\npole aspired to do in English for his own time some-\\nthing like what Madame de Sevigne had done in\\nFrench for hers. In a measure he succeeded. The\\ndifference is, that he was imitative and affected,\\nwhere she was original and genuine.\\nLady Mary Wortley Montagu must, of course,\\nalso be named, as, by her sex, her social position,\\nher talent, and the devotion of her talent, an Eng-\\nlish analogue to Madame de Sevigne. But these\\ncomparisons, and all comparison, leave the French\\nwoman without a true parallel, alone in her rank,\\nthe most famous letter-writer in the world.\\nX.\\nCORNEILLE.\\n1606-1684.\\nThe two great names in French tragedy are Cor-\\nneille and Racine. French tragedy is a very\\ndifferent affair from either modern tragedy in Eng-\\nlish or ancient tragedy in Greek. It comes nearer\\nbeing Roman epic, such as Lucan wrote Roman\\nepic, dramatized.\\nDrama is everywhere and always, and this from\\nthe nature of things, a highly conventional literary", "height": "4061", "width": "2522", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0163.jp2"}, "164": {"fulltext": "152 Classic French Course in English.\\nform. But the convention under which French\\ntragedy should be judged differs, on the one hand,\\nfrom that which existed for Greek tragedy, and, on\\nthe other hand, from that existing for the English.\\nThe atmosphere of real life present in English\\ntragedy is absent in French. The quasi-supernatural\\nreligious awe that reigned over Greek tragedy, French\\ntragedy does not affect. You miss also in French\\ntragedy the severe simplicity, the self-restraint, the\\nstatuesque repose, belonging to the Greek model.\\nLoftiness, grandeur, a loftiness somewhat strained,\\na grandeur tending to be tumid, an heroic tone sus-\\ntained at sacrifice of ease and nature such is the\\nelement in which French tragedy lives and flourishes.\\nYou must grant your French tragedists this their\\nconventional privilege, or you will not enjoy them.\\nYou must grant them this, or you cannot understand\\nthem. Resolve that you will like grandiloquence,\\nrequiring only that the grandiloquence be good, and\\non this condition we can promise that you will be\\npleased with Corneille and Racine. In fact, our\\nreaders, we are sure, will find the grandiloquence of\\nthese two tragedy-writers so very good that a little\\nwill suffice them.\\nVoltaire in his time impressed himself strongly\\nenough on his countrymen to get accepted by his\\nown generation as an equal third in tragedy with\\nCorneille and Racine. There was then a French\\ntriumvirate of tragedists to be paralleled with the tri-\\numvirate of the Greeks. Corneille was JEschylus", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0164.jp2"}, "165": {"fulltext": "Corneille. 153\\nRacine was Sophocles and, of course, Euripides\\nhad his counterpart in Voltaire. Voltaire has since\\ndescended from the tragic throne, and that neat\\nsymmetry of trine comparison is spoiled. There is,\\nhowever, some trace of justice in making Corneille\\nas related to Eacine resemble JEschylus as related\\nto Sophocles. Corneille was first, more rugged,\\nloftier Racine was second, more polished, more\\nsevere in taste. Racine had, too, in contrast with\\nCorneille, more of the Euripidean sweetness. In\\nfact, La Bruyere s celebrated comparison of the two\\nFrenchmen made, of course, before Voltaire\\nyoked them, Corneille with Sophocles, Racine with\\nEuripides.\\nIt was perhaps not without its influence on the\\nstyle of Corneille, that a youthful labor of his in\\nauthorship was to translate, wholly or partially, the\\nPharsalia of Lucan. Corneille always retained\\nhis fondness for Lucan. This taste on his part, and\\nthe rhymed Alexandrines in which he wrote tragedy,\\nmay together help account for the hyper-heroic style\\nwhich is Corneille s great fault. A lady criticised\\nhis tragedy, u The Death of Pompey, by saying:\\n44 Very fine, but too many heroes in it. Corneille s\\ntragedies generally have, if not too many heroes, at\\nleast too much hero, in them. Concerning the his-\\ntorian Gibbon s habitual pomp of expression, it was\\nonce wittily said that nobody could possibly tell the\\ntruth in such a style as that. It would be equally\\nnear the mark if we should say of Corneille s chosen", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0165.jp2"}, "166": {"fulltext": "154 Classic French Course in English.\\nmould of verse, that nobody could possibly be simple\\nand natural in that. Moli re s comedy, however,\\nwould almost confute us.\\nPierre Corneille was born in Rouen. He studied\\nlaw, and he was admitted to practice as an advocate,\\nlike Moli re but, like Moli re, he heard and he\\nheeded an inward voice summoning him away from\\nthe bar to the stage. Corneille did not, however,\\nlike Moli re, tread the boards as an actor. He had\\na lively sense of personal dignity. He was eminently\\nthe lofty, grave tragedian, in his own esteem.\\nBut I am Pierre Corneille notwithstanding, he\\nself-respectingly said once, when friends were regret-\\nting to him some deficiency of grace in his personal\\ncarriage. One can imagine him taking off his hat\\nto himself with unaffected deference.\\nBut this serious genius began dramatic composi-\\ntion with writing comedy. He made several experi-\\nments in this kind with no commanding success\\nbut at thirty he wrote the tragedy of The Cid, and\\ninstantly became famous. His subsequent plays\\nwere chiefly on classical subjects. The subject of\\ni s The Cid was drawn from Spanish literature. This\\nwas emphatically what has been called an epoch-\\nmaking production. Richelieu s Academy, at\\nthe instigation, indeed almost under the dictation,\\nof Richelieu, who was jealous of Corneille, tried to\\nwrite it down. They succeeded about as Balaam suc-\\nceeded in prophesying against Israel. The Cid\\ntriumphed over them, and over the great minister.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0166.jp2"}, "167": {"fulltext": "Corneille. 155\\nIt established not only Corneille s fame, but his\\nauthority. The man of genius taken alone, proved\\nstronger than the men of taste taken together.\\nFor all this, however, our readers would hardly\\nrelish The Cid. Let us go at once to that tra-\\ngedy of Corneille s which, by the general consent of\\nFrench critics, is the best work of its author, the\\nPolyeuctes. The following is the rhetorical cli-\\nmax of praise in which Gaillard, one of the most\\nenlightened of Corneille s eulogists, arranges the\\ndifferent masterpieces of his author: The Cid\\nraised Corneille above his rivals the fi Horace and\\nthe Cinna above his models the Polyeuctes\\nabove himself. This tragedy will, we doubt not,\\nprove to our readers the most interesting of all the\\ntragedies of Corneille.\\nThe great Corneille to apply the traditionary\\ndesignation which, besides attributing to our trage-\\ndian his conceded general eminence in character\\nand genius, serves also to distinguish him by merit\\nfrom his younger brother, who wrote very good\\ntragedy was an illustrious figure at the Hotel de\\nRambouillet, that focus of the best literary criticism\\nin France. Corneille reading a play of his to the\\ncoterie of wits assembled there under the presidency\\nof ladies whose eyes, as in a kind of tournament of\\nletters, rained influence on authors, and judged the\\nprize of genius, is the subject of a striking picture\\nby a French painter. Corneille read Polyeuctes\\nat the Hotel de Rambouillet, and that awful court", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0167.jp2"}, "168": {"fulltext": "156 Classic French Course in English.\\ndecided against the play. Corneille, like Michel\\nAngelo, had to a good degree the courage of his own\\nproductions but, in the face of adverse decision\\nso august on his work, he needed encouragement,\\nwhich happily he did not fail to receive, before he\\nwould allow his Polyeuctes to be represented.\\nThe theatre crowned it with the laurels of victory. It\\nthus fell to Corneille to triumph successively, single-\\nhanded, over two great adversary courts of critical\\nappreciation, the Academy of Richelieu and the\\nnot less formidable Hotel de Rambouillet.\\nThe objection raised by the Hotel de Rambouillet\\nagainst the Polyeuctes was that it made the stage\\nencroach on the prerogative of the pulpit, and\\npreach instead of simply amusing. And, indeed,\\nnever, perhaps, since the Greek tragedy, was the\\ntheatre made so much to serve the solemn purposes\\nof religion. (We except the miracle and passion\\nplays and the mysteries of the middle ages, as not\\nbelonging within the just bounds of a comparison\\nlike that now made.) CorneihVs final influence\\nwas to elevate and purify the French theatre. In\\nhis early works, however, he made surprising con-\\ncessions to the lewd taste in the drama that he found\\nprevailing when he began to write. With whatever\\namount of genuine religious scruple affecting his\\nconscience, on that point we need not judge the\\npoet, Corneille used, before putting them on the\\nstage, to take his pla}-s to the Church, that\\nis, to the priestly hierarchy who constituted the", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0168.jp2"}, "169": {"fulltext": "Corneille. 157\\nChurch, that they might be authoritatively\\njudged as to their possible influence on the cause of\\nChristian truth.\\nIn the i Polyeuctes, the motive is religion. Poly-\\neuctes is an historic or traditional saint of the Roman-\\nCatholic church. His conversion from paganism is\\nthe theme of the play. Polyeuctes has a friend\\nNearchus who is already a Christian convert, and\\nwho labors earnestly to make Polyeuctes a proselyte\\nto the faith. Polyeuctes has previously married\\na noble Roman ladj daughter of Felix, governor\\nof Armenia, in which province the action of the\\nstory occurs. (The persecuting Emperor Decius is\\non the throne of the Roman world.) Paulina is\\nthe daughter s name. Paulina married Polyeuctes\\nagainst her own choice, for she loved Roman Severus\\nbetter. Her father had put his will upon her, and\\nPaulina had filially obeyed in marrying Polyeuctes.\\nSuch are the relations of the different persons of\\nthe drama. It will be seen that there is ample room\\nfor the play of elevated and tragic passions. Pau-\\nlina, in fact, is the lofty, the impossible, ideal of\\nwifely and daughterly truth and devotion. Pagan\\nthough she is, she is pathetically constant, both to\\nthe husband that was forced upon her, and to the\\nfather that did the forcing while still she loves,\\nand cannot but love, the man whom, in spite of her\\nlove for him, she, with an act like prolonged sui-\\ncide, stoically separates from her torn and bleeding\\nheart.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0169.jp2"}, "170": {"fulltext": "158 Classic French Course in English.\\nBut Severus on his part emulates the nobleness\\nof the woman whom he vainly loves. Learning the\\ntrue state of the case, he rises to the height of his\\nopportunity for magnanimous behavior, and bids\\nthe married pair be happy in a long life together.\\nA change in the situation occurs, a change due to\\nthe changed mood of the father, Felix. Felix learns\\nthat Severus is high in imperial favor, and he wishes\\nnow that Severus, instead of Polyeuctes, were his\\nson-in-law. A decree of the emperor makes it pos-\\nsible that this preferable alternative may yet be\\nrealized. For the emperor has decreed that Chris-\\ntians must be persecuted to the death, and Polyeuctes\\nhas been baptized a Christian though of this Felix\\nwill not hear till later.\\nA solemn sacrifice to the gods is to be celebrated\\nin honor of imperial victories lately won. Felix\\nsends to summon Polyeuctes, his son-in-law. To\\nFelix s horror, Polyeuctes, with his friend Nearchus,\\ncoming to the temple, proceeds in a frenzy of\\nenthusiasm to break and dishonor the images of the\\ngods, proclaiming himself a Christian. In obedience\\nto the imperial decree, Nearchus is hurried to execu-\\ntion, in the sight of his friend, while Polyeuctes is\\nthrown into prison to repent and recant.\\nNow is my chance, muses Felix. I dare not\\ndisobey the emperor, to spare Polyeuctes. Besides,\\nwith Polyeuctes once out of the way, Severus and\\nPaulina may be husband and wife.\\nPolyeuctes in prison hears that his Paulina is", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0170.jp2"}, "171": {"fulltext": "Corneille. 159\\ncoming to see him. With a kind of altruistic noble-\\nness which seems contagious in this play, Polyeuctes\\nresolves that Severus shall come too, and he will\\nresign his wife, soon to be a widow, to the care of\\nhis own rival, her Roman lover. First, Polyeuctes\\nand Paulina are alone together Polyeuctes having,\\nbefore she arrived, fortified his soul for the conflict\\nwith her tears, by singing in his solitude a song of\\nhigh resolve and of anticipative triumph over his\\ntemptation.\\nThe scene between Paulina, exerting all her power\\nto detach Polyeuctes from what she believes to be\\nhis folly, and Polyeuctes, on the other hand, rapt\\nto the pitch of martyrdom, exerting all his power\\nto resist his wife, and even to convert her this\\nscene, we say, is full of noble height and pathos,\\nas pathos and height were possible in the verse\\nwhich Corneille had to write. Neither struggler in\\nthis tragic strife moves the other. Paulina is with-\\ndrawing when Severus enters. She addresses her\\nlover severely, but Polyeuctes intervenes to defend\\nhim. In a short scene, Polyeuctes, by a sort of last\\nwill and testament, bequeaths his wife to his rival,\\nand retires with his guard. Now, Severus and Pau-\\nlina are alone together. If there was a trace of the\\nfalse heroic in Polyeuctes s resignation of his wife\\nto Severus, the effect of that is finely counteracted\\nby the scene which immediately follows between\\nPaulina and Severus. Severus begins doubtfully,\\nstaggering, as it were, to firm posture, while he", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0171.jp2"}, "172": {"fulltext": "160 Classic French Course in English.\\nspeaks to Paulina. He expresses amazement at the\\nconduct of Polyeuctes. Christians certainly deport\\nthemselves strangely, he says. He at length finds\\nhimself using the following lover-like language\\nAs for me, had my destiny become a little earlier propi-\\ntious and honored my devotion by marriage with you, I\\nshould have adored only the splendor of your eyes; of them\\nI should have made my kings of them I should have made\\nmy gods sooner would I have been reduced to dust, sooner\\nwould I have been reduced to ashes, than\\nBut here Paulina interrupts, and Severus is not\\npermitted to finish his protestation. Her reply is\\nesteemed, and justly esteemed, one of the noblest\\nthings in French tragedy a French critic would\\nbe likely to say, the very noblest in tragedy. She\\nsays\\nLet us break off there; I fear listening too long; I fear\\nlest this warmth, which feels your first fires, force on some\\nsequel unworthy of us both. [Yoltaire, who edited Cor-\\nneille with a feeling of freedom toward a national idol\\ncomparable to the sturdy independence that animated John-\\nson in annotating Shakspeare, says of This warmth which\\nfeels your first fires and which forces on a sequel That is\\nbadly written, agreed; but the sentiment gets the better\\nof the expression, and what follows is of a beauty of\\nwhich there had been no example. The Greeks were frigid\\ndeclaimers in comparison with this passage of Corneille.\\nSeverus, learn to know Paulina all in all.\\nMy Polyeuctes touches on his last hour; he has but a\\nmoment to live; you are the cause of this, though innocently\\nso. I know not if your heart, yielding to your desires, may\\nhave dared build any hope on his destruction; but know", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0172.jp2"}, "173": {"fulltext": "Corneille. 161\\nthat there is no death so cruel that to it with firm brow I\\nwould not bend my steps, that there are in hell no horrors\\nthat I would not endure, rather than soil a glory so pure,\\nrather than espouse, after his sad fate, a man that was in\\nany wise the cause of his death; and if you suppose me of a\\nheart so little sound, the love which I had for you would all\\nturn to hate. You are generous; be so even to the end.\\nMy father is in a state to yield every thing to you; he fears\\nyou; and I further hazard this saying, that, if he destroys my\\nhusband, it is to you that he sacrifices him. Save this un-\\nhappy man, use your influence in his favor, exert yourself to\\nbecome his support. I know that this is much that I ask;\\nbut the greater the effort, the greater the glory from it. To\\npreserve a rival of whom you are jealous, that is a trait of\\nvirtue which appertains only to you. And if your renown\\nis not motive sufficient, it is much that a woman once so\\nwell beloved, and the love of whom perhaps is still capable\\nof touching you, will owe to your great heart the dearest\\npossession that she owns remember, in short, that you are\\nSeverus. Adieu. Decide with yourself alone what you\\nought to do; if you are not such as I dare hope that you are,\\nthen, in order that I may continue to esteem you, I wish\\nnot to know it.\\nVoltaire, as editor and commentator of Corneille,\\nis freezingly cold. It is difficult not to feel that at\\nheart he was unfriendly to the great tragedist s\\nfame. His notes often are remorselessly gram-\\nmatical. This is not French This is not the\\nright word According to the construction, this\\nshould mean so and so according to the sense, it\\nmust mean so and so This is hardly intelligi-\\nble It is a pity that such or such a fault should\\nmar these fine verses An expression for comedy", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0173.jp2"}, "174": {"fulltext": "162 Classic French Course in English.\\nrather than tragedy, are the kind of remarks with\\nwhich Voltaire chills the enthusiasm of the reader.\\nIt is useless, however, to deny that the criticisms\\nthus made are many of them just. Corneille does\\nnot belong to the class of the faultily faultless\\nwriters.\\nSeverus proves equal to Paulina s noble hopes of\\nhim. With a great effort of self-sacrifice, he re-\\nsolves to intercede for Polyeuctes. This is shown\\nin an interview between Severus and his faithful\\nattendant Fabian. Fabian warns him that he ap-\\npeals for Polyeuctes at his own peril. Severus\\nloftily replies (and here follows one of the most\\nlauded passages in the play)\\nThat advice might be good for some common soul.\\nThough he [the Emperor Decius] holds in his hands my\\nlife and my fortune, I am yet Severus; and all that mighty\\npower is powerless over my glory, and powerless over my\\nduty. Here honor compels me, and I will satisfy it whether\\nfate afterward show itself propitious or adverse, perishing\\nglorious I shall perish content.\\nI will tell thee further, but under confidence, the sect of\\nChristians is not what it is thought to be. They are hated,\\nwhy I know not; and I see Decius unjust only in this\\nregard. From curiosity I have sought to become acquainted\\nwith them. They are regarded as sorcerers taught from\\nhell; and, in this supposition, the punishment of death is\\nvisited on secret mysteries which we do not understand.\\nBut Eleusinian Ceres and the Good Goddess have their\\nsecrets, like those at Rome and in Greece still we freely\\ntolerate everywhere, their god alone excepted, every kind of\\ngod; all the monsters of Egypt have their temples in Rome;", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0174.jp2"}, "175": {"fulltext": "Corneille. 163\\nour fathers, at their will, made a god of a man; and, their\\nblood in our veins preserving their errors, we fill heaven\\nwith all our emperors; but, to speak without disguise of\\ndeifications so numerous, the effect is very doubtful of such\\nmetamorphoses.\\nChristians have but one God, absolute master of all,\\nwhose mere will does whatever he resolves but, if I may\\nventure to say what seems to me true, our gods very often\\nagree ill together; and, though their wrath crush me before\\nyour eyes, we have a good many of them for them to be\\ntrue gods. Finally, among the Christians, morals are pure,\\nvices are hated, virtues flourish; they offer prayers on be-\\nhalf of us who persecute them; and, during all the time\\nsince we have tormented them, have they ever been seen\\nmutinous Have they ever been seen rebellious Have our\\nprinces ever had more faithful soldiers Fierce in war,\\nthey submit themselves to our executioners; and, lions in\\ncombat, they die like lambs. I pity them too much not to\\ndefend them. Come, let us find Felix; let us commune\\nwith his son-in-law and let us thus, with one single action,\\ngratify at once Paulina, and my glory, and my com-\\npassion.\\nSuch is the high heroic style in which pagan\\nSeverus resolves and speaks. And thus the fourth\\nact ends.\\nFelix makes a sad contrast with the high-hearted-\\nness which the other characters, most of them,\\ndisplay. He is base enough to suspect that Severus\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2is base enough to be false and treacherous in his\\nact of intercession for Polyeuctes. He imagines he\\ndetects a plot against himself to undermine him\\nwith the emperor. Voltaire criticises Corneille for\\ngiving this sordid character to Felix. He thinks", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0175.jp2"}, "176": {"fulltext": "164 Classic French Course in English.\\nthe tragedist might better have let Felix be actuated\\nby zeal for the pagan gods. The mean selfishness\\nthat animates the governor, Voltaire regards as\\nbelow the right tragic pitch. It is the poet him-\\nself, no doubt, with that high Roman fashion of his,\\nwho, unconsciously to the critic, taught him to make\\nthe criticism.\\nFelix summons Polyeuctes to an interview, and\\nadjures him to be a prudent man. Felix at length\\nsays, Adore the gods, or die. I am a Chris-\\ntian, simply replies the martyr. Impious Adore\\nthem, I bid you, or renounce life. (Here again\\nVoltaire offers One of his refrigerant criticisms\\nRenounce life does not advance upon the meaning\\nof die; when one repeats the thought, the expres-\\nsion should be strengthened. Paulina meantime\\nhas entered to expostulate with Polyeuctes and with\\nher father. Polyeuctes bids her, Live with Sev-\\nerus. He says he has revolved the subject, and he\\nis convinced that another love is the sole remedy\\nfor her woe. He proceeds in the calmest manner\\nto point out the advantages of the course recom-\\nmended. Voltaire remarks, justly, we are bound\\nto say, that these maxims are here somewhat\\nrevolting the martyr should have had other things\\nto say. Oh Felix s final word, Soldiers, execute\\nthe order that I have given, Paulina exclaims,\\nWhither are you taking him? To death,\\nsays Felix. To glory, says Polyeuctes. Ad-\\nmirable dialogue, and always applauded, is Vol-\\ntaire s note on this.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0176.jp2"}, "177": {"fulltext": "Corneille. 165\\nThe tragedy does not end with the martyrdom of\\nPolyeuctes. Paulina becomes a Christian, but re-\\nmains pagan enough to call her father barbarous\\nin acrimoniously bidding him finish his work by put-\\nting his daughter also to death. Severus reproaches\\nFelix for his cruelty, and threatens him with his own\\nenmity. Felix undergoes instantaneous conversion,\\na miracle of grace which, under the circumstances\\nprovided by Corneille, we may excuse Voltaire for\\nlaughing at. Paulina is delighted and Severus\\nasks, u Who would not be touched by a spectacle\\nso tender?\\nThe tragedy thus comes near ending happily\\nenough to be called a comedy.\\nSuch as the foregoing exhibits him, is Corneille,\\nthe father of French tragedy, where at his best\\nwhere at his worst, he is something so different that\\nyou would hardly admit him to be the same man.\\nFor never was genius more unequal in different\\nmanifestations of itself, than Corneille in his dif-\\nferent works. Moliere is reported to have said that\\nCorneille had a familiar, or a fairy, that came to him\\nat times, and enabled him to write sublimely but\\nthat, when the poet was left to himself, he could write\\nas poorly as another man.\\nCorneille produced some thirty-three dramatic\\npieces in all, but of these not more than six or\\nseven retain their place on the French stage.\\nBesides his plays, there is a translation in verse\\nby him of the Imitation of Christ there are", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0177.jp2"}, "178": {"fulltext": "166 Classic French Course in English.\\nmetrical versions of a considerable number of the\\nPsalms there are odes, madrigals, sonnets, stan-\\nzas, addresses to the king. Then there are dis-\\ncourses in prose on dramatic poetry, on tragedy,\\nand on the three unities. Add to these, elaborate\\nappreciations by himself of a considerable number\\nof his own plays, prefaces, epistles, arguments to\\nhis pieces, and you have, what with the notes, the\\nintroductions, the eulogies, and other such things\\nthat the faithful French editor knows so well how\\nto accumulate, matter enough of Corneille to swell\\nout eleven, or, in one edition, that issued under\\nNapoleon as First Consul, even twelve, handsome\\nvolumes of his works.\\nCorneille and Bossuet together constitute a kind\\nof rank by themselves among the Dii Majores of\\nthe French literary Olympus.\\nXI.\\nRACINE.\\n1639-1699.\\nJean Racine was Pierre Corneille reduced to rule.\\nThe younger was to the elder somewhat as Sophocles\\nor Euripides w r as to ^Eschylus, as Virgil was to\\nLucretius, as Pope was to Dryden. Nature was", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0178.jp2"}, "179": {"fulltext": "Racine. 167\\nmore in Corneille, art was more in Racine. Cor-\\nneille was a pathfinder in literature. He led the\\nway, even for Moli re, still more for Racine. But\\nRacine was as much before Corneille in perfection\\nof art, as Corneille was before Racine in audacity\\nof genius. Racine, accordingly, is much more even\\nand uniform than Corneille. Smoothness, polish,\\nease, grace, sweetness, these, and monotony in\\nthese, are the mark of Racine. But if there is,\\nin the latter poet, less to admire, there is also less\\nto forgive. His taste and his judgment were surer\\nthan the taste and the judgment of Corneille. He\\nenjoyed, moreover, an inestimable advantage in the\\nlife-long friendship of the great critic of his time,\\nBoileau. Boileau was a literary conscience to Ra-\\ncine. He kept Racine constantly spurred to his\\nbest endeavors in art. Racine was congratulating\\nhimself to his friend on the ease with which he pro-\\nduced his verse. Let me teach you to produce\\neasy verse with difficulty, was the critic s admi-\\nrable reply. Racine was a docile pupil. He became\\nas painstaking an artist in verse as Boileau would\\nhave him.\\nIt will always be a matter of individual taste, and\\nof changing fashion in criticism, to decide which of\\nthe two is, on the whole, to be preferred to the\\nother. Racine eclipsed Corneille in vogue during\\nthe lifetime of the latter. Corneille s old age was,\\nperhaps, seriously saddened by the consciousness,\\nwhich he could not but have, of being retired from", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0179.jp2"}, "180": {"fulltext": "168 Classic French Course in English.\\nthe place of ascendenc} 7 once accorded to him over\\nall. His case repeated the fortune of iEschylus in\\nrelation to Sophocles. The eighteenth century,\\ntaught by Voltaire, established the precedence of\\nRacine. But the nineteenth century has restored\\nthe crown to the brow of Corneille. To such mu-\\ntations is subject the fame of an author.\\nJean Racine was early left an orphan. His grand-\\nparents put him, after preparatory training at an-\\nother establishment, to school at Port Royal, where\\nduring three 3 r ears he had the best opportunities of\\neducation that the kingdom afforded. His friends\\nwanted to make a clergyman of him but the pref-\\nerences of the boy prevailed, and he addicted him-\\nself to literature. The Greek tragedists became\\nfamiliar to him in his youth, and their example in\\nliterary art exercised a sovereign influence over\\nRacine s development as author. It pained the\\ngood Port- Royalists to see their late gifted pupil,\\nnow out of their hands, inclined to write plays.\\nNicole printed a remonstrance against the theatre,\\nin which Racine discovered something that he took\\nto slant anonymously at himself. He wrote a spirited\\nreply, of which no notice was taken by the Port-\\nRoyalists. Somebody, however, on their behalf,\\nrejoined to Racine, whereupon the young author\\nwrote a second letter to the Port-Royalists, which\\nhe showed to his friend Boileau. This may do\\ncredit to your head, but it will do none to your\\nheart, was that faithful mentor s comment, in", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0180.jp2"}, "181": {"fulltext": "Racine. 169\\nreturning the document. Eacine suppressed his\\nsecond letter, and did his best to recall the first.\\nBut he went on in his course of writing for the\\nstage.\\nThe Thebaid was Eacine s first tragedy, at\\nleast his first that attained to the honor of being\\nrepresented. Moliere brought it out in his theatre,\\nthe Palais Eoyal. His second tragedy, the Alex-\\nander the Great, was also put into the hands of\\nMoliere.\\nThis latter play the author took to Corneille to\\nget his judgment on it. Corneille was thirty- three\\nyears the senior of Eacine, and he was at this time\\nthe undisputed master of French tragedy. You\\nhave undoubted talent for poetry for tragedy, not\\ntry your hand in some other poetical line, was Cor-\\nneille s sentence on the unrecognized young rival,\\nwho was so soon to supplant him in popular favor.\\nThe Andromache followed the Alexander,\\nand then Eacine did try his hand in another poetical\\nline; for he wrote a comedy, his only one, The\\nSuitors, as is loosely translated Les Plaideurs,\\na title which has a legal, and not an amorous, mean-\\ning. This play, after it had at first failed, Louis\\nXIV. laughed into court favor. It became thence-\\nforward a great success. It still keeps its place on\\nthe stage. It is, however, a farce, rather than a\\ncomedy.\\nWe pass over now one or two of the subsequent\\nproductions of Eacine, to mention next a play of", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0181.jp2"}, "182": {"fulltext": "170 Classic French Course in Unglish.\\nhis which had a singular historj\\\\ It was a fancy of\\nthe brilliant Princess Henriette (that same daughter\\nof English Charles L, Bossuet s funeral oration on\\nwhom, presently to be spoken of, is so celebrated)\\nto engage the two great tragedists, Corneille and\\nRacine, both at once, in labor, without their mutual\\nknowledge, upon the same subject, a subject\\nwhich she herself, drawing it from the history of\\nTacitus, conceived to be eminently fit for tragical\\ntreatment. Corneille produced his Berenice,\\nand Racine his Titus and Berenice. The prin-\\ncess died before the two plays which she had inspired\\nwere produced but, when they were produced, Ra-\\ncine s work won the palm. The rivalry created a\\nbitterness between the two authors, of which, natu-\\nrall} the defeated one tasted the more deeply. An\\nill-considered pleasantry, too, of Racine s, in making,\\nout of one of Corneille s tragic lines in his u Cid,\\na comic line in The Suitors, hurt the old man s\\npride. That pride suffered a worse hurt still. The\\nchief Parisian theatre, completely occupied with the\\nworks of his victorious rival, rejected tragedies\\noffered by Corneille.\\nStill, Racine did not have tilings all his own way.\\nSome good critics considered the rage for this\\nyounger dramatist a mere passing whim of fashion.\\nThese Madame de Sevigne was of them stood\\nby their old admiration, and were true to Cor-\\nneille.\\nA memorable mortification and chagrin for our", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0182.jp2"}, "183": {"fulltext": "Racine. 171\\npoet was now prepared by his enemies he seems\\nnever to have lacked enemies with lavish and\\nelaborate malice. Racine had produced a play from\\nEuripides, the Phaedra, on which he had un-\\nstintingly bestowed his best genius and his best art.\\nIt was contrived that another poet, one Pradon,\\nshould, at the self-same moment, have a play rep-\\nresented on the self-same subject. At a cost of\\nmany thousands of dollars, the best seats at Racine s\\ntheatre were all bought by his enemies, and left\\nsolidly vacant. The best seats at Pradon s theatre\\nwere all bought by the same interested parties, and\\nduly occupied with industrious and zealous applaud-\\ners. This occurred at six successive representa-\\ntions. The result was the immediate apparent\\ntriumph of Pradon over the humiliated Racine.\\nBoileau in vain bade his friend be of good cheer,\\nand await the assured reversal of the verdict.\\nRacine was deeply wounded.\\nThis discomposing experience of the poet s, joined\\nwith conscientious misgivings on his part as to the\\npropriety of his course in writing for the stage, led\\nhim now, at the early age of thirty-eight, to renounce\\ntragedy altogether. His son Louis, from whose\\nlife of Racine we have chiefly drawn our material\\nfor the present sketch, conceives this change in his\\nfather as a profound and genuine religious conver-\\nsion. Writers whose spirit inclines them not to\\nrelish a condemnation such as seems thus to be\\nreflected on the theatre, take a less charitable", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0183.jp2"}, "184": {"fulltext": "172 Classic French Course in English.\\nview of the change. They account for it as a\\nreaction of mortified pride. Some of them go so\\nfar as groundlessly to impute sheer hypocrisy to\\nRacine.\\nA long interval of silence, on Racine s part, had\\nelapsed, when Madame de Maintenon, the wife of\\nLouis XIV., asked the unemployed poet to prepare\\na sacred play for the use of the high-born girls\\neducated under her care at St. Cyr. Racine con-\\nsented, and produced his Esther. This achieved\\na prodigious success for the court took it up, and\\nan exercise written for a girls school became the\\nadmiration of a kingdom. A second similar play\\nfollowed, the u Athaliah, the last, and, by gen-\\neral agreement, the most perfect, work of its author.\\nWe thus reach that tragedy of Racine s which both\\nits fame and its character dictate to us as the one\\nby eminence to be used here in exhibition of the\\nquality of this Virgil among tragedists.\\nOur readers may, if they please, refresh their\\nrecollection of the history on which the drama is\\nfounded by perusing Second Kings, chapter eleven,\\nand Second Chronicles, chapters twenty-two and\\ntwenty-three. Athaliah, whose name gives its title\\nto the tragedy, was daughter to the wicked king,\\nAhab. She reigns as queen at Jerusalem over the\\nkingdom of Judah. To secure her usurped position,\\nshe had sought to kill all the descendants of King\\nDavid, even her own grandchildren. She had suc-\\nceeded, but not quite. Young Joash escaped, to", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0184.jp2"}, "185": {"fulltext": "Racine. 173\\nbe secretly reared in the temple by the high priest.\\nThe final disclosure of this hidden prince, and his\\ncoronation as king in place of usurping Athaliah,\\ndestined to be fearfully overthrown, and put to death\\nin his name, afford the action of the play. Action,\\nhowever, there is almost none in classic French\\ntragedy. The tragic drama is, with the French, as\\nit was with the Greeks, after whom it was framed,\\nmerely a succession of scenes in w r hich speeches are\\nmade by the actors. Lofty declamation is always\\nthe character of the play. In the Athaliah, as\\nin the Esther, Racine introduced the feature of\\nthe chorus, a restoration which had all the effect\\nof an innovation. The chorus in Athaliah con-\\nsisted of Hebrew virgins, who, at intervals marking\\nthe transitions between the acts, chanted the spirit\\nof the piece in its successive stages of progress\\ntoward the final catastrophe. The Athaliah is\\nalmost proof against technical criticism. It is\\nacknowledged to be, after its kind, a nearly ideal\\nproduct of art.\\nThere is a curious story about the fortune of this\\npiece with the public, that will interest our readers.\\nThe first success of Athaliah was not great. In\\nfact, it was almost a flat failure. But a company of\\nwits, playing at forfeits somewhere in the country,\\nseverely sentenced one of their number to go by\\nhimself, and read the first act of Athaliah. The\\nvictim went, and did not return. Sought at length,\\nhe was found just commencing a second perusal of", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0185.jp2"}, "186": {"fulltext": "174 Classic French Course in English.\\nthe play entire. He reported of it so enthusiasti-\\ncally, that he was asked to read it before the com-\\npany, which he did, to their delight. This started\\na reaction in favor of the condemned play, which\\nsoon came to be counted the masterpiece of its\\nauthor.\\nFirst, in specimen of the choral feature of the\\ndrama, we content ourselves with giving a single cho-\\nrus from the Athaiiah. This we turn into rhyme,\\nclinging pretty closely all the way to the form of the\\noriginal. Attentive readers may, in one place of our\\nrendering, observe an instance of identical rhyme.\\nThis, in a piece of verse originally written in English,\\nwould, of course, be a fault. In a translation from\\nFrench, it may pass for a merit since, to judge from\\nthe practice of the national poets, the French ear\\nseems to be even better pleased with such strict identi-\\nties of sound, at the close of corresponding lines, than\\nit is with those definite mere resemblances to which,\\nin English versification, rhymes are rigidly lim-\\nited. Suspense between hope and dread, dread\\npreponderating, is the state of feeling represented\\nin the present chorus. Salomith is the leading\\nSalomith.\\nThe Lord hath deigned to speak,\\nBut what he to his prophet now hath shown\\nWho unto us will make it clearly known\\nArms he himself to save us, poor and weak\\nArms he himself to have us overthrown", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0186.jp2"}, "187": {"fulltext": "Racine. 175\\nThe whole Chorus.\\npromises O threats O mystery profound\\nWhat woe, what weal, are each in turn foretold\\nHow can so much of wrath be found\\nSo much of love to enfold\\nA Voice.\\nZion shall be no more a cruel flame\\nWill all her ornaments devour.\\nA Second Voice.\\nGod shelters Zion she has shield and tower\\nIn His eternal name.\\nFirst Voice.\\n1 see her splendor all from vision disappear.\\nSecond Voice.\\nI see on every side her glory shine more clear.\\nFirst Voice.\\nInto a deep abyss is Zion sunk from sight.\\nSecond Voice.\\nZion lifts up her brow amid celestial light.\\nFirst Voice.\\nWhat dire despair\\nSecond Voice.\\nWhat praise from every tongue\\nFirst Voice.\\nWhat cries of grief\\nSecond Voice.\\nWhat songs of triumph sung!", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0187.jp2"}, "188": {"fulltext": "176 Classic French Course in English.\\nA Third Voice.\\nCease we to vex ourselves our God, one day,\\nWill this great mystery make clear.\\nAll Three Voices.\\nLet us his wrath revere,\\nWhile on his love, no less, our hopes we stay.\\nThe catastrophe is reached in the coronation of\\nlittle Joash as king, and in the destruction of usurp-\\ning and wicked Athaliah. Little Joash, by the wa}\\nwith his rather precocious wisdom of reply, derived\\nto himself, for the moment, a certain factitious in-\\nterest, from the resemblance, meant by the poet to\\nbe divined by spectators, between him and the little\\nDuke of Burgundy, Louis XIV. s grandson, then\\nof about the same age with the Hebrew boy, and\\nof high reputation for mental vivacity.\\nThe scene in which the high priest, Jehoiada, for\\nthe first time discloses to his foster-son, Joash, the\\nlatter s royal descent from David, and his true heir-\\nship to the throne of Juclah, will serve sufficiently\\nto exhibit what maturity of modest and pious wis-\\ndom the dramatist attributes to this Hebrew boy of\\nnine or ten years. Nine or ten years of age Eacine\\nmakes Joash, instead of seven, as Scripture, inter-\\npreted without violence, would make him. The lad\\nhas had his sage curiosity excited by seeing prepa-\\nrations in progress for some important ceremonial.\\nThat ceremonial is his own coronation, but he does\\nnot guess the secret. Nay, he has just touchingly", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0188.jp2"}, "189": {"fulltext": "Racine. 177\\nasked his foster-mother, observed by him to be in\\ntears\\nWliat pity touches you Is it that in a holocaust to be\\nthis day offered, I, like Jephtha s daughter in other times,\\nmust pacify by my death the anger of the Lord Alas, a\\nson has nothing that does not belong to his father\\nThe discreet foster-mother refers the lad to her\\nhusband, Jehoiada, now approaching. Joash rushes\\ninto the arms of the high priest, exclaiming, My\\nfather! Well, my son? the high-priest re-\\nplies. What preparations, then, are these? asks\\nJoash. The high priest bids him prepare himself\\nto listen and learn, the time being now come for\\nhim to pay his debt to God\\nJoash. I feel myself ready, if he wishes it, to give to\\nhim my life.\\nJehoiada. You have often heard read the history of\\nour kings. Do you remember, my son, what strict laws a\\nking worthy of the crown ought to impose upon himself\\nJoash. A wise and good king, so hath God himself de-\\nclared, puts not his reliance upon riches and gold he fears\\nthe Lord his God, has ever before him his precepts, his\\nlaws, his judgments severe, and does not with unjust bur-\\ndens overwhelm his brethren.\\nFenelon had already been two years preceptor to\\nthe Duke of Burguncly when this tragedy was writ-\\nten. It is impossible not to feel that Racine must\\nhave had that prince in mind when he put into the\\nmouth of young Joash sentiments so likely to have", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0189.jp2"}, "190": {"fulltext": "178 Classic French Course in English.\\nbeen instilled into the heart of his royal pupil, the\\ngreat king s grandson, by such a preceptor as Fene-\\nlon. How could the selfish old monarch of France\\ncontrive to avoid recognizing his own portrait, sug-\\ngested by contrast in that description of the good\\nking from the lips of little Joash Racine was here\\ntreading on treacherous ground. He will presently\\nfind his footing quite give way under him, to let\\nhim down into the horrible pit of disgrace with\\nhis king. This not, however, in the present play.\\nThe tragedist has generously bestowed upon\\nwicked Queen Athaliah a certain loftiness of spirit\\nwhich, in its display in the final catastrophe, almost re-\\ndeems her to admiration, if not to sympathy. There\\nis nothing in the play more nearly sublime in decla-\\nmation than the final speech in which Athaliah greets\\nher own doom, and blasphemously forecasts, for\\nyoung King Joash, a future of apostasy from God.\\nWith this admirable piece of rhetoric, resembling a\\nburst of blasphemy from Satan in Paradise Lost,\\nso far as French poetry may be allowed to resemble\\nEnglish, we conclude our representation of Racine.\\nAthaliah has now just heard the announcement of\\nthings that assure her of the overthrow of her\\nusurpation. She expresses herself in a speech, the\\nfirst words of which were, no doubt, designed by the\\npoet to recall the celebrated traditional exclamation\\nof Julian the Apostate, uttered 7 at a moment of\\nirretrievable disaster to his impious hopes, u O\\nGalilean, thou hast conquered as follows", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0190.jp2"}, "191": {"fulltext": "Racine* 179\\nGod of the Jews, tis thou that dost prevail!\\nAy, it is Joash all without avail\\nSeek I to cheat myself with other thought\\nI know the wound my weapon on him wrought\\nI see his father Ahaziah s face;\\nNaught but brings back to me that hated race.\\nDavid doth triumph, Ahab only fall,\\nUnpitying God, thou only hast done all\\nTis thou that flattering me to hope in vain\\nFor easy vengeance, o er and o er again\\nHast with myself myself embroiled anew,\\nNow pangs of conscience rousing, not a few,\\nNow dazzling me with thy rich treasures rare,\\nWhich I to burn or pillage did not dare.\\nLet him, then, reign, this son, thy care, thy toil,\\nAnd, so to signalize his new-got spoil,\\nLet him into my bosom plunge the knife,\\nAnd take with filial hand his mother s life.\\nHearken what wish for him she dying breathes\\nWish nay, what hope, assured hope, bequeaths,\\nThat, disobedient, proud, rebellious, he,\\nFaithful to Ahab s blood received from me,\\nTo his grandfather, to his father, like,\\nAbhorrent heir of David, down may strike\\nThy worship and thy fane, avenger fell\\nOf Athaliah, Ahab, Jezebel!\\nWith words thus rendered into such English verse\\nas we could command for the purpose, Athaliah\\ndisappears from the stage. Her execution follows\\nimmediately. This is not exhibited, but is announced\\nwith brief, solemn comment from Jehoiada. And\\nso the tragedy ends.\\nThe interest of the piece, to the modern reader,\\nis by no means equal to its fame. One reproaches", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0191.jp2"}, "192": {"fulltext": "180 Classic French Course in English.\\none s self, but one yawns in conscientiously perusing\\nit. Still, one feels the work of the author to be\\nirreproachably, nay, consummately, good. But\\nfashions in taste change and we cannot hold our-\\nselves responsible for admiring, or, at any rate, for\\nenjoying, according to the judgment of other races\\nand of former generations. It is so, with grave\\nconcurrence, we say It is a great classic, worthy\\nof the praise that it receives. We are glad that we\\nhave read it and, let us be candid, equally glad\\nthat we have not to read it again.\\nAs has already been intimated, Racine, after\\nAthaliah, wrote tragedy no more. He ceased\\nto interest himself in the fortune of his plays. His\\nson Louis, in his Life of his father, testifies that he\\nnever heard his father speak in the family of the\\ndramas that he had written. His theatrical triumphs\\nseemed to afford him no pleasure. He repented of\\nthem rather than gloried in them.\\nWhile one need not doubt that this regret of\\nRacine s for the devotion of his powers to the pro-\\nduction of tragedy, was a sincere regret of his con-\\nscience, one may properly wish that the regret had\\nbeen more heroic. The fact is, Racine was some-\\nwhat feminine in character as well as in genius.\\nHe could not beat up with stout heart undismayed\\nagainst an adverse wind. And the wind blew ad-\\nverse at length to Racine, from the principal quarter,\\nthe court of Versailles. From being a chief favorite\\nwith his sovereign, Racine fell into the position of", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0192.jp2"}, "193": {"fulltext": "Racine. 181\\nan exile from the royal presence. The immediate\\noccasion was one honorable rather than otherwise\\nto the poet.\\nIn conversation with Madame de Maintenon,\\nEacine had expressed views on the state of France\\nand on the duties of a king to his subjects, which\\nso impressed her mind that she desired him to\\nreduce his observations to writing, and confide them\\nto her, she promising to keep them profoundly secret\\nfrom Louis. But Louis surprised her with the manu-\\nscript in her hand. Taking it from her, he read in\\nit, and demanded to know the author. Madame de\\nMaintenon could not finally refuse to tell. Does\\nM. Racine, because he is a great poet, think that\\nhe knows everything? the despot angrily asked.\\nLouis never spoke to Eacine again. The distressed\\nand infatuated poet still made some paltry request\\nof the king, to experience the humiliation that he\\ninvoked. His request was not granted. Eacine\\nwilted, like a tender plant, under the sultry frown\\nof his monarch. He could not rally. He soon\\nafter died, literally killed by the mere displeasure\\nof one man. Such was the measureless power\\nwielded by Louis XIV. such was the want of virile\\nstuff in Eacine. A spirit partly kindred to the tra-\\ngedist, Archbishop Fenelon, will presently be shown\\nto have had at about the same time a partly similar\\nexperience.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0193.jp2"}, "194": {"fulltext": "182 Classic French Course in English\\nXII.\\nBOSSUET: 1627-1704; BOURDALOUE: 1632-\\n1704; MASSILLON: 1663-1742.\\nWe group three names in one title, Bossuet, Bour-\\ndaloue, Massillon, to represent the pulpit orators of\\nFrance. There are other great names, as Flechier,\\nwith Claude and Saurin, the last two, Protestants\\nboth, but the names we choose are the greatest.\\nBossuet s individual distinction is, that he was a\\ngreat man as well as a great orator Bourdaloue s,\\nthat he was priest-and-preacher simply Massillon s,\\nthat his sermons, regarded quite independently of\\ntheir subject, their matter, their occasion, regarded\\nmerely as masterpieces of pure and classic style,\\nbecame at once, and permanently became, a part of\\nFrench literature.\\nThe greatness of Bossuet is an article in the\\nFrench national creed. No Frenchman disputes it\\nno Frenchman, indeed, but proclaims it. Protestant\\nagrees with Catholic, infidel with Christian, at least\\nin this. Bossuet, twinned here with Corneille, is to\\nthe Frenchman, as Milton is to the Englishman, his\\nsynonym for sublimity. Eloquence, somehow, seems\\na thing too near the common human level to answer\\nfully the need that Frenchmen feel in speaking of\\nBossuet. Bossuet is not eloquent, he is sublime.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0194.jp2"}, "195": {"fulltext": "Bossuet. 183\\nThat in French it is in equal part oratory, while in\\nEnglish it is poetry almost alone, that supplies in\\nliterature its satisfaction to the sentiment of the\\nsublime, very well represents the difference in genius\\nbetween the two races. The French idea of poetry\\nis eloquence and it is eloquence carried to its height,\\nwhether in verse or in prose, that constitutes for the\\nFrenchman sublimity. The difference is a difference\\nof blood. English blood is Teutonic in base, and\\nthe imagination of the Teuton is poetic. French\\nblood, in base, is Celtic and the imagination of the\\nCelt is oratoric.\\nJacques Benigne Bossuet was of good bourgeois,\\nor middle-class, stock. He passed a well-ordered\\nand virtuous youth, as if in prophetic consistency\\nwith what was to be his subsequent career. He was\\nbrought forward while a young man in the Hotel\\nde Eambouillet, where, on a certain occasion, he\\npreached a kind of show sermon, under the auspices\\nof his admiring patron. In due time he attracted\\nwide public attention, not merely as an eloquent\\norator, but as a profound student and as a powerful\\ncontroversialist. His character and influence be-\\ncame in their maturity such, that La Bruy re aptly\\ncalled him a Father of the Church. The Cor-\\nneille of the pulpit, was Henri Martin s charac-\\nterization and praise. A third phrase, the eagle\\nof Meaux, has passed into almost an alternative\\nname for Bossuet. He soared like an eagle in his\\neloquence, and he was bishop of Meaux.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0195.jp2"}, "196": {"fulltext": "184 Classic French Course in English.\\nBossuet and Louis XIV. were exactly suited to\\neach other, in the mutual relation of subject and\\nsovereign. Bossuet preached sincerely as every-\\nbody knows Louis sincerely practised the doctrine\\nof the divine right of kings to rule absolutely. But\\nthe proud prelate compromised neither his own dig-\\nnity nor the dignity of the Church in the presence\\nof the absolute monarch.\\nBossuet threw himself with great zeal, and to pro-\\ndigious effect, into the controversy against Protes-\\ntantism. His History of the Variations of the\\nProtestant Churches, in two good volumes, was\\none of the mightiest pamphlets ever written. As\\ntutor to the Dauphin (the king s eldest son), he\\nproduced, with other works, his celebrated u Dis-\\ncourse on Universal Histor}\\\\\\nIn proceeding now to give, from the three great\\npreachers named in our title, a few specimen pas-\\nsages of the most famous pulpit oratory in the world,\\nwe need to prepare our readers against a natural\\ndisappointment. That which they are about to see\\nhas nothing in it of what will at first strike them as\\nbrilliant. The pulpit eloquence of the Augustan\\nage of France was distinctly classic, and not at\\nall u romantic, in style. Its character is not ornate,\\nbut severe. There is little rhetorical figure in it,\\nlittle of that illustration which our own different\\nnational taste is accustomed to demand from the\\npulpit. There is plenty of white light, dry light\\nand white, for the reason but there is almost no", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0196.jp2"}, "197": {"fulltext": "Bossuet. 185\\nbright color for the fancy, and, it must be added,\\nnot a great deal of melting warmth for the heart.\\nThe funeral orations of Bossuet are generally es-\\nteemed the masterpieces of this orator s eloquence.\\nHe had great occasious, and he was great to match\\nthem. Still, readers might easily be disappointed in\\nperusing a funeral oration of Bossuet s. The dis-\\ncourse will generally be found to deal in common-\\nplaces of description, of reflection, and of sentiment.\\nThose commonplaces, however, are often made very\\nimpressive by the lofty, the magisterial, the imperial,\\nmanner of the preacher in treating them. We ex-\\nhibit a specimen, a single specimen only, and a\\nbrief one, in the majestic exordium to the funeral\\noration on the Princess Henrietta of England.\\nThis princess was the last one left of the children\\nof King Charles I. of England. Her mother s death\\nher mother was of the French house of Bourbon\\nhad occurred but a short time before, and Bossuet\\nhad on that occasion pronounced the eulogy. The\\ndaughter, scarcely returned to France from a secret\\nmission of state to England, the success cf which\\nmade her an object of distinguished regard at Ver-\\nsailles, suddenly fell ill and died. Bossuet was\\nsummoned to preach at her funeral. (TTe have not\\nbeen able to find an English translation of Bossuet,\\nand we accordingly make the present transfer from\\nFrench ourselves. We do the same, for the same\\nreason, in the case of Massillon. In the case of\\nBourdaloue, we succeeded in obtaining a printed", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0197.jp2"}, "198": {"fulltext": "186 Classic French Course in English.\\ntranslation which we could modify to suit our pur-\\npose.) Bossuet\\nIt was then reserved for my lot to pay this funereal trib-\\nute to the high and potent princess, Henrietta of England,\\nDuchess of Orleans. She whom I had seen so attentive\\nwhile I was discharging a like office for the queen her\\nmother, was so soon after to be the subject of a similar dis-\\ncourse, and my sad voice was predestined to this melancholy\\nservice. O vanity O nothingness O mortals ignorant of\\ntheir destiny! Ten months ago, would she have believed\\nit And you, my hearers, would you have thought, while\\nshe was shedding so many tears in this place, that she was\\nso soon to assemble you here to deplore her own loss O\\nprincess the worthy object of the admiration of two great\\nkingdoms, was it not enough that England should deplore\\nyour absence, without being yet further compelled to deplore\\nyour death France, who with so much joy beheld you\\nagain, surrounded with a new brilliancy, had she not in\\nreserve other pomps and other triumphs for you, returned\\nfrom that famous voyage whence you had brought hither so\\nmuch glory, and hopes so fair Yanity of vanities; all is\\nvanity. Nothing is left for me to say but that; that is the\\nonly sentiment which, in presence of so strange a casualty,\\ngrief so well-grounded and so poignant, permits me to in-\\ndulge. Nor have I explored the Holy Scriptures in order to\\nfind therein some text which I might apply to this princess\\nI have taken, without premeditation and without choice,\\nthe first expression presented to me by the Preacher, with\\nwhom vanity, although it has been so often named, is yet,\\nto my mind, not named often enough to suit the purpose\\nthat I have in view. I wish, in a single misfortune, to\\nlament all the calamities of the human race, and in a single\\ndeath to exhibit the death and the nothingness of all human\\ngreatness. This text, which suits all the circumstances and\\nall the occurrences of our life, becomes, by a special adapted-", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0198.jp2"}, "199": {"fulltext": "JBossuet. 187\\nness, appropriate to my mournful theme since never were\\nthe vanities of the earth either so clearly disclosed or so\\nopenly confounded. No, after what we have just seen,\\nhealth is but a name, life is but a dream, glory is but a\\nshadow, charms and pleasures are but a dangerous diversion.\\nEvery thing is vain within us, except the sincere acknowl-\\nedgment made before God of our vanity, and the fixed judg-\\nment of the mind, leading us to despise all that we are.\\nBut did I speak the truth Man, whom God made in his\\nown image, is he but a shadow That which Jesus Christ\\ncame from heaven to earth to seek, that which he deemed that\\nhe could, without degrading himself, ransom with his own\\nblood, is that a mere nothing Let us acknowledge our mis-\\ntake; surely this sad spectacle of the vanity of things human\\nwas leading us astray, and public hope, baffled suddenly by\\nthe death of this princess, was urging us too far. It must\\nnot be permitted to man to despise himself entirely, lest he,\\nsupposing, in common with the wicked, that our life is but a\\ngame in which chance reigns, take his way without rule and\\nwithout self-control, at the pleasure of his own blind wishes.\\nIt is for this reason that the Preacher, after having com-\\nmenced his inspired production by the expressions which I\\nhave cited, after having filled all its pages with contempt for\\nthings human, is pleased at last to show man something\\nmore substantial, by saying to him, Fear God, and keep\\nhis commandments; for this is the whole duty of man. For\\nGod shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret\\nthing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil. Thus\\nevery thing is vain in man, if we regard what he gives to the\\nworld; but, on the contrary, every thing is important, if we\\nconsider what he owes to God. Once again, every thing is\\nvain in man, if we regard the course of his mortal life; but\\nevery thing is of value, every thing is important, if we con-\\ntemplate the goal where it ends, and the accoimt of it which\\nhe must render. Let us, therefore, meditate to-day, in pres-\\nence of this altar and of this tomb, the first and the last", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0199.jp2"}, "200": {"fulltext": "188 Classic French Course in English\\nutterance of the Preacher; of which the one shows the\\nnothingness of man, the other establishes his greatness.\\nLet this tomb convince us of our nothingness, provided that\\nthis altar, where is daily offered for us a Victim of price so\\ngreat, teach us at the same time our dignity. The princess\\nwhom we weep shall be a faithful witness, both of the one\\nand of the other. Let us survey that which a sudden death\\nhas taken away from her; let us survey that which a holy\\ndeath has bestowed upon her. Thus shall we learn to de-\\nspise that which she quitted without regret, in order to\\nattach all our regard to that which she embraced with so\\nmuch ardor, when her soul, purified from all earthly senti-\\nments, full of the heaven on whose border she touched, saw\\nthe light completely revealed. Such are the truths wdiich I\\nhave to treat, and which I have deemed worthy to be pro-\\nposed to so great a prince, and to the most illustrious assem-\\nbly in the world.\\nIt will be felt how removed is the foregoing from\\nany thing like an effort, on the preacher s part, to\\nstartle his audience with the far-fetched and unex-\\npected. It must, however,, be admitted that Bossuet\\nwas not always as, of our Webster, it has well been\\nsaid that he always was superior to the tempta-\\ntion to exaggerate an occasion by pomps of rhetoric.\\nBossuet was a great man, but tie was not quite great\\nenough to be wholly free from pride of self -con-\\nsciousness in matching himself as orator against\\nthe most illustrious assembly in the world.\\nThe ordinary sermons of Bossuet are less read,\\nand they less deserve perhaps to be read, than those\\nof Bourdaloue and Massillon.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0200.jp2"}, "201": {"fulltext": "Bourdaloue. 189\\nBourdaloue was a voice. He was the voice of\\none crying, not in the wilderness, but amicl the homes\\nand haunts of men, and, by eminence, in the court\\nof the most powerful and most splendid of earthly\\nmonarchs. He was a Jesuit, one of the most de-\\nvoted and most accomplished of an order filled with\\ndevoted and accomplished men. It belonged to his\\nJesuit character and Jesuit training, that Bourdaloue\\nshould hold the place that he did as ever-successful\\ncourtier at Versailles, all the while that, as preacher,\\nhe was using the w% holy freedom of the pulpit to\\nlaunch those blank fulminations of his at sin in high\\nplaces, at sin even in the highest, and all the briefer\\nwhile that, as confessor to Madame de Maintenon,\\nhe was influencing the policy of Louis XIV.\\nNo scandal of any sort attaches to the reputation\\nof Louis Bourdaloue. He was a man of spotless\\nfame, unless it be a spot on his fame that he could\\nplease the most selfish of sinful monarchs well enough\\nto be that monarch s chosen preacher during a longer\\ntime than any other pulpit orator whatever was tol-\\nerated at Versailles. He is described by all who\\nknew him as a man of gracious spirit. If he did\\nnot reprobate and denounce the revocation of the\\nEdict of Nantes, that was rather of the age than of\\nBourdaloue.\\nSainte-Beuve, in a remarkably sympathetic appre-\\nciation of Bourdaloue, free, contrary to the critic s\\nwont, from hostile insinuation even, regards it as\\npart of the merit of this preacher that there is, and", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0201.jp2"}, "202": {"fulltext": "190 Classic French Course in English.\\nthat there can be, no biography of him. His public\\nlife is summed up in simply saying that he was a\\npreacher. During thirty-four laborious and fruitful\\nyears he preached the doctrines of the Church\\nand this is the sole account to be given of him,\\nexcept, indeed, that in the confessional he was,\\nall that time, learning those secrets of the human\\nheart which he used to such effect in composing his\\nsermons. He had very suave and winning ways\\nas confessor, though he enjoined great strictness as\\npreacher. This led a witty woman of his time to\\nsay of him: u Father Bourdaloue charges high in\\nthe pulpit, but he sells cheap in the confessional/\\nHow much laxity he allowed as confessor, it is, of\\ncourse, impossible to say. But his sermons remain\\nto show that, though indeed he was severe and high\\nin requirement as preacher, he did not fail to soften\\nasperity by insisting on the goodness, while he\\ninsisted on the awfulness, of God. Still, it cannot\\nbe denied, that somehow the elaborate compliments\\nwhich, as an established convention of his pulpit,\\nhe not infrequently delivered to Louis XIV., tended\\npowerfully to make it appear that his stern denun-\\nciation of sin, which at first blush might seem\\ndirectly levelled at the king, had in reality no appli-\\ncation at all, or but the very gentlest application, to\\nthe particular case of his Most Christian Majesty.\\nWe begin our citations from Bourdaloue with an\\nextract from a sermon of his on A Perverted\\nConscience. The whole discourse is one well", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0202.jp2"}, "203": {"fulltext": "Bourdaloue. 191\\nworth the study of any reader. It is a piece of\\nsearching psychological analysis, and pungent appli-\\ncation to conscience. Bourdaloue, in his sermons,\\nhas always the air of a man seriously intent on pro-\\nducing practical results. There are no false motions.\\nEvery swaying of the preacher s weapon is a blow,\\nand every blow is a hit. There is hardly another\\nexample in homiletic literature of such compactness,\\nsuch solidity, such logical consecutiveness, such co-\\ngency, such freedom from surplusage. Tare and tret\\nare excluded. Every thing counts. You meet with\\ntwo or three adjectives, and you at first naturally\\nassume, that, after the usual manner of homilists,\\nBourdaloue has thrown these in without rigorously\\ndefinite purpose, simply to heighten a general effect.\\nNot at all. There follows a development of the\\npreacher s thought, constituting virtually a distinct\\njustification of each adjective employed. You soon\\nlearn that there is no random, no waste, in this\\nman s words. But here is the promised extract\\nfrom the sermon on A Perverted Conscience.\\nIn it Bourdaloue depresses his gun, and discharges\\nit point-blank at the audience before him. You can\\nalmost imagine T ou see the ranks of 6 the great\\nlaid low. Alas one fears that, instead of biting\\nthe dust, those courtiers, with the king in the midst\\nof them to set the example, only cried bravo in their\\nhearts at the skill of the gunner\\nI have said more particularly that in the world in which\\nyou live, I mean the court, the disease of a perverted con-", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0203.jp2"}, "204": {"fulltext": "192 Classic French Course in English.\\nscience is far more common, and far more difficult to be\\navoided and I am sure that in this you will agree with me.\\nFor it is at the court that the passions bear sway, that\\ndesires are more ardent, that self-interest is keener, and\\nthat, by infallible consequence, self-blinding is more easy,\\nand consciences, even the most enlightened and the most\\nupright, become gradually perverted. It is at the court that\\nthe goddess of the world, I mean fortune, exercises over the\\nminds of men, and in consequence over their consciences, a\\nmore absolute dominion. It is at the court that the aim to\\nmaintain one s self, the impatience to raise one s self, the\\nfrenzy to push one s self, the fear of displeasing, the desire\\nof making one s self agreeable, produce consciences, which\\nanywhere else would pass for monstrous, but which, finding\\nthemselves there authorized by custom, seem to have acquired\\na right of possession and of prescription. People, from\\nliving at court, and from no other cause than having lived\\nthere, are filled with these errors. Whatever uprightness of\\nconscience they may have brought thither, by breathing its\\nair and by hearing its language, they are habituated to\\niniquity, they come to have less horror of vice, and, after\\nhaving long blamed it, a thousand times condemned it, they\\nat last behold it with a more favorable eye, tolerate it,\\nexcuse it that is to say, without observing what is happen-\\ning, they make over their consciences, and, by insensible\\nsteps, from Christian, which they were, by little and little\\nbecome quite worldly, and not far from pagan.\\nWhat could surpass the adaptedness of such\\npreaching as that to the need of the moment for\\nwhich it was prepared And how did the libertine\\nFrench monarch contrive to escape the force of truth\\nlike the following, with which the preacher immedi-\\nately proceeds?", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0204.jp2"}, "205": {"fulltext": "Bourdaloue. 193\\nYou would say, and it really seems, that for the court,\\nthere are other principles of religion than for the rest of the\\nworld, and that the courtier has a right to make for himself\\na conscience different in kind and in quality from that of\\nother men for such is the prevailing idea of the matter,\\nan idea well sustained, or rather unfortunately justified, by\\nexperience. Nevertheless, my dear hearers, St. Paul\\nassures us, that there is hut one God and one faith; and\\nwoe to the man who dividing Him, this one God, shall\\nrepresent Him as at court less an enemy to human trans-\\ngressions than He is outside of the court; or, severing this\\none faith, shall suppose it in the case of one class more\\nindulgent than in the case of another.\\nBourdaloue, as Jesuit, could not but feel the\\npower of Pascal in his tc Provincial Letters, con-\\nstantly undermining the authority of his order. His\\npreaching, as Sainte-Beuve well says, ma} T be con-\\nsidered to have been, in the preacher s intention,\\none prolonged confutation of Pascal s immortal in-\\ndictment. We borrow of Sainte-Beuve a short\\nextract from Bourdaloue s sermon on slander,\\nwhich may serve as an instance to show with what\\nadroitness the Jesuit retorted anonymously upon\\nthe Jansenist\\nBehold one of the abuses of our time. Means have been\\nfound to consecrate slander, to change it into a virtue, and\\neven into one of the holiest virtues that means is, zeal for\\nthe glory of God. Yv e must humble those people, is the\\ncry; and it is for the good of the Church to tarnish their\\nreputation and to diminish their credit. That idea becomes,\\nas it were, a principle; the conscience is fashioned accord-\\ningly, and there is nothing that is not permissible to a", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0205.jp2"}, "206": {"fulltext": "194 Classic French Course in English.\\nmotive so noble. You fabricate, you exaggerate, you give\\nthings a poisonous taint, you tell but half the truth you\\nmake your prejudices stand for indisputable facts you spread\\nabroad a hundred falsehoods; you confound what is indi-\\nvidual with what is general what one man has said that is\\nbad, you pretend that all have said; and what many have\\nsaid that is good, you pretend that nobody has said; and all\\nthat, once again, for the glory of God. For such direction\\nof the intention justifies all that. Such direction of the in-\\ntention will not suffice to justify a prevarication, but it is\\nmore than sufficient to justify calumny, provided only you\\nare convinced that you are serving God thereby.\\nIn conclusion, we give a passage or two of Bourda-\\nloue s sermon on An Eternity of Woe. Stanch\\northodoxy the reader will find here. President Ed-\\nwards s discourse, Sinners in the Hands of an\\nAngry God, is not more unflinching. But what a\\nrelief of contrasted sweetness does Bourdaloue in-\\nterpose in the first part of the ensuing extract, to\\nset off the grim and grisly horror of that which is to\\nfollow We draw, for this case, from a translation,\\nissued in Dublin under Roman-Catholic auspices, of\\nselect sermons by Bourdaloue. The translator,\\nthroughout his volume, has been highly loyal in\\nspirit toward the great French preacher but this\\nhas not prevented much enfeebling by him of the\\nstyle of his original\\nThere are some just, fervent, perfect souls, who, like chil-\\ndren in the house of the Heavenly Father, strive to please\\nand possess him. in order only to possess and to love him;\\nand who, incessantly animated by this unselfish motive,", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0206.jp2"}, "207": {"fulltext": "Bourdaloue. 195\\ninviolably adhere to his divine precepts, and lay it down as\\na rigorous and unalterable rule, to obey the least intimation\\nof his will. They serve him with an affection entirely filial.\\nBut there are also dastards, worldlings, sinners, terrestrial\\nand sensual men, who are scarcely susceptible of any other\\nimpressions than those of the judgments and vengeance\\nof God. Talk to them of his greatness, of his perfections, of\\nhis benefits, or even of his rewards, and they will hardly\\nlisten to you; and, if they are prevailed upon to pay some\\nattention and respect to your words, they will sound in\\ntheir ears, but not reach their hearts. Therefore, to\\nmove them, to stir them up, to awaken them from the\\nlethargic sleep with which they are overwhelmed, the thun-\\nder of divine wrath and the decree that condemns them to\\neternal flames must be dinned into their ears: Depart from\\nme, ye accursed, into everlasting fire (Matt. xxv.). Make\\nthem consider attentively, and represent to them with all\\nthe force of grace, the consequences and horror of this\\nword eternal.\\nIt is not imagination, it is pure reason and intelli-\\ngence, that now in Bourdaloue goes about the busi-\\nness of impressing the thought of the dreadfulness\\nof an eternity of woe. The effect produced is not\\nthat of the lightning-flash suddenly revealing the\\njaws agape of an unfathomable abyss directly before\\nyou. It is rather that of steady, intolerable press-\\nure gradually applied to crush, to annihilate, the\\nsoul\\nStruck with horror at so doleful a destiny, I apply\\nto this eternity all the powers of my mind; I examine and\\nscrutinize it in all its parts; and I survey, as it were, its\\nwhole dimensions. Moreover, to express it in more lively\\ncolors, and to represent it in my mind more conformably to", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0207.jp2"}, "208": {"fulltext": "196 Classic Fi^ench Course in English.\\nthe senses and the human understanding, I borrow com-\\nparisons from the Fathers of the Church, and I make, if I\\nmay so speak, the same computations. I figure to myself\\nall the stars of the firmament to this innumerable multi-\\ntude I add all the drops of water in the bosom of the ocean\\nand if this be not enough, I reckon, or at least endeavor to\\nreckon, all the grains of sand on its shore. Then I interro-\\ngate myself, I reason with myself, and I put to myself the\\nquestion If I had for as many ages, and a thousand times\\nas many, undergone torments in that glowing fire which is\\nkindled by the breath of the Lord in his anger to take\\neternal vengeance, would eternity be at an end? No; and\\nwhy Because it is eternity, and eternity is endless. To\\nnumber up the stars that shine in the heavens, to count the\\ndrops of water that compose the sea, to tell the grains of\\nsand that lie upon the shore, is not absolutely impossible\\nbut to measure in eternity the number of days, of years, of\\nages, is what cannot be compassed, because the days, the\\nyears, and the ages are without number; or, to speak more\\nproperly, because in eternity there are neither days, nor\\nyears, nor ages, but a single, endless, infinite duration.\\nTo this thought I devote my mind. I imagine I see and\\nrove through this same eternity, and discover no end, but\\nfind it to be always a boundless tract. I imagine the wide\\nprospect lies open on all sides, and encompasseth me around\\nthat if I rise up, or if I sink down, or what way soever\\nI turn my eyes, this eternity meets them; and that after a\\nthousand efforts to get forward, I have made no progress,\\nbut find it still eternity. I imagine that after long revolu-\\ntions of time, I behold in the midst of this eternity a damned\\nsoul, in the same state, in the same affliction, in the same\\nmisery still; and putting myself mentally in the place of\\nthis soul, I imagine that in this eternal punishment I feel\\nmyself continually devoured by that fire which nothing\\nextinguishes that I continually shed those floods of tears\\nwhich nothing can dry up; that I am continually gnawed", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0208.jp2"}, "209": {"fulltext": "Massillon. 197\\nby the worm of conscience, which never dies; that I con-\\ntinually express my despair and anguish by that gnashing\\nof teeth, and those lamentable cries, which never can move\\nthe compassion of God. This idea of myself, this represen-\\ntation, amazes and terrifies me. My whole body shudders,\\nI tremble with fear, I am filled with horror, I have the same\\nfeelings as the royal prophet, when he cried, Pierce thou\\nmy flesh with thy fear, for I am afraid of thy judgments.\\nThat was a touching tribute from the elder to the\\nyounger tribute touching, whether wrung, per-\\nforce, from a proudly humble, or freely offered by\\na simply magnanimous, heart when, like John the\\nBaptist speaking of Jesus, Bourdaloue, growing\\nold, said of Massillon, enjoying his swiftly crescent\\nrenown He must increase, and I must decrease.\\nIt was a true presentiment of the comparative for-\\ntune of fame that impended for these two men. It\\nwas not, however, in the same path, but in a differ-\\nent, that Massillon outran Bourdalone. In his own\\nsphere, that of unimpassioned appeal to reason and\\nto conscience, Bourdaloue is still without a rival.\\nNo one else, certainly, ever earned, so well as he,\\nthe double title which his epigrammatic countrymen\\nwere once fond of bestowing upon him, The\\nking of preachers, and the preacher of kings.\\nJean Baptiste Massillon became priest by his\\nown internal sense of vocation to the office, against\\nthe preference of his family that he should become,\\nlike his father, a notary. He seems to have been\\nby nature sincerely modest in spirit. He had to be", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0209.jp2"}, "210": {"fulltext": "198 Classic French Course in English.\\nforced into the publicity of a preaching career at\\nParis. His ecclesiastical superior peremptorily re-\\nquired at his hands the sacrifice of his wish to be\\nobscure. He at once filled Paris with his fame.\\nThe inevitable consequence followed. He was sum-\\nmoned to preach before the kiug at Versailles.\\nHere he received, as probably he deserved, that\\ncelebrated compliment in epigram, from Louis XIV.\\nIn hearing some preachers, I feel pleased with\\nthem in hearing you, I feel displeased with my-\\nself.\\nIt must not, however, be supposed that Massillon\\npreached like a prophet Nathan saying to King\\nDavid, Thou art the man; or like a John the\\nBaptist saying to King Herod, It is not lawful\\nfor thee to have leer or like a John Knox de-\\nnouncing Queen Mary. Massillon, if he was stern,\\nwas suavely stern. He complimented the king.\\nThe sword with which he wounded was wreathed\\ndeep with flowers. It is difficult not to feel that\\nsome unspoken understanding subsisted between\\nthe preacher and the king, which permitted the king-\\nto separate the preacher from the man when Mas-\\nsillon used that great plainness of speech to his\\nsovereign. The king did not, however, often invite\\nthis master of eloquence to make the royal con-\\nscience displacent with itself. Bourdaloue was osten-\\nsibly as outspoken as Massillon but somehow that\\nJesuit preacher contented the king to be his hearer\\nduring as many as ten annual seasons, against the", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0210.jp2"}, "211": {"fulltext": "Massillon. 199\\none or two only that Massillon preached at court\\nbefore Louis.\\nThe work of Massillon generally judged, though\\naccording to Sainte-Beuve not wisely judged, to be\\nhis choicest, is contained in that volume of his\\nwhich goes by the name of ;t Le Petit Caremc,\\nliterally, The Little Lent, a collection of ser-\\nmons preached during a Lent before the king s great-\\ngrandson and successor, 3-outhful Louis XV. These\\nsermons especially have given to their author a\\nfame that is his by a title perhaps absolutely unique\\nin literature. We know no other instance of a\\nwriter, limited in his production strictly to sermons,\\nwho holds his place in the first rank of authorship\\nsimply by virtue of supreme mastership in liteiary\\nstyle.\\nStill, from the text of his printed discourses,\\nadmirable, exquisite, ideal compositions in point of\\nform as these are, it will be found impossible to\\nconceive adequately the living eloquence of Massil-\\nlon. There are interesting traditions of the effects\\nproduced by particular passages of particular ser-\\nmons of his. When Louis XIV. died, Massillon\\npreached his funeral sermon. He began with that\\ncelebrated single sentence of exordium which, it is\\nsaid, brought his whole audience, by instantaneous,\\nsimultaneous impulse, in a body to their feet. The\\nmodern reader will experience some difficulty in\\ncomprehending at once why that perfectly common-\\nplace-seeming expression of the preacher should", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0211.jp2"}, "212": {"fulltext": "200 Classic French Course in English.\\nhave produced an effect so powerful. The element\\nof the opportune, the apposite, the fit, is always\\ngreat part of the secret of eloquence. Nothing\\nmore absolutely appropriate can be conceived than\\nwas the sentiment, the exclamation, with which\\nMassillon opened that funeral sermon. The image\\nand symbol of earthly greatness, in the person of\\nLouis XXV., had been shattered under the touch\\nof iconoclast death. God only is great said\\nthe preacher and all was said. Those four short\\nwords had uttered completely, and with a simplicity\\nincapable of being surpassed, the thought that\\nusurped every breast. It is not the surprise of\\nsome striking new thought that is the most eloquent\\nthing. The most eloquent thing is the surprise of\\nthat one word, suddenly spoken, which completely\\nexpresses some thought, present already and upper-\\nmost, but silent till now, awaiting expression, in a\\nmultitude of minds. This most eloquent thing it\\nwas which, from Massillon s lips that day, moved\\nhis susceptible audience to rise, like one man, and\\nbow in mute act of submission to the truth of his\\nwords. The inventive and curious reader may exer-\\ncise his ingenuity at leisure. He will strive in vain\\nto conceive any other exordium than Massillon s\\nthat would have matched the occasion presented.\\nThere is an admirable anecdote of the pulpit,\\nwhich though since often otherwise applied had,\\nperhaps, its first application to Massillon. Some\\none congratulating the orator, as he came down", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0212.jp2"}, "213": {"fulltext": "Massillon. 201\\nfrom his pulpit, on the eloquence of the sermon just\\npreached, that wise self-knower fenced by replying,\\nAh, the devil has already apprised me of that\\nThe recluse celibate preacher was one day asked\\nwhence he derived that marvellous knowledge which\\nhe displayed of the passions, the weaknesses, the\\nfollies, the sins, of human nature. tk From m}^\\nown heart, was his reply Source sufficient, per-\\nhaps but from the confessional, too, one may con-\\nfidently add.\\nThere is probably no better brief, quotable pas-\\nsage to represent Massillon at his imaginative highest\\nin eloquence, than that most celebrated one of all,\\noccurring toward the close of his memorable sermon\\non the Fewness of the Elect. The effect at-\\ntending the delivery of this passage, on both of\\nthe two recorded occasions on which the sermon was\\npreached, is reported to have been remarkable.\\nThe manner of the orator downcast, as with the\\ninward oppression of the same solemnity that he,\\nin speaking, cast like a spell on the audience in-\\ndefinitely heightened the magical power of the awful\\nconception excited. Not Bourdaloue himself, with\\nthat preternatural skill of his to probe the conscience\\nof man to its innermost secret, could have exceeded\\nthe heart-searching rigor with which, in the earlier\\npart of the discourse, Massillon had put to the rack\\nthe quivering consciences of his hearers. The ter-\\nrors of the Lord, the shadows of the world to come,\\nwere thus already on all hearts. So much as this,", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0213.jp2"}, "214": {"fulltext": "202 Classic French Course in English.\\nBourdaloue, too, with his incomparable dialectic,\\ncould have accomplished. But there immediately\\nfollows a culmination in power, such as was dis-\\ntinctly beyond the height of Bourdaloue. Genius\\nmust be superadded to talent if you would have the\\nsupreme, either in poetry or in eloquence. There\\nwas an extreme point in Massillon s discourse at\\nwhich mere reason, having done, and clone terribly,\\nits utmost, was fain to confess that it could not go\\na single step farther. At that extreme point, sud-\\ndenly, inexhaustible imagination took up the part of\\nexhausted reason. Reason had made men afraid;\\nimagination now appalled them. Massillon said\\nI confine myself to you, my brethren, who are gathered\\nhere. I speak no longer of the rest of mankind. I look at\\nyou as if you were the only ones on the earth; and here\\nis the thought that seizes me, and that terrifies me. I make\\nthe supposition that this is your last hour, and the end of\\nthe world; that the heavens are about to open above your\\nheads, that Jesns Christ is to appear in his glory in the\\nmidst of this sanctuary, and that you are gathered here only\\nto wait for him, and as trembling criminals on whom is to\\nbe pronounced either a sentence of grace or a decree of eter-\\nnal death. For, vainly do you flatter yourselves; you will\\ndie such in character as you are to-day. All those impulses\\ntoward change with which you amuse yourselves, you will\\namuse yourselves with them down to the bed of death. Such\\nis the experience of all generations. The only thing new\\nyou will then find in yourselves will be, perhaps, a reckoning\\na trifle larger than that which you would to-day have to ren-\\nder; and according to what you would be if you were this\\nmoment to be judged, you may almost determine what will\\nbefall you at the termination of your life.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0214.jp2"}, "215": {"fulltext": "Massillon. 203\\nNow I ask you, and I ask it smitten with terror, not\\nseparating in this matter my lot from yours, and putting\\nmyself into the same frame of mind into which I desire you\\nto come, I ask you, then, If Jesus Christ were to appear in\\nthis sanctuary, in the midst of this assembly, the most illus-\\ntrious in the world, to pass judgment on us, to draw the\\ndread line of distinction between the goats and the sheep,\\ndo you believe that the majority of all of us who are here\\nwould be set on his right hand Do you believe that things\\nwould even be equal Nay, do you believe there would be\\nfound so many as the ten righteous men whom anciently the\\nLord could not find in five whole cities 1 put the question\\nto you, but you know not; I know not myself. Thou only,\\nO my God, knowest those that belong to thee! But if we\\nknow not those who belong to him, at least we know that\\nsinners do not belong to him. Now, of what classes of per-\\nsons do the professing Christians in this assembly consist\\nTitles and dignities must be counted for naught; of these\\nyou shall be stripped before Jesus Christ. Who make up\\nthis assembly Sinners, in great number, who do not wish\\nto be converted; in still greater number, sinners who would\\nlike it, but who put off their conversion; many others who\\nwould be converted, only to relapse into sin; finally, a mul-\\ntitude who think they have no need of conversion. You\\nhave thus made up the company of the reprobate. Cut off\\nthese four classes of sinners from this sacred assembly, for\\nthey will be cut off from it at the great day Stand forth\\nnow, ye righteous! where are you Remnant of Israel, pass\\nto the right hand True w r heat of Jesus Christ, disengage\\nyourselves from this chaff, doomed to the fire O God where\\nare thine elect and what remains there for thy portion\\nBrethren, our perdition is well-nigh assured, and we do\\nnot give it a thought. Even if in that dread separation\\nwhich one day shall be made, there were to be but a single\\nsinner out of this assembly found on the side of the repro-\\nbate, and if a voice from heaven should come to give us", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0215.jp2"}, "216": {"fulltext": "204 Classic French Course in English.\\nassurance of the fact in this sanctuary, without pointing out\\nthe person intended, who among us would not fear that he\\nmight himself be the wretch Who among us would not\\nat once recoil upon his conscience, to inquire whether his\\nsins had not deserved that penalty Who among us would\\nnot, seized with dismay, ask of Jesus Christ, as did once the\\napostles, Lord, is it I\\nWhat is there wanting in such eloquence as the\\nforegoing Wherein lies its deficiei^ of power to\\npenetrate and subdue? Voltaire avowed that he\\nfound the sermons of Massillon to be among the\\nmost agreeable books we have in our language. I\\nlove, he went on, t4 to have them read to me at\\ntable. There are things in Massillon that Voltaire\\nshould not have delighted to read, or to hear read,\\nthings that should have made him wince and revolt,\\nif they did not make him yield and be converted.\\nW 7 as there fault in the preacher? Did he preach\\nwith professional, rather than with personal, zeal?\\nDid his hearers feel themselves secretly acquitted\\nby the man, at the self-same moment at which they\\nwere openly condemned by the preacher? It is im-\\npossible to say. But Massillon s virtue was not\\nlofty and regal however it may have been free from\\njust reproach. He was somewhat too capable of\\ncompliance. He was made bishop of Clermont, and\\nhis promotion cost him the anguish of having to\\nhelp consecrate a scandalously unfit candidate as\\narchbishop of Cambray. Massillon s, however, is\\na fair, if not an absolutely spotless, fame. Hierarch", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0216.jp2"}, "217": {"fulltext": "Fenelon. 205\\nas he was, and orthodox Catholic, this most elegant\\nof eloquent orators had a liberal strain in his blood\\nwhich allied him politically with the philosophers\\nof the time succeeding. He, with Fenelon, and\\nperhaps with Eacine, makes seem less abrupt the\\ntransition in France from the age of absolutism to\\nthe age of revolt and final revolution. There is\\ndistinct advance in Massillon, and advance more\\nthan is accounted for by his somewhat later time,\\ntoward the easier modern spirit in church and in\\nstate, from the high, unbending austerity of that\\nantique pontiff and minister, Bossuet.\\nXIII.\\nFENELON.\\n1651-1715.\\nIf Bossuet is to Frenchmen a synonym for sub-\\nlimity, no less to them is Fenelon a synonym for\\nsaintliness. From the French point of view, one\\nmight say, the sublime Bossuet, Ci the saintly\\nFenelon, somewhat as one says, the learned Sei-\\ndell, the judicious Hooker. It is as much a\\nFrench delight to idealize Fenelon an archangel\\nRaphael, affable and mild, as it is to glorify Bossuet\\na Michael in majesty and power.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0217.jp2"}, "218": {"fulltext": "206 Classic French Course in English*\\nBut saintliness of character was in Fenelon com-\\nmended to the world by equal charm of person and\\nof genius. The words of Milton describing Eve\\nmight be applied, with no change but that of gen-\\nder, to Fenelon. both the exterior and the interior\\nman\\nGrace was in all his steps, heaven in his eye,\\nIn every gesture dignity and love.\\nThe consent is general among those who saw\\nFenelon, and have left behind them their testimony,\\nthat alike in person, in character, and in genius, he\\nwas such as we thus describe him.\\nTwice, in his youth, he was smitten to the heart\\nwith a feeling of vocation to be a missionary. Both\\ntimes he was thwarted by the intervention of friends.\\nThe second time, he wrote disclosing his half-\\nromantic aspiration in a glowing letter of confidence\\nand friendship to Bossuet, his senior by many years,\\nbut not yet become famous. Young Fenelon s friend\\nBossuet was destined later to prove a bitter antago-\\nnist, almost a personal foe.\\nUntil he was forty-two years old, Francois Fene-\\nlon lived in comparative retirement, nourishing his\\ngenius with study, with contemplation, with choice\\nsociet} T He experimented in writing verse. Not\\nsucceeding to his mind, he turned to prose composi-\\ntion, and leading the way, in a new species of\\nliterature, for Rousseau, for Chateaubriand, for\\nLamartine, and for many others, to follow, went on", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0218.jp2"}, "219": {"fulltext": "FSnelon. 207\\nwriting what, in ceasing to be verse, did not cease\\nto be poetry.\\nThe great world will presently involve Fenelon in\\nthe currents of history. Louis XIV., grown old,\\nand become as selfishly greedy now of personal sal-\\nvation as all his life he has been selfishly greedy of\\npersonal glory, seeks that object of his soul by\\nserving the church in the wholesale conversion of\\nProtestants. He revokes the Edict of Nantes, which\\nhad secured religious toleration for the realm, and\\nproceeds to dragoon the Huguenots into conformity\\nwith the Roman-Catholic church. The reaction in\\npublic sentiment against such rigors grew a cry that\\nhad to be silenced. Fenelon was selected to visit\\nthe heretic provinces, and win them to willing sub-\\nmission. He stipulated that every form of coercion\\nshould cease, and went to conquer all with love.\\nHis success was remarkable. But not even Fenelon\\nquite escaped the infection of violent zeal for the\\nChurch. It seems not to be given to any man to\\nrise wholly superior to the spirit of the world in\\nwhich he lives.\\nThe lustre of Fenelon s name, luminous from the\\ntriumphs of his mission among the Protestants, was\\nsufficient to justify the choice of this man, a man\\nboth by nature and by culture so ideally formed for\\nthe office as was he, to be tutor to the heir pro-\\nspective of the French monarchy. The Duke of\\nBurgundy, grandson to Louis XIV., was accord-\\ningly put under the charge of Fenelon to be trained", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0219.jp2"}, "220": {"fulltext": "208 Classic French Course in English.\\nfor future kingship. Never, probably, in the his-\\ntory of mankind, has there occurred a case in which\\nthe victory of a teacher could be more illustrious\\nthan actually was the victory of Fenelon as teacher\\nto this scion of the house of Bourbon. We shall\\nbe giving our readers a relishable taste of St. Simon,\\nthe celebrated memoir- writer of the age of Louis\\nXIV., if out of the portrait in words, drawn by him\\nfrom the life, of Fenelon s princely pupil, we trans-\\nfer here a few strong lines to our pages. St. Simon\\nsays\\nIn the first place, it must be said that Monseigneur the\\nDuke of Burgundy had by nature a most formidable dispo-\\nsition, lie was passionate to the extent of wishing to dash\\nto pieces his clocks when they struck the hour which called\\nhim to what he did not like, and of flying into the utmost\\nrage against the rain if it interfered with what he wanted to\\ndo. Resistance threw him into paroxysms of fury. I speak\\nof what I have often witnessed in his early youth. More-\\nover, an ungovernable impulse drove him into whatever\\nindulgence, bodily or mental, was forbidden him. His sar-\\ncasm was so much the more cruel as it was witty and\\npiquant, and as it seized with precision upon every point\\nopen to ridicule. All this was sharpened by a vivacity of\\nbody and of mind that proceeded to the degree of impetuosity,\\nand that during his early days never permitted him to learn\\nany thing except by doing two things at once. Every form\\nof pleasure he loved with a violent avidity, and all this with\\na pride and a haughtiness inrpossible to describe; danger-\\nously wise, moreover, to judge of men and things, and to\\ndetect the weak point in a train of reasoning, and to reason\\nhimself more cogently and more profoundly than his teach-\\ners. But at the same time, as soon as his passion was spent,", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0220.jp2"}, "221": {"fulltext": "FSnelon. 209\\nreason resumed her sway; he felt his faults, he acknowledged\\nthem, and sometimes with such chagrin that his rage, was\\nrekindled. A mind lively, alert, penetrating, stiffening\\nitself against obstacles, excelling literally in every thing.\\nThe prodigy is, that in a very short time piety and grace\\nmade of him a different being, and transformed faults so\\nnumerous and so formidable into virtues exactly opposite.\\nSt. Simon attributes to Fenelon every virtue\\nunder heaven but his way was to give to God\\nrather than to man the praise of the remarkable\\nchange which, during Fenelon s charge of the Duke\\nof Burgundy, came over the character of the prince.\\nThe grandfather survived the grandson and it\\nwas never put to the stern proof of historical ex-\\nperiment, whether Fenelon had indeed turned out\\none Bourbon entirely different from all the other\\nmembers, earlier or later, of that ro} 7 al line.\\nBefore; however, the Duke of Burgundy was thus\\nsnatched away from the perilous prospect of a\\nthrone, his beloved teacher was parted from him,\\nnot indeed by death, but by what, to the archbishop s\\nsusceptible and suffering spirit, was worse than death,\\nby t; disgrace. The disgrace was such as has\\never since engaged for its subject the interest, the\\nsympathy, and the admiration, of mankind. Fene-\\nlon lost the royal favor. That was all, for the\\npiesent, but that was much. He was banished\\nfrom court, and he ceased to be preceptor to the\\nDuke of Burgundy. The king, in signal severity,\\nused his own hand to strike Fenelon s name from", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0221.jp2"}, "222": {"fulltext": "210 Classic French Course in English.\\nthe list of the household of his grandson and heir.\\nThe archbishop for Fenelon had previously been\\nmade archbishop of Cambray returned into his\\ndiocese as into an exile. But his cup of humiliation\\nwas by no means full. Bossuet will stain his own\\nglory by following his exiled former pupil and\\nfriend, with hostile pontifical rage, to crush him in\\nhis retreat.\\nThe occasion was a woman, a woman with the\\ncharm of genius and of exalted character, a Chris-\\ntian, a saint, but a mystic it was Madame Guyon.\\nMadame Guyon taught that it was possible to love\\nGod for himself alone, purely and disinterestedly.\\nFenelon received the doctrine, and Madame Guyon\\nwas patronized by Madame de Maintenon. Bossuet\\nscented heresy. He was too much a u natural man\\nto understand Madame Guyon. The king was like\\nthe prelate, his minister, in spirit, and in consequent\\nincapacity. It was resolved that Fenelon must con-\\ndemn Madame Guyon. But Fenelon would not.\\nHe was very gentle, very conciliatory, but in fine\\nhe would not. Controvers} ensued, haughty, magis-\\nterial, domineering, on the part of Bossuet on the\\npart of Fenelon, meek, docile, suasive. The world\\nwondered, and watched the duel. Fenelon finally\\ndid what king James s translators misleadingly\\nmake Job wish that his adversary had done, he\\nwrote a book, The Maxims of the Saints. In\\nthis book, he sought to show that the accepted, and\\neven canonized, teachers of the Church had taught", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0222.jp2"}, "223": {"fulltext": "FSnelon. 211\\nthe doctrine for which, in his own case and in the\\ncase of Madame Guyon, condemnation was now\\ninvoked. Bossuet was pope at Paris; and he, in\\nfull presence, denounced to the monarch the heresy\\nof Fenelon. At this moment of crisis for Fenelon,\\nit happened that news was brought him of the burn-\\ning of his mansion at Cambray with all his books\\nand manuscripts. It will always be remembered\\nthat Fenelon only said It is better so than if it\\nhad been the cottage of a poor laboring-man.\\nMadame de Maintenon, till now his friend, with\\nperfectly frigid facility separated herself from the\\nside of the accused. The controversy was carried\\nto Rome, where at length Fenelon s book was con-\\ndemned, condemned mildly, but condemned. The\\npope is said to have made the remark that Fenelon\\nerred by loving God too much, and Fenelon s an-\\ntagonists by loving their fellow-man too little.\\nFenelon bowed to the authority of the Church, and\\nmeekly in his own cathedral confessed his error.\\nIt was a logical thing for him, as loyal Catholic, to\\ndo and he did it with a beautiful grace of humility.\\nThe Protestant spirit, however, rebels on his behalf,\\nand finds it difficult even to admire the manner in\\nwhich was done by him a thing that seems so unfit\\nto have been done by him at all. Bossuet did not\\nlong survive his inglorious triumph over so much\\nsanctity of personal character, over so much difficult\\nand beautiful height of doctrinal and practical in-\\nstruction to virtue. Fenelon seems to have been", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0223.jp2"}, "224": {"fulltext": "212 Classic French Course in English.\\nreported as preaching a funeral sermon on the dead\\nprelate. I have wept and prayed, he wrote to a\\nfriend, for this old instructor of my youth but it\\nis not true that I celebrated his obsequies in my\\ncathedral, and preached his funeral sermon. Such\\naffectation, you know, is foreign to my nature.\\nThe iron must have gone deep, to wring from that\\ngentle bosom even so much cry as this of wounded\\nfeeling.\\nIt is hard to tell what might now have befallen\\nFenelon, in the way of good fortune, he might\\neven have been recalled to court, and re-installed\\nin his office of tutor to the prince, had not a sin-\\nister incident, not to have been looked for, at an\\ninopportune moment occurred. The 4t Telemachus\\nappeared in print, and kindled a sudden flame of\\npopular feeling which instantly spread in universal\\nconflagration over the face of Europe. This com-\\nposition of Fenelon s the author had written to\\nconvey, under a form of quasi-poetical fiction, les-\\nsons of wisdom in government to the mind of his\\nroyal pupil. The existence of the manuscript book\\nwould seem to have been intended to be a secret\\nfrom the king, indeed, from almost every one,\\nexcept the pupil himself for whose use it was made.\\nBut a copyist proved false to his trust, and furnished\\na copy of u Telemachus to a printer in Holland,\\nwho lost no time in publishing a book so likety to\\nsell. But the sale of the book surpassed all expec-\\ntation. Holland not only, but Belgium, Germany,", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0224.jp2"}, "225": {"fulltext": "F nelon. 213\\nFrance, and England multiplied copies, as fast as\\nthey could still, Europe could not get copies as fast\\nas it wanted them.\\nThe secret of such popularity did not lie simply in\\nthe literary merits of ct Telemachus. It lay more in\\na certain interpretation that the book was supposed to\\nbear. Telemachus was understood to be a covert\\ncriticism of Louis XIV., and of the principle of\\nabsolute monarchy embodied in him. This imputed\\nintention of the book could not fail to become known\\nat Versailles. The result, of course, was fatal,\\nand finally fatal, to the prospects, whatever these\\nmay have been, of Fenelon s restoration to favor at\\ncourt. The archbishop thenceforward was left to\\ndo in comparative obscurity the duties of his episco-\\npal office in his diocese of Cambray. He devoted\\nhimself, with exemplary and touching fidelity, to the\\ninterests of his flock, loving them and loved by them,\\ntill he died. It was an entirely worthy and ade-\\nquate employment of his powers. The only abate-\\nment needful from the praise to be bestowed upon\\nhis behavior in this pastoral relation is. that he\\nsuffered himself sometimes to think of his position\\nas one of disgrace. His reputation meantime\\nfor holy character and conduct was European. His\\npalace at Cambray. hospitably open ever to the\\nresort of suffering need, indeed almost his whole\\ndiocese, lying on the frontier of France, was. by\\nmutual consent of contending armies, treated in war\\nas a kind of mutual inviolable ground, invested with", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0225.jp2"}, "226": {"fulltext": "214 Classic French Course in English.\\nprivilege of sanctuary. It was an instructive example\\nof the serene and beautiful ascendency sometimes\\ndivinely accorded to illustrious personal goodness.\\nThere had been a moment, even subsequently to\\nthe affair of the Telemachus publication, when\\nit looked as if, after long delay, a complete worldly\\ntriumph for F6nelon was assured, and was near.\\nThe father of the Duke of Burgundy died, and\\nnothing then seemed to stand between Fenelon s\\nlate pupil and the throne, nothing but the preca-\\nrious life of an aged monarch, visibly approaching\\nthe end. The Duke of Burgundy, through all\\nchanges, had remained unchangingly fast in his\\naffectionate loyalty to Fenelon. Sternly forbidden,\\nby the jealous and watchful king, his grandfather,\\nto communicate with his old teacher, he yet had\\nfound means to send to Fenelon, from time to time,\\nreassuring signals of his trust and his love. Fene-\\nlon was now, in all eyes, the predestined prime\\nminister of a new reign about to commence. Through\\ndevoted friends of hi.: own, near to the person of the\\nprince at court, Fenelon sent minutes of advice to\\nhis pupil, which outlined a whole beneficent policy\\nof liberal monarchical rule. A new day seemed\\ndawning for France. The horrible reaction of the\\nRegency and of Louis XV. might, perhaps, have\\nbeen averted, and, with that spared to France, the\\nRevolution itself might have been accomplished with-\\nout the Revolution. But it was not to be. The\\nDuke of Burgundy first buried his wife, and then,", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0226.jp2"}, "227": {"fulltext": "Tendon. 215\\nwithin a few clays, followed her himself to the\\ngrave. He died sincerely rejoicing that God had\\ntaken him awa} T from the dread responsibility of\\nreigning.\\nAll my ties are broken/ mourned Fenelon;\\nthere is no longer any thing to bind me to the\\nearth. In truth, the teacher survived his pupil but\\ntwo or three years. When he died, his sovereign,\\ngloomy with well-grounded apprehension for the\\nfuture of his realm, said, with tardy revival of rec-\\nognition for the virtue that had perished in Fenelon\\n64 Here was a man who could have served us well\\nunder the disasters by which my kingdom is about\\nto be assailed\\nFenelon s literary productions are various but\\nthey all have the common character of being works\\nwritten for the sake of life, rather than for the sake\\nof literature. They were inspired each by a practi-\\ncal purpose, and adapted each to a particular occa-\\nsion. His treatise on the Education of Girls\\nwas written for the use of a mother who desired\\ninstruction on the topic from Fenelon. His argu-\\nment on the 4i Being of a God was prepared as a\\nduty of his preceptorship to the prince. But the\\none book of Fenelon which was an historical event\\nwhen it appeared, and which stands an indestructible\\nclassic in literature, is the ;i Telemachus. It re-\\nmains for us briefly to give some idea of this book.\\nThe first thing to be said is, that those are mis-\\ntaken who suppose themselves to have obtained a", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0227.jp2"}, "228": {"fulltext": "216 Classic French Course in English.\\ntrue idea of Telemachus from having partly\\nread it at school, as an exercise in French. The\\nessence of the work lies beyond those few opening\\npages to which the exploration of school-boys and\\nschool-girls is generally limited. This masterpiece\\nof Fenelon is much more than a charming piece of\\nromantic and sentimental poetry in prose. It is\\na kind of epic, indeed, like the u Odyssey, only\\nwritten in rhythmical prose instead of rhythmical\\nverse; but, unlike the Odyssey, it is an idyllic\\nepic written with an ulterior purpose of moral and\\npolitical didactics. It was designed as a manual of\\ninstruction, instruction made delightful to a prince,\\nto inculcate the duties incumbent on a sovereign.\\nTelemachus, our readers will remember, was the\\nson of Ulysses. Fenelon s story relates the adven-\\ntures encountered by Telemachus, in search for his\\nfather, so long delayed on his return from Troy to\\nIthaca. Telemachus is imagined by Fenelon to be\\nattended by Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, masked\\nfrom his recognition, as well as from the recog-\\nnition of others, under the form of an old man.\\nMinerva, of course, constantly imparts the wisest\\ncounsel to young Telemachus, who has his weak-\\nnesses, as had the young Duke of Burgundy, but\\nwho is essentially well-disposed, as Fenelon hoped\\nhis royal pupil would finally turn out to be. Nothing\\ncan exceed the urbanity and grace with which the\\ndelicate business is conducted by Fenelon, of teach-\\ning a bad prince, with a very bad example set him", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0228.jp2"}, "229": {"fulltext": "Fenelon. 217\\nby his grandfather, to be a good king. The style\\nin which the story is told, and in which the advice\\nis insinuated, is exquisite, is beyond praise. The\\nsoft delicious V stream of sound runs on, as from\\na fountain, and like linked sweetness long drawn\\nout. Never had prose a flow of melody more lus-\\ncious. It is perpetual ravishment to the ear. The\\ninvention, too, of incident is fruitful, while the land-\\nscape and coloring are magical for beauty. We give\\na few extracts, to be read with that application to\\nLouis XIV., and the state of France, in mind, which,\\nwhen the book was first printed, gave it such an\\nexciting interest in the eyes of Europe. Tele-\\nmachus, after the manner of iEneas to Queen Dido,\\nis relating to the goddess Calypso, into whose island\\nhe has come, the adventures that have previously\\nbefallen him. He says that he, with Mentor (Mi-\\nnerva in disguise), found himself in Crete. Mentor\\nhad been there before, and was ready to tell Tele-\\nmachus all about the country. Telemachus was\\nnaturally interested to learn respecting the Cretan\\nmonarchy. Mentor, he says, informed him as fol-\\nlows\\nThe king s authority over the subject is absolute, but the\\nauthority of the law is absolute over him. His power to do\\ngood is unlimited, but he is restrained from doing evil. The\\nlaws have put the people into his hands, as the most valuable\\ndeposit, upon condition that he shall treat them as his chil-\\ndren. It is the intent of the law that the wisdom and equity\\nof one man shall be the happiness of many, and not that the\\nwretchedness and slavery of many should gratify the pride", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0229.jp2"}, "230": {"fulltext": "218 Classic French Course in English.\\nand luxury of one. The king ought to possess nothing more\\nthan the subject, except what is necessary to alleviate the\\nfatigue of his station, and impress upon the minds of the\\npeople a reverence of that authority by which the laws are\\nexecuted. Moreover, the king should indulge himself less,\\nas well in ease as in pleasure, and should be less disposed to\\nthe pomp and the pride of life than any other man. He\\nought not to be distinguished from the rest of mankind\\nby the greatness of his wealth, or the vanity of bis enjoy-\\nments, but by superior wisdom, more heroic virtue, and more\\nsplendid glory. Abroad he ought to be the defender of his\\ncountry, by commanding her armies; and at home the judge\\nof his people, distributing justice among them, improving\\ntheir morals, and increasing their felicity. It is not for him-\\nself that the gods have intrusted him with royalty. He is\\nexalted above individuals, only that he may be the servant\\nof the people. To the public he owes all his time, all his\\nattention, and all his love he deserves dignity only in pro-\\nportion as he gives up private enjoyments for the public\\ngood.\\nPretty sound doctrine, the foregoing, on the sub-\\nject of the duties devolving on a king. The\\npaternal idea, to be sure, of government is in it\\nbut there is the idea, too, of limited or constitutional\\nmonarchy. The spirit of just and liberal political\\nthought had, it seems, not been wholly extinguished,\\neven at the court, by that oppression of mind an\\noppression seldom, if ever, in human history ex-\\nceeded which was enforced under the unmitigated\\nabsolutism of Louis XIV. The literature that, with\\nMontesquieu, Voltaire, Rousseau, the Encyclopae-\\ndists, prepared the Revolution, had already begun\\nvirtually to be written when Fenelon wrote his", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0230.jp2"}, "231": {"fulltext": "FSnelon. 219\\nTelemachus. It is easy to see why the fame of\\nFenelon should by exception have been dear even\\nto the hottest infidel haters of that ecclesiastical\\nhierarchy to which the archbishop of Cambray him-\\nself belonged. This lover of liberty, this gentle\\nrebuker of kings, was of the free-thinkers, at least\\nin the sympathy of political thought. Nay, the\\nK evolution itself is foreshown in a remarkable\\nglimpse of conjectural prophecy which occurs in the\\nTelemachus. Idomeneus is a headstrong king,\\nwhom Mentor is made by the author to reprove and\\ninstruct, for the Duke of Burgundy s benefit. To\\nIdomeneus a character taken, and not implausibly\\ntaken, to have been suggested to Fenelon by the\\nexample of Louis XIV. to this imaginary counter-\\npart of the reigning monarch of France, Mentor\\nholds the following language. How could the sequel\\nof Bourbon despotism in France a sequel sus-\\npended now for a time, but two or three generations\\nlater to be dreadfully visited on the heirs of Louis\\nXIY. have been more truly foreshadowed? The\\nTelemachus\\nRemember, that the sovereign who is most absolute is\\nalways least powerful; he seizes upon all, and his grasp\\nis ruin. He is, indeed, the sole proprietor of whatever his\\nstate contains; but, for that reason, his state contains noth-\\ning of value: the fields are uncultivated, and almost a desert;\\nthe towns lose some of their few inhabitants every day; and\\ntrade every day declines. The king, who must cease to be a\\nking when he ceases to have subjects, and who is great only\\nin virtue of his people, is himself insensibly losing his", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0231.jp2"}, "232": {"fulltext": "220 Classic French Course in English.\\ncharacter and his power, as the number of his people, from\\nwhom alone both are derived, insensibly diminishes. His\\ndominions are at length exhausted of money and of men:\\nthe loss of men is the greatest and the most irreparable he\\ncan sustain. Absolute power degrades every subject to a\\nslave. The tyrant is nattered, even to an appearance of\\nadoration, and every one trembles at the glance of his eye;\\nbut, at the least revolt, this enormous power perishes by its\\nown excess. It derived no strength from the love of the\\npeople it wearied and provoked all that it could reach, and\\nrendered every individual of the state impatient of its con-\\ntinuance. At the first stroke of opposition, the idol is\\noverturned, broken to pieces, and trodden under foot. Con-\\ntempt, hatred, fear, resentment, distrust, and every other\\npassion of the soul, unite against so hateful a despotism.\\nThe king who, in his vain prosperity, found no man bold\\nenough to tell him the truth, in his adversity finds no man\\nkind enough to excuse his faults, or to defend him against\\nhis enemies.\\nSo much is perhaps enough to indicate the politi-\\ncal drift of the Telemachus. That drift is, in-\\ndeed, observable everywhere throughout the book.\\nWe conclude our exhibition of this fine classic,\\nby letting Fenelon appear more purely now in his\\ncharacter as dreamer and poet. Young Prince Tel-\\nemachus has, Ulysses-like, and ^Eneas-like, his\\ndescent into Hades. This incident affords Fenelon\\nopportunity to exercise his best powers of awful and\\nof lovely imagining and describing. Christian ideas\\nare, in this episode of the Telemachus, superin-\\nduced upon pagan, after a manner hard, perhaps, to\\nreconcile with the verisimilitude required by art, but\\nat least productive of very noble and very beautiful", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0232.jp2"}, "233": {"fulltext": "Fenelon. 221\\nresults. First, one glimpse of Tartarus as conceived\\nby Fenelon. It is the spectacle of kings who on\\nearth abused their power, that Telernachus is be-\\nholding\\nTelernachus observed the countenance of these criminals\\nto be pale and ghastly, strongly expressive of the torment\\nthey suffered at the heart. They looked inward with a self-\\nabhorrence, now inseparable from their existence. Their\\ncrimes themselves had become their punishment, and it\\nwas not necessary that greater should be inflicted. They\\nhaunted them like hideous spectres, and continually started\\nup before them in all their enormity. They wished for a\\nsecond death, that might separate them from these minis-\\nters of vengeance, as the first had separated their spirits\\nfrom the body, a death that might at once extinguish all\\nconsciousness and sensibility. They called upon the depths\\nof hell to hide them from the persecuting beams of truth, in\\nimpenetrable darkness but they are reserved for the cup of\\nvengeance, which, though they drink of it forever, shall be\\never full. The truth, from which they fled, has overtaken\\nthem, an invincible and unrelenting enemy. The ray which\\nonce might have illuminated them, like the mild radiance\\nof the day, now pierces them like lightning, a fierce and\\nfatal fire, that, without injury to the external parts, infixes\\na burning torment at the heart. By truth, now an avenging\\nflame, the very soul is melted like metal in a furnace; it\\ndissolves all, but destroys nothing; it disunites the first\\nelements of life, yet the sufferer can never die. He is, as it\\nwere, divided against himself, without rest and without\\ncomfort; animated by no vital principle, but the rage that\\nkindles at his own misconduct, and the dreadful madness\\nthat results from despair.\\nIf the perpetual feast of nectared sweets that\\nthe Telernachus affords, is felt at times to be", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0233.jp2"}, "234": {"fulltext": "222 Classic French Course in English.\\nalmost cloying, it is not, as our readers have now\\nseen, for want of occasional contrasts of a bitter-\\nness sufficiently mordant and drastic. But the\\ndidactic purpose is never lost sight of by the author.\\nHere is an aspect of the Elysium found by Telema-\\nchus. How could any thing be more delectably\\nconceived and described? The translator, Dr.\\nHawkesworth, is animated to an English style that\\nbefits the sweetness of his original. The Telema-\\nchus\\nIn this place resided all the good kings who had wisely\\ngoverned mankind from the beginning of time. They were\\nseparated from the rest of the just for, as wicked princes\\nsuffer more dreadful punishment than other offenders in\\nTartarus, so good kings enjoy infinitely greater felicity than\\nother lovers of virtue, in the fields of Elysium.\\nTelemachus advanced towards these kings, whom he found\\nin groves of delightful fragrance, reclining upon the downy\\nturf, where the flowers and herbage were perpetually re-\\nnewed. A thousand rills wandered through these scenes of\\ndelight, and refreshed the soil with a gentle and unpolluted\\nwave the song of innumerable birds echoed in the groves.\\nSpring strewed the ground with her flowers, while at the\\nsame time autumn loaded the trees with her fruit. In this\\nplace the burning heat of the dog-star was never felt, and\\nthe stormy north was forbidden to scatter over it the frosts\\nof winter. Neither War that thirsts for blood, nor Envy that\\nbites with an envenomed tooth, like the vipers that are\\nwreathed around her arms, and fostered in her bosom, nor\\nJealousy, nor Distrust, nor Fears, nor vain Desires, invade\\nthese sacred domains of peace. The day is here without\\nend, and the shades of night are unknown. Here the bodies\\nof the blessed are clothed with a pure and lambent light, as", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0234.jp2"}, "235": {"fulltext": "FSnelon. 223\\nwith a garment. This light does not resemble that vouch-\\nsafed to mortals upon earth, which is rather darkness visible;\\nit is rather a celestial glory than a light an emanation\\nthat penetrates the grossest body with more subtilety than\\nthe rays of the sun penetrate the purest crystal, which rather\\nstrengthens than dazzles the sight, and diffuses through the\\nsoul a serenity which no language can express. By this\\nethereal essence the blessed are sustained in everlasting life;\\nit pervades them it is incorporated with them, as food with\\nthe mortal body they see it, they feel it, they breathe it,\\nand it produces in them an inexhaustible source of serenity\\nand joy. It is a fountain of delight, in which they are\\nabsorbed as fishes are absorbed in the sea they wish for\\nnothing, and, having nothing, they possess all things. This\\ncelestial light satiates the hunger of the soul every desire\\nis precluded; and they have a fulness of joy which sets\\nthem above all that mortals seek with such restless ardor,\\nto fill the vacuity that aches forever in their breast. All\\nthe delightful objects that surround them are disregarded;\\nfor their felicity springs up within, and, being perfect, can\\nderive nothing from without. So the gods, satiated with\\nnectar and ambrosia, disdain, as gross and impure, all the\\ndainties of the most luxurious table upon earth. From\\nthese seats of tranquillity all evils fly far away; death,\\ndisease, poverty, pain, regret, remorse, fear, even hope,\\nwhich is sometimes not less painful than fear itself, ani-\\nmosity, disgust, and resentment can never enter there.\\nThe leaden good sense of Louis XIV. pronounced\\nFenelon the most chimerical man in France.\\nThe Founder of the kingdom of heaven would have\\nbeen a dreamer, to this most worldly-minded of\\nMost Christian monarchs. Bossuet, who, about\\nto die, read something of Fenelon s Telemachus,\\nsaid it was a book hardly serious enough for a", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0235.jp2"}, "236": {"fulltext": "224 Classic French Course in English.\\nclergyman to write. A more serious book, whether\\nits purpose be regarded, or its undoubted actual\\ninfluence in moulding the character of a prospective\\nruler of France, was not written by any clergyman\\nof Fenelon s or Bossuet s time.\\nFenelon was an eloquent preacher as well as an\\nelegant writer. His influence exerted in both the\\ntwo functions, that of the writer and that of the\\npreacher, was powerfully felt in favor of the free-\\ndom of nature in style as against the convention ality r\\nof culture and art. He insensibly helped on that\\nreform from a too rigid classicism which in our day\\nwe have seen pushed to its extreme in the exaggera-\\ntions of romanticism. Few wiser words have ever\\nbeen spoken on the subject of oratory, than are to\\nbe found in his Dialogues on Eloquence.\\nFrench literature, unfortunately, is on the whole\\nsuch in character as to need all that it can show, to\\nbe cast into the scale of moral elevation and purity.\\nFenelon alone is, in quantity as in quality, enough,\\nnot indeed to overcome, but to go far toward over-\\ncoming, the perverse inclination of the balance.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0236.jp2"}, "237": {"fulltext": "Montesquieu. 225\\nXIV.\\nMONTESQUIEU.\\n1689-1755.\\nTo Montesquieu belongs the glory of being the\\nfounder, or inventor, of the philosophy of history.\\nBossuet might dispute this palm with him but Bos-\\nsuet, in his Discourse on Universal History, only\\nexemplified the principle which it was left to Mon-\\ntesquieu afterward more consciously to develop.\\nThree books, still living, are associated with the\\nname of Montesquieu, The Persian Letters,\\nu The Greatness and the Decline of the Romans,\\nand The Spirit of Laws. The Persian Let-\\nters are a series of epistles purporting to be written\\nby a Persian sojourning in Paris and observing the\\nmanners and morals of the people around him. The\\nidea is ingenious though the ingenuity, we suppose,\\nwas not original with Montesquieu. Such letters\\nafford the writer of them an admirable advantage\\nfor telling satire on contemporary follies. This\\nproduction of Montesquieu became the suggestive\\nexample to Goldsmith for his u Citizen of the\\nWorld; or, Letters of a Chinese Philosopher. We\\nshall have here no room for illustrative citations\\nfrom Montesquieu s Persian Letters.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0237.jp2"}, "238": {"fulltext": "226 Classic French Course in English.\\nThe second work, that on the Greatness and\\nthe Decline of the Romans, is less a history than\\na series of essays on the history of Rome. It is\\nbrilliant, striking, suggestive. It aims to be philo-\\nsophical rather than historical. It deals in bold\\ngeneralizations. The spirit of it is, perhaps, too\\nconstantly and too profoundly hostile to the Ro-\\nmans. Something of the ancient Gallic enmity\\nas if a derivation from that last and noblest of the\\nGauls, Vercingetorix seems to animate the French-\\nman in discussing the character and the career of\\nthe great conquering nation of antiquity. The crit-\\nical element is the element chiefly wanting to make\\nMontesquieu s work equal to the demands of mod-\\nern historical scholarship. Montesquieu was, how-\\never, a full worth} forerunner of the philosophical\\nhistorians of to-da}\\\\ We give a single extract in\\nillustration, an extract condensed from the chap-\\nter in which the author analyzes and expounds the\\nforeign policy of the Romans. The generalizations\\nare bold and brilliant, too bold, probably, for strict\\ncritical truth. (We use, for our extract, the recent\\ntranslation by Mr. Jehu Baker, who enriches his\\nvolume with original notes of no little interest and\\nvalue.) Montesquieu\\nThis body [the Roman Senate] erected itself into a tri-\\nbunal for the judgment of all peoples, and at the end of\\nevery war it decided upon the punishments and the recom-\\npenses which it conceived each to be entitled to. It took\\naway parts of the lands of the conquered states, in order to", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0238.jp2"}, "239": {"fulltext": "Montesquieu. 227\\nbestow them upon the allies of Rome, thus accomplishing\\ntwo objects at once, attaching to Eome those kings of\\nwhom she had little to fear and much to hope, and weaken-\\ning those of whom she had little to hope and all to fear.\\nAllies were employed to make war upon an enemy, but\\nthe destroyers were at once destroyed in their turn. Philip\\nwas beaten with the half of the iEtolians, who were im-\\nmediately afterwards annihilated for having joined them-\\nselves to Antiochus. Antiochus was beaten with the help\\nof the Rhodians, who, after having received signal rewards,\\nwere humiliated forever, under the pretext that they had\\nrequested that peace might be made with Perseus.\\nWhen they had many enemies on hand at the same time,\\nthey accorded a truce to the weakest, which considered itself\\nhappy in obtaining such a respite, counting it for much to\\nbe able to secure a postponement of its ruin.\\nWhen they were engaged in a great war, the senate af-\\nfected to ignore all sorts of injuries, and silently awaited\\nthe arrival of the proper time for punishment when, if it\\nsaw that only some individuals were culpable, it refused to\\npunish them, choosing rather to hold the entire nation as\\ncriminal, and thus reserve to itself a useful vengeance.\\nAs they inflicted inconceivable evils upon their enemies,\\nthere were not many leagues formed against them; for those\\nwho were most distant from danger were not willing to draw\\nnearer to it. The consequence of this was, that they were\\nrarely attacked whilst, on the other hand, they constantly\\nmade war at such time, in such manner, and against such\\npeoples, as suited their convenience; and, among the many\\nnations which they assailed, there were very few that would\\nnot have submitted to every species of injury at their hands\\nif they had been willing to leave them in peace.\\nIt being their custom to speak always as masters, the am-\\nbassadors whom they sent to nations which had not yet felt\\ntheir power were certain to be insulted; and this was an\\ninfallible pretext for a new war.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0239.jp2"}, "240": {"fulltext": "228 Classic French Course in English.\\nAs they never made peace in good faith, and as, with the\\ndesign of universal conquest, their treaties were, properly-\\nspeaking, only suspensions of war, they always put condi-\\ntions in them which began the ruin of the states which\\naccepted them. They either provided that the garrisons of\\nstrong places should be withdrawn, or that the number of\\ntroops should be limited, or that the horses or the elephants\\nof the vanquished party should be delivered over to them-\\nselves and if the defeated people was powerful on sea, they\\ncompelled it to burn its vessels, and sometimes to remove,\\nand occupy a place of habitation farther inland.\\nAfter having destroyed the armies of a prince, they ruined\\nhis finances by excessive taxes, or by the imposition of a\\ntribute under pretext of requiring him to pay the expenses\\nof the war, a new species of tyranny, which forced the van-\\nquished sovereign to oppress his own subjects, and thus to\\nalienate their affection.\\nWhen they granted peace to a king, they took some of his\\nbrothers or children as hostages. This gave them the means\\nof troubling his kingdom at their pleasure. If they held the\\nnearest heir, they intimidated the possessor; if only a prince\\nof a remote degree, they used him to stir up revolts against\\nthe legitimate ruler.\\nWhenever any people or prince withdrew their obedience\\nfrom their sovereign, they immediately accorded to them the\\ntitle of allies of the Koman people, and thus rendered them\\nsacred and inviolable; so that there was no king, however\\ngreat he might be, who could for a moment be sure of his\\nsubjects, or even of his family.\\nAlthough the title of Roman ally was a species of servi-\\ntude, it was, nevertheless, very much sought after; for the\\npossession of this title made it certain that the recipients of\\nit would receive injuries from the Romans only, and there\\nwas ground for the hope that this class of injuries would be\\nrendered less grievous than they would otherwise be.\\nThus, there was no service which nations and kings were", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0240.jp2"}, "241": {"fulltext": "Montesquieu. 229\\nnot ready to perform, nor any humiliation which they did\\nnot submit to, in order to obtain this distinction.\\nThese customs were not merely some particular facts\\nwhich happened at hazard. They were permanently estab-\\nlished principles, as may be readily seen; for the maxims\\nwhich the Romans acted upon against the greatest powers\\nwere precisely those which they had employed in the begin-\\nning of their career against the small cities which sur-\\nrounded them.\\nBut nothing served Eome more effectually than the re-\\nspect which she inspired among all nations She immedi-\\nately reduced kings to silence, and rendered them as dumb.\\nWith the latter, it was not a mere question of the degree of\\ntheir power: their very persons were attacked. To risk a\\nwar with Rome was to expose themselves to captivity, to\\ndeath, and to the infamy of a triumph. Thus it was that\\nkings, who lived in pomp and luxury, did not dare to look\\nwith steady eyes upon the Eoman people, and, losing cour-\\nage, they hoped, by their patience and their obsequiousness,\\nto obtain some postponement of the calamities with which\\nthey were menaced.\\nThe t; Spirit of Laws is probably to be consid-\\nered the masterpiece of Montesquieu. It is our\\nduty, however, to say, that this work is quite differ-\\nent^ estimated by different authorities. By some,\\nit is praised in terms of the highest admiration, as a\\ngreat achievement in wide and wise political or ju-\\nridical philosophy. By others, it is dismissed very\\nlightly, as the ambitious, or, rather, pretentious,\\neffort of a superficial man, a showy mere sciolist.\\nIt acquired great contemporary fame, both at home\\nand abroad. It was promptly translated into\\nEnglish, the translator earning the merited compli-", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0241.jp2"}, "242": {"fulltext": "230 Classic French Course in English.\\nment of the author s own hearty approval of his\\nwork. Horace Walpole, who was something of a\\nGallomaniac, makes repeated allusion to Montes-\\nquieu s Spirit of Laws, in letters of his written\\nat about the time of the appearance of the book.\\nBut Walpole s admiring allusions themselves contain\\nevidence that admiration equal to his own of the\\nwork that he praised, was by no means universal in\\nEngland.\\nThe general aspect of the book is that of a com-\\nposition meant to be luminously analyzed and ar-\\nranged. Divisions and titles abound. There are\\nthirty-one books and each book contains, on the\\naverage, perhaps about the same number of chapters.\\nThe library edition, in English, consists of two vol-\\numes, comprising together some eight hundred open\\npages, in good-sized type. The books and chapters\\nare therefore not formidably long. The look of the\\nwork is as if it were readable and its character, on\\nthe whole, corresponds. It would hardly be French,\\nif such were not the case. Except that Montes-\\nquieu s Spirit of Laws is, as we have indicated,\\na highly organized, even an over-organized, book,\\nwhich, by emphasis, Montaigne s Essays is not,\\nthese two works may be said, in their contents,\\nsomewhat to resemble each other. Montesquieu is\\nnearly as discursive as Montaigne. He wishes to\\nbe philosophical, but he is not above supplying his\\nreader with interesting historical instances.\\nWe shall not do better, in giving our readers a", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0242.jp2"}, "243": {"fulltext": "Montesquieu. 231\\ncomprehensive idea of Montesquieu s Spirit of\\nLaws, than to begin by showing them the titles\\nof a number of the books\\nBook I. Of Laws in General. Book II. Of Laws Directly-\\nDerived from the Nature of Government. Book III. Of the\\nPrinciples of the Three Kinds of Government. Book IY.\\nThat the Laws of Education ought to be Kelative to the\\nPrinciples of Government. Book V. That the Laws given\\nby the Legislator ought to be Kelative to the Principle of\\nGovernment. Book YI. Consequences of the Principles\\nof Different Governments with Eespect to the Simplicity of\\nCivil and Criminal Laws, the Form of Judgments, and the\\nInflicting of Punishments. Book VII. Consequences of the\\nDifferent Principles of the Three Governments with Eespect\\nto Sumptuary Laws, Luxury, and the Condition of Women.\\nBook VIII. Of the Corruption of the Principles of the Three\\nGovernments. Book XIV. Of Laws as Kelative to the\\nNature of the Climate.\\nThe philosophical aim and ambition of the author\\nat once appear in the inquiry which he institutes for\\nthe three several animating principles of the three\\nseveral forms of government respectively distin-\\nguished by him namely, democracy (or republican-\\nism) monarchy, and despotism. What these three\\nprinciples are, will be seen from the following state-\\nment As virtue is necessary in a republic, and\\nin monarchy, honor, so fear is necessary in a despotic\\ngovernment. The meaning is, that in republics,\\nvirtue possessed by the citizens is the spring of\\nnational prosperity that under a monarch} the\\ndesire of preferment at the hands of the sovereign", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0243.jp2"}, "244": {"fulltext": "232 Classic French Course in English.\\nis what quickens men to perform services to the\\nstate that despotism thrives by fear inspired in\\nthe breasts of those subject to its sway.\\nTo illustrate the freely discursive character of the\\nwork, we give the whole of chapter sixteen there\\nare chapters still shorter in Book VII.\\nAX EXCELLENT CUSTOM OF THE SAMXLTES.\\nThe Samnites had a custom which in so small a republic,\\nand especially in their situation, must have been productive\\nof admirable effects. The young people were all convened\\nin one place, and their conduct was examined. He that\\nwas declared the best of the whole assembly, had leave given\\nhim to take which girl he pleased for his wife the second\\nbest chose after him, and so on. Admirable institution!\\nThe only recommendation that young men could have on\\nthis occasion, was their virtue, and the service done their\\ncountry. He who had the greatest share of these endow-\\nments, chose which girl he liked out of the whole nation.\\nLove, beauty, chastity, virtue, birth, and even wealth itself,\\nwere all, in some measure, the dowry of virtue. A nobler\\nand grander recompense, less chargeable to a petty state,\\nand more capable of influencing both sexes, could scarce be\\nimagined.\\nThe Samnites were descended from the Lacedaemonians;\\nand Plato, whose institutes are only an improvement of\\nthose of Lycurgus, enacted nearly the same law.\\nThe relation of the foregoing chapter to the sub-\\nject indicated in the title of the book, is sufficiently\\nobscure and remote, for a work like this purporting\\nto be philosophical. What relation exists, seems to\\nbe found in the fact that the Samnite custom", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0244.jp2"}, "245": {"fulltext": "Montesquieu. 233\\ndescribed tends to produce that popular virtue by\\nwhich republics flourish. But the information, at\\nall events, is curious and interesting.\\nThe following paragraphs, taken from the second\\nchapter of Book XI Y. contain in germ nearly the\\nwhole of the philosophy underlying M. Taine s\\nessays on the history of literature\\nOF THE DIFFERENCE OF MEN IN DIFFERENT CLIMATES.\\nA cold air constringes the extremities of the external\\nfibres of the body; this increases their elasticity, and favors\\nthe return of the blood from the extreme parts to the heart.\\nIt contracts those very fibres consequently it increases also\\ntheir force. On the contrary, a warm air relaxes and\\nlengthens the extremes of the fibres; of course it diminishes\\ntheir force and elasticity.\\nPeople are therefore more vigorous in cold climates. Here\\nthe action of the heart and the reaction of the extremities\\nof the fibres are better performed, the temperature of the\\nhumors is greater, the blood moves freer towards the heart,\\nand reciprocally the heart has more power. This superiority\\nof strength must produce various effects; for instance, a\\ngreater boldness, that is, more courage a greater sense of\\nsuperiority, that is, less desire of revenge a greater opinion\\nof security, that is, more frankness, less suspicion, policy\\nand cunning. In short, this must be productive of very\\ndifferent tempers. Put a man into a close, warm place, and,\\nfor the reasons above given, he will feel a great faintness.\\nIf under this circumstance you propose a bold enterprise to\\nhim, I believe you will find him very little disposed towards\\nit; his present weakness will throw him into a despondency;\\nhe will be afraid of every thing, being in a state of total in-\\ncapacity. The inhabitants of w r arm countries are, like old\\nmen, timorous; the people in cold countries are, like young\\nmen, brave.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0245.jp2"}, "246": {"fulltext": "234 Classic French Course in English.\\nIn the following extract, from chapter five, Book\\nXXIV., the climatic theory is again applied, this\\ntime to the matter of religion, in a style that makes\\none think of Buckle s History of Civilization\\nWhen the Christian religion, two centuries ago, became\\nunhappily divided into Catholic and Protestant, the people\\nof the north embraced the Protestant, and those south ad-\\nhered still to the Catholic.\\nThe reason is plain the people of the north have, and\\nwill forever have, a spirit of liberty and independence, which\\nthe people of the south have not and therefore, a religion\\nwhich has no visible head, is more agreeable to the inde-\\npendency of the climate, than that which has one.\\nClimate is a great matter with Montesquieu.\\nIn treating of the subject of a state changing its\\nreligion, he says\\nThe ancient religion is connected with the constitution of\\nthe kingdom, and the new one is not; the former agrees\\nwith the climate, and very often the new one is opposite\\nto it.\\nFor the Christian religion, Montesquieu professes\\nprofound respect, rather as a pagan political phi-\\nlosopher might do, than as one intimately acquainted\\nwith it by a personal experience of his own. His\\nspirit, however, is humane and liberal. It is the\\nspirit of Montaigne, it is the spirit of Voltaire,\\nspeaking in the idiom of this different man, and of\\nthis different man as influenced by his different cir-\\ncumstances. Montesquieu had had practical proof", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0246.jp2"}, "247": {"fulltext": "Montesquieu. 235\\nof the importance to himself of not offending the\\ndominant hierarchy.\\nThe latter part of The Spirit of Laws contains\\ndiscussions exhibiting no little research on the part\\nof the author. There is, for one example, a discus-\\nsion of the course of commerce in different ages of\\nthe world, and of the influences that have wrought\\nfrom time to time to bring about the changes occur-\\nring. For another example, there is a discussion\\nof the feudal system.\\nMontesquieu was an admirer of the English con-\\nstitution. His work, perhaps, contains no extended\\nchapters more likely to instruct the general reader\\nand to furnish a good idea of the writer s genius and\\nmethod, than the two chapters chapter six, Book\\nXI., and chapter twenty-seven, Book XIX. in\\nwhich the English nation and the English form of\\ngovernment are sympathetically described. We sim-\\nply indicate, for we have no room to exhibit, these\\nchapters. Voltaire, too, expressed Montesquieu s\\nadmiration of English liberty and English law.\\nOn the whole, concerning Montesquieu it may\\njustly be said, that of all political philosophers, he,\\nif not the profoundest, is at least one of the most\\ninteresting if not the most accurate and critical, at\\nleast one of the most brilliant and suo^estive.\\nAs to Montesquieu the man, it is perhaps suffi-\\ncient to say that he seems to have been a very good\\ntype of the French gentleman of qualit}\\\\ An in-\\nteresting story told by Sainte-Beuve reveals, if true,", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0247.jp2"}, "248": {"fulltext": "236 Classic French Course in English.\\na side at once attractive and repellent of his per-\\nsonal character. Montesquieu at Marseilles em-\\nployed a young boatman, whose manner and speech\\nindicated more cultivation than was to have been\\nlooked for in one plying his vocation. The phi-\\nlosopher learned his history. The youth s father\\nwas at the time a captive in one of the Barbary\\nStates, and this son of his was now working to earn\\nmoney for his ransom. The stranger listened ap-\\nparently unmoved, and went his wa} T Some months\\nlater, home came the father, released he knew not\\nhow, to his surprised and overjoyed family. The\\nson guessed the secret, and, meeting Montesquieu\\na year or so after in Marseilles, threw himself in\\ngrateful tears at his feet, begged the generous bene-\\nfactor to reveal his name and to come and see the\\nfamily he had blessed. Montesquieu, calmly ex-\\npressing himself ignorant of the whole business,\\nactually shook the young fellow off, and turned\\naway without betraying the least emotion. It was\\nnot till after the cold-blooded philanthropist s death\\nthat the fact came out.\\nA tranquil, happy temperament was Montes-\\nquieu s. He would seem to have come as near as\\nany one ever did to being the natural master of his\\npart in life. But the world was too much for him,\\nas it is for all at last. Witness the contrast of\\nthese two different sets of expressions from his pen.\\nIn earlier manhood he says", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0248.jp2"}, "249": {"fulltext": "Montesquieu. 237\\nStudy has been for me the sovereign remedy for all the\\ndissatisfactions of life, having never had a sense of chagrin\\nthat an hour s reading would not dissipate. I wake in the\\nmorning with a secret joy to behold the light. I behold\\nthe light with a kind of ravishment, and all the rest of the\\nday I am happy.\\nWithin a few years of his death, the brave, cheer-\\nful tone had declined to this\\nI am broken down with fatigue; I must repose for the\\nrest of my life.\\nThen further to this\\nI have expected to kill myself for the last three months,\\nfinishing an addition to my work on the origin and changes\\nof the French civil law. It will take only three hours to\\nread it; but, I assure you, it has been such a labor to me,\\nthat my hair has turned white under it all.\\nFinally it touches nadir\\nIt [his work] has almost cost me my life; I must rest; I\\ncan work no more.\\nMy candles are all burned out I have set off all my car-\\ntridges.\\nWhen Montesquieu died, only Diderot, among\\nParisian men of letters, followed him to his tomb.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0249.jp2"}, "250": {"fulltext": "238 Classic French Course in English.\\nXV.\\nVOLTAIRE.\\n1694-1778.\\nBy the volume and the variety, joined to the un-\\nfailing brilliancy, of his production by his prodigious\\neffectiveness and by his universal fame, Voltaire\\nis undoubtedly entitled to rank first, with no fellow,\\namong the eighteenth-century literary men, not\\nmerely of France, but of the world. He was not a\\ngreat man, he produced no single great work,\\nbut he must nevertheless be pronounced a. great\\nwriter. There is hardly any species of composition\\nto which, in the long course of his activity, he did\\nnot turn his talent. It cannot be said that he suc-\\nceeded splendidly in all but in some he succeeded\\nsplendidly, and he failed abjectly in none. There\\nis not a great thought, and there is not a flat expres-\\nsion, in the whole bulk of his multitudinous and\\nmultifarious works. Read him wherever you will,\\nin the ninety-seven volumes (equivalent, probably,\\nin the aggregate, to three hundred volumes like the\\npresent) which, in one leading edition, collect his pro-\\nductions, you may often find him superficial, you\\nmay often find him untrustworthy, you will certainly\\noften find him flippant, but not less certainly you", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0250.jp2"}, "251": {"fulltext": "Voltaire. 239\\nwill never find him obscure, and you will never find\\nhim dull. The clearness, the vivacity, of this man s\\nmind were something almost preternatural. So, too,\\nwere his readiness, his versatility, his audacity. He\\nhad no distrust of himself, no awe of his fellow-\\nmen, no reverence for God, to deter him from any\\nattempt with his pen, however presuming. If a\\nstate ode were required, it should be ready to order\\nat twelve to-morrow if an epic poem to be classed\\nwith the Iliad and the JEneid the Henri-\\nacle was promptly forthcoming, to answer the de-\\nmand. He did not shrink from flouting a national\\nidol, by freely finding fault with Corneille and he\\nlightly undertook to extinguish a venerable form of\\nChristianity, simply with pricks, innumerably re-\\npeated, of his tormenting pen.\\nA very large part of the volume of Voltaire s\\nproduction consists of letters, written by him to cor-\\nrespondents perhaps more numerous, and more vari-\\nous in rank, from kings on the throne down to\\nscribblers in the garret, than ever, in any other case,\\nexchanged such communications with a literary man.\\nAnother considerable proportion of his work in lit-\\nerature took the form of pamphlets, either anony-\\nmously or pseudonymously published, in which this\\nmaster-spirit of intellectual disturbance and ferment\\nfound it convenient, or advantageous, or safe, to\\npromulge and propagate his ideas. A shower of\\nsuch publications was incessantly escaping from Vol-\\ntaire s pen. More formal and regular, more con-", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0251.jp2"}, "252": {"fulltext": "240 Classic French Course in English.\\nfessedly ambitious, literary essays of his, were poems\\nin every kind, heroic, mock-heroic, lyric, elegiac,\\ncomic, tragic, satiric, historical and biographical\\nmonographs, and tales or novels of a peculiar class.\\nVoltaire s poetry does not count for very much\\nnow. Still, its first success was so great that it will\\nalways remain an important topic in literary history.\\nBesides this, it really is, in some of its kinds,\\nremarkable work. Voltaire s epic verse is almost\\nan exception, needful to be made, from our assertion\\nthat this author is nowhere dull. The Henriade\\ncomes dangerously near that mark. It is a tasteless\\nreproduction of Lucan s faults, with little repro-\\nduction of Lucan s virtues. Voltaire s comedies\\nare bright and witty, but they are not laughter-pro-\\nvoking and they do not possess the elemental and\\ncreative character of Shakspeare s or Moliere s\\nwork. His tragedies are better but they do not\\navoid that cast of mechanical which seems neces-\\nsarily to belong to poetry produced by talent,\\nhowever consummate, unaccompanied with genius.\\nVoltaire s histories are luminous and readable nar-\\nratives, but they cannot claim either the merit of\\ncritical accuracy or of philosophic breadth and\\ninsight. His letters would have to be read in con-\\nsiderable volume in order to furnish a full satis-\\nfactory idea of the author. His tales, finally, afford\\nthe most available, and, on the whole, likewise, the\\nbest, means of coming shortly and easily at a knowl-\\nedge of Voltaire.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0252.jp2"}, "253": {"fulltext": "Voltaire. 241\\nAmong Voltaire s tales, doubtless the one most\\neligible for use, to serve our present purpose, is his\\nCandide. This is a nondescript piece of fiction,\\nthe design of which is, by means of a narrative of\\ntravel and adventure, constructed without much\\nregard to the probability of particular incidents, to\\nset forth, in the characteristic mocking vein of Vol-\\ntaire, the vanity and misery of mankind. The\\nauthor s invention is often whimsical enough but it\\nis constantly so ready so reckless, and so abundant,\\nthat the reader never tires, as he is hurried ceaselessly\\nforward from change to change of scene and cir-\\ncumstance. The play of wit is incessant. The\\nstyle is limpidity itself. Your sympathies are never\\npainfully engaged, even in recitals of experience\\nthat ought to be the most heart-rending. There is\\nnever a touch of noble moral sentiment, to relieve\\nthe monotony of mockery that lightly laughs at you,\\nand tantalizes you, page after page, from the begin-\\nning to the end of the book. The banter is not\\ngood-natured though, on the other hand, it cannot\\njustly be pronounced ill-natured and it is, in final\\neffect upon the reader s mind, bewildering and de-\\npressing in the extreme. Vanity of vanities, all is\\nvanity, such is the comfortless doctrine of the\\nbook. The apples are the apples of Sodom, every-\\nwhere in the world. There is no virtue anywhere,\\nno good, no happiness. Life is a cheat, the love of\\nlife is a cruelty, and beyond life there is nothing.\\nAt least, there is no glimpse given of any compen-", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0253.jp2"}, "254": {"fulltext": "242 Classic French Course in English.\\nsating future reserved for men, a future to redress\\nthe balance of good and ill experienced here and\\nnow. Faith and hope, those two eyes Of the soul,\\nare smilingly quenched in their sockets and you\\nare left blind, in a whirling world of darkness, with\\na whirling world of darkness before you.\\nSuch is u Candide. We select a single passage\\nfor specimen. The passage we select is more nearly\\nfree than almost any other passage as long, in this\\nextraordinary romance, would probably be found,\\nfrom impure implications. It is, besides, more\\nnearly serious in apparent motive, than is the gen-\\neral tenor of the production. Here, however, as\\nelsewhere, the writer keeps carefully down his\\nmocking-mask. At least, you are left tantalizingly\\nuncertain all the time how much the grin you face\\nis the grin of the man, and how much the grin of a\\nvisor that he wears.\\nCandide, the hero, is a young fellow of ingenuous\\ncharacter, brought successively under the lead of\\nseveral different persons wise in the ways of the\\nworld, who act toward him, each in his turn, the\\npart of guide, philosopher, and friend. Can-\\nelide, with such a mentor bearing the name Martin,\\nhas now arrived at Venice. Candide speaks\\nI have heard great talk of the Senator Pococurante, who\\nlives in that fine house at the Brenta, where they say he\\nentertains foreigners in the most polite manner. They pre-\\ntend this man is a perfect stranger to uneasiness. I\\nshould be glad to see so extraordinary a being, said Martin.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0254.jp2"}, "255": {"fulltext": "Voltaire. 243\\nCandide thereupon sent a messenger to Signor Pococurante*,\\ndesiring permission to wait on him the next day.\\nCandide and his friend Martin went into a gondola on the\\nBrenta, and arrived at the palace of the noble Pococurante:\\nthe gardens were laid out in elegant taste, and adorned with\\nfine marble statues; his palace was built after the most\\napproved rules of architecture. The master of the house,\\nwho was a man of sixty, and very rich, received our two\\ntravellers with great politeness, but without much ceremony,\\nwhich somewhat disconcerted Candide, but was not at all\\ndispleasing to Martin.\\nAs soon as they were seated, two very pretty girls, neatly\\ndressed, brought in chocolate, which was extremely well\\nfrothed. Candide could not help making encomiums upon\\ntheir beauty and graceful carriage. The creatures are\\nwell enough, said the senator. I make them my com-\\npanions, for I am heartily tired of the ladies of the town,\\ntheir coquetry, their jealousy, their quarrels, their humors,\\ntheir meannesses, their pride, and their folly. I am weary\\nof making sonnets, or of paying for sonnets to be made, on\\nthem; but, after all, these two girls begin to grow very\\nindifferent to me.\\nAfter having refreshed himself, Candide walked into a\\nlarge gallery, where he was struck with the sight of a fine\\ncollection of paintings. Pray, said Candide, by what\\nmaster are the two first of these They are Kaphael s,\\nanswered the senator. I gave a great deal of money for\\nthem seven years ago, purely out of curiosity, as they were\\nsaid to be the finest pieces in Italy: but I cannot say they\\nplease me the coloring is dark and heavy the figures do not\\nswell nor come out enough; and the drapery is very bad.\\nIn short, notwithstanding the encomiums lavished upon\\nthem, they are not, in my opinion, a true representation of\\nnature. I approve of no paintings but where I think I be-\\nhold Nature herself; and there are very few, if any, of that\\nkind to be met with. I have what is called a fine collection,\\nbut I take no manner of delight in them.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0255.jp2"}, "256": {"fulltext": "244 Classic French Course in English.\\nWhile dinner was getting ready, Pococurante ordered a\\nconcert. Candide praised the music to the skies. This\\nnoise, said the noble Venetian, may amuse one for a\\nlittle time but if it was to last above half an hour, it would\\ngrow tiresome to everybody, though perhaps no one would\\ncare to own it. Music is become the art of executing what\\nis difficult; now, whatever is difficult cannot be long\\npleasing.\\ni I believe I might take more pleasure in an opera, if\\nthey had not made such a monster of that species of dra-\\nmatic entertainment as perfectly shocks me; and I am\\namazed how people can bear to see wretched tragedies set\\nto music, where the scenes are contrived for no other pur-\\npose than to lug in, as it were by the ears, three or four\\nridiculous songs, to give a favorite actress an opportunity of\\nexhibiting her pipe. Let who will or can die away in rap-\\ntures at the trills of a eunuch quavering the majestic part\\nof Csesar or Cato, and strutting in a foolish manner upon\\ntbe stage. For my part, I have long ago renounced these\\npaltry entertainments, which constitute the glory of modern\\nItaly, and are so dearly purchased by crowned heads.\\nCandide opposed these sentiments, but he did it in a dis-\\ncreet manner. As for Martin, he was entirely of the old\\nsenator s opinion.\\nDinner being served up, they sat down to table, and after a\\nvery hearty repast, returned to the library. Candide, observ-\\ning Homer richly bound, commended the noble Venetian s\\ntaste. This, said he, is a book that was once the delight\\nof the great Pangloss, the best philosopher in Germany.\\nHomer is no favorite of mine, answered Pococurante\\nvery coolly. I was made to believe once that I took a\\npleasure in reading him; but his continual repetitions of\\nbattles must have all such a resemblance with each other;\\nhis gods that are forever in a hurry and bustle, without ever\\ndoing any thing; his Helen, that is the cause of the war,\\nand yet hardly acts in the whole performance; his Troy,", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0256.jp2"}, "257": {"fulltext": "Voltaire. 245\\nthat holds out so long without being taken; in short, all\\nthese things together make the poem very insipid to me. I\\nhave asked some learned men whether they are not in reality\\nas much tired as myself with reading this poet. Those who\\nspoke ingenuously assured me that he had made them fall\\nasleep, and yet that they could not well avoid giving him a\\nplace in their libraries; but that it was merely as they would\\ndo an antique, or those rusty medals which are kept only\\nfor curiosity, and are of no manner of use in commerce.*\\nBut your excellency does not surely form the same\\nopinion of Virgil? said Candide. Why, I grant, re-\\nplied Pococurante, that the second, third, fourth, and sixth\\nbooks of his JEneid are excellent; but as for his pious\\niEneas, his strong Cloanthus, his friendly Achates, his boy\\nAscanius, his silly King Latinus, his ill-bred Amata, his\\ninsipid Lavinia, and some other characters much in the\\nsame strain, I think there cannot in nature be any thing\\nmore flat and disagreeable. I must confess I prefer Tasso\\nfar beyond him; nay, even that sleepy tale-teller Ariosto.\\nATay I take the liberty to ask if you do not receive great\\npleasure from reading Horace? said. Candide. There\\nare maxims in this writer, replied Pococurante, from\\nwhence a man of the world may reap some benefit and the\\nshort measure of the verse makes them more easily to be\\nretained in the memory. But I see nothing extraordinary\\nin his journey to Brundusium, and his account of his bad\\ndinner; nor in his dirty, low quarrel between one Rupilius,\\nwhose words, as he expresses it, were full of poisonous filth;\\nand another, whose language was dipped in vinegar. His\\nindelicate verses against old women and witches have fre-\\nquently given me great offence nor can I discover the great\\nmerit of his telling his friend ^Maecenas, that, if he will but\\nrank him in the class of lyric poets, his lofty head shall\\ntouch the stars. Ignorant readers are apt to advance every\\nthing by the lump in a writer of reputation. For my part,\\nI read only to please myself. I like nothing but what makes", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0257.jp2"}, "258": {"fulltext": "246 Classic French Course in English.\\nfor my purpose. Candida, who had been brought up with\\na notion of never making use of his own judgment, was\\nastonished at what he heard but Martin found there was a\\ngood deal of reason in the senator s remarks.\\nOh, here is a Tully! said Candide; this great man, I\\nfancy, you are never tired of reading. Indeed, I never\\nread him at all, replied Pococurante. What a deuce is\\nit to me whether he pleads for Kabirius or Cluentius I try\\ncauses enough myself. I had once some liking to his philo-\\nsophical works; but when I found he doubted of every\\nthing, I thought I knew as much as himself, and had no\\nneed of a guide to learn ignorance.\\nHa! cried Martin, here are fourscore volumes of the\\nMemoirs of the Academy of Sciences perhaps there may\\nbe something curious and valuable in this collection.\\nYes, answered Pococurante; so there might, if any one\\nof these compilers of this rubbish had only invented the art\\nof pin-making. But all these volumes are filled with mere\\nchimerical systems, without one single article conducive to\\nreal utility.\\nI see a prodigious number of plays, said Candide, in\\nItalian, Spanish, and French. Yes, replied the Vene-\\ntian; there are, I think, three thousand, and not three\\ndozen of them good for any thing. As to those huge vol-\\numes of divinity, and those enormous collections of sermons,\\nthey are not all together worth one single page of Seneca;\\nand I fancy you will readily believe that neither myself nor\\nany one else ever looks into them.\\nMartin, perceiving some shelves filled with English books,\\nsaid to the senator, I fancy that a republican must be\\nhighly delighted with those books, which are most of them\\nwritten with a noble spirit of freedom. It is noble to\\nwrite as we think, said Pococurante; it is the privilege\\nof humanity. Throughout Italy we write only what we do\\nnot think; and the present inhabitants of the country of\\nthe Caesars and Antoninuses dare not acquire a single idea", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0258.jp2"}, "259": {"fulltext": "Voltaire. 247\\nwithout the permission of a father Dominican. I should\\nbe enamoured of the spirit of the English nation did it not\\nutterly frustrate the good effects it would produce by pas-\\nsion and the spirit of party.\\nCandide, seeing a Milton, asked the senator if he did not\\nthink that author a great man. Who said Pococurante\\nsharply. That barbarian, who writes a tedious commen-\\ntary, in ten books of rambling verse, on the first chapter of\\nGenesis! That slovenly imitator of the Greeks, who dis-\\nfigures the creation by making the Messiah take a pair of\\ncompasses from heaven s armory to plan the world; whereas\\nMoses represented the Deity as producing the whole uni-\\nverse by his fiat Can I think you have any esteem for a\\nwriter who has spoiled Tasso s hell and the devil; who\\ntransforms Lucifer, sometimes into a toad, and at others\\ninto a pygmy who makes him say the same thing over again\\na hundred times; who metamorphoses him into a school-\\ndivine; and who, by an absurdly serious imitation of\\nAriosto s comic invention of fire-arms, represents the devils\\nand angels cannonading each other in heaven Neither I,\\nnor any other Italian, can possibly take pleasure in such\\nmelancholy reveries. But the marriage of Sin and Death,\\nand snakes issuing from the womb of the former, are enough\\nto make any person sick that is not lost to all sense of deli-\\ncacy. This obscene, whimsical, and disagreeable poem met\\nwith the neglect that it deserved at its first publication; and\\nI only \u00c2\u00a3reat the author now as he was treated in his own\\ncountry by his contemporaries.\\nCandide was sensibly grieved at this speech, as he had a\\ngreat respect for Homer, and w T as very fond of Milton.\\nAlas! said he softly to Martin, I am afraid this man\\nholds our German poets in great contempt. There\\nwould be no such great harm in that, said Martin. Oh,\\nwhat a surprising man! said Candide to himself. What\\na prodigious genius is this Pococurante Nothing can please\\nhim.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0259.jp2"}, "260": {"fulltext": "248 Classic French Course in English.\\nAfter finishing their survey of the library they went down\\ninto the garden, when Candide commended the several beau-\\nties that offered themselves to his view. l I know nothing\\nupon earth laid out in such bad taste, said Pococurante;\\nevery thing about it is childish and trifling but I shall\\nhave another laid out to-morrow upon a nobler plan.\\nAs soon as our two travellers had taken leave of his excel-\\nlency, Well, said Candide to Martin, I hope you will\\nown that this man is the happiest of all mortals, for he is\\nabove every thing he possesses. But do you not see,\\nanswered Martin, that he likewise dislikes every thing he\\npossesses It was an observation of Plato long since, that\\nthose are not the best stomachs that reject, without distinc-\\ntion, all sorts of aliments. True, said Candide; but\\nstill, there must certainly be a pleasure in criticising every\\nthing, and in perceiving faults where others think they see\\nbeauties. That is, replied Martin, there is a pleasure\\nin having no pleasure. Well, well, said Candide, I\\nfind that I shall be the only happy man at last, when I am\\nblessed with the sight of my dear Cunegund. It is good\\nto hope, said Martin.\\nThe single citation preceding sufficiently exempli-\\nfies, at their best, though at their worst, not, the style\\nand the spirit of Voltaire s Candide; as his\\nCandide sufficiently exemplifies the style and\\nthe spirit of the most characteristic of Voftaire s\\nwritings in general. u Pococurantism is a word,\\nnow not uncommon in English, contributed by Vol-\\ntaire to the vocabulary of literature. To readers of\\nthe foregoing extract, the sense of the term will not\\nneed to be explained. We respectfully suggest to\\nour dictionary-makers, that the fact stated of its\\norigin in the Candide of Voltaire would be in-", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0260.jp2"}, "261": {"fulltext": "Voltaire. 249\\ntercsting and instructive to man} r Voltaire coined\\nthe name, to suit the character of his Venetian gen-\\ntleman, from two Italian words which mean together\\nlittle-caring. Signor Pococurante is the immor-\\ntal type of men that have worn out their capacity\\nof fresh sensation and enjoyment.\\nIt was a happy editorial thought of Mr. Henry\\nMorley, in his cheap library, now issuing, of standard\\nbooks for the people, to bind up Johnson s Ras-\\nselas in one volume with Voltaire s Candide.\\nThe two stories, nearly contemporaneous in their\\nproduction, offer a stimulating contrast in treatment,\\nat the hands of two sharply contrasted writers, of\\nmuch the same subject, the unsatisfactoriness of\\nthe world.\\nMr. John Morley, a very different writer and a\\nvery different man from his namesake just men-\\ntioned, has an elaborate monograph on Voltaire in\\na volume perhaps twice as large as the present.\\nThis work claims the attention of all students\\ndesirous of exhaustive acquaintance with its sub-\\nject. Mr. John Morley writes in sympathy with\\nVoltaire, so far as Voltaire was an enemy of the\\nChristian religion but in antipathy to him, so far\\nas Voltaire fell short of being an atheist. A simi-\\nlar sympathy, limited by a similar antipathy, is\\nobservable in the same author s still more extended\\nmonograph on Rousseau. It is only in his two\\nvolumes on Diderot and the Encyclopaedists, that\\nMr. Morley finds himself able to w r rite without", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0261.jp2"}, "262": {"fulltext": "250 Classic French Course in English.\\nreserve in full moral accord with the men whom he\\ndescribes. Of course, in all these books the biog-\\nrapher and critic feels, as Englishman, obliged to\\nconcede much to his English audience, in the way\\nof condemning impurities in his authors. The con-\\ncession thus made is made with great adroitness of\\nmanner, the writer s aim evidently being to imply\\nthat his infidels and atheists, if they are somewhat\\nvicious in taste, had the countenance of good Chris-\\ntian example or parallel for all the lapses they show.\\nMr. Morley wishes to be fair, but his atheist zeal\\novercomes him. This is especially evident in his\\nwork on Diderot and the Encyclopaedists, where\\nhis propagandist desire to clear the character of his\\nhero bribes him once and again to unconscious false\\ndealing. In his Voltaire, and in his Rous-\\nseau, Mr. Morley is so lofty in tone, expressing\\nhimself against the moral obliquities of the men\\nwith whom he is dealing, that often you feel the\\nethic atmosphere of the books to be pure and bracing,\\nalmost beyond the standard of biblical and Chris-\\ntian. But in his Diderot and the Encyclopaedists,\\nsuch fine severity is conspicuously absent. Mr.\\nMorley is so deeply convinced that atheism is what\\nwe all most need just now, that when he has not\\nhalting mere infidels, like Voltaire and Rousseau\\nbut good thorough-going atheists, like Diderot and\\nhis fellows, to exhibit, he can hardly bring himself\\nto injure their exemplary influence with his readers,\\nby allowing to exist any damaging flaws in their\\ncharacter.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0262.jp2"}, "263": {"fulltext": "Voltaire. 251\\nEven in Voltaire and Rousseau, but particularly\\nin Voltaire, Mr. Morley, though his sympathy with\\nthese writers is, as we have said, not complete, finds\\nfar more to praise than to blame. To this eager\\napostle of atheism, Voltaire was at least on the right\\nroad, although he did, unfortunately, stop short of\\nthe goal. His influence was potent against Chris-\\ntianity, and potent it certainly was not against\\natheism. Voltaire might freely be lauded as on\\nthe whole a mighty and a beneficent liberalizer of\\nthought.\\nAnd we, we who are neither atheists nor deists\\nlet us not deny to Voltaire his just meed of praise.\\nThere were streaks of gold in the base alloy of that\\ncharacter of his. He burned with magnanimous\\nheat against the hideous doctrine and practice of\\necclesiastical persecution. Carlyle says of Voltaire,\\nthat he spent his best efforts, and as many still\\nthink, successfully, in assaulting the Christian re-\\nligion. This, true though it be, is liable to be\\nfalsely understood. It was not against the Chris-\\ntian religion, as the Christian religion really is, but\\nrather against the Christian religion as the Roman\\nhierarchy misrepresented it, that Voltaire ostensi-\\nbly directed his efforts. You are right, wrote\\nhe to his henchman D Alembert, in 1762, u in assum-\\ning that I speak of superstition only for as to the\\nChristian religion, I respect it and love it, as you\\ndo. This distinction of Voltaire s, with whatever\\ndegree of simple sincerity on his part made, ought", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0263.jp2"}, "264": {"fulltext": "252 Classic French Course in English.\\nto be remembered in his favor, when his memorable\\nmotto, Ecrasez VInfdme is interpreted and ap-\\nplied. He did not mean Jesus Christ by V Infdme\\nhe did not mean the Christian religion by it he did\\nnot even mean the Christian Church by it he meant\\nthe oppressive despotism and the crass obscurantism\\nof the Roman-Catholic hierarchy. At least, this is\\nwhat he would have said that he meant, what in\\nfact he substantially did say that he meant, when in-\\ncessantly reiterating, in its various forms, his watch-\\nword, Ecrasez VInfdme Ecrasons V Infdme,\\nCrush the wretch Let us crush the wretch\\nHis blows were aimed, perhaps, at superstition\\nbut they really fell, in the full half of their effect,\\non Christianity itself. Whether Voltaire regretted\\nthis, whether he would in his heart have had it\\notherwise, may well, in spite of any protestation\\nfrom him of love for Christianity, be doubted. Still,\\nit is never, in judgment of Voltaire, to be forgotten\\nthat the organized Christianity which he confronted,\\nwas in large part a system justly hateful to the true\\nand wise lover whether of God or of man. That\\nsystem he did well in fighting. Carnal indeed were\\nthe weapons with which he fought it and his victory\\nover it was a carnal victory, bringing, on the whole,\\nbut slender net advantage, if any such advantage\\nat all, to the cause of final truth and light. The\\nFrench Revolution, with its excesses and its hor-\\nrors, was perhaps the proper, the legitimate, the\\nnecessary, fruit of resistance such as was Voltaire s,", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0264.jp2"}, "265": {"fulltext": "Voltaire. 253\\nin fundamental spirit, to the evils in church and in\\nstate against which he conducted so gallantly his\\nlife-long campaign.\\nBut though we thus bring in doubt the work of\\nVoltaire, both as to the purity of its motive, and as\\nto the value of its fruit, we should wrong our sense\\nof justice to ourselves if we permitted our readers\\nto suppose us blind to the generous things that this\\narch-infidel did on behalf of the suffering and the\\noppressed. Voltaire more than once wielded that\\npen of his, the most dreaded weapon in Europe, like\\na knight sworn to take on himself the championship\\nof the forlorn est of causes. There is the historic\\ncase of Jean Calas at Toulouse, Protestant, an old\\nman of near seventy, broken on the wheel, as sus-\\npected, without evidence, and against accumulated\\nimpossibilities, of murdering his own son, a young\\nman of about thirty, by hanging him. Voltaire\\ntook up the case, and pleaded it to the common\\nsense, and to the human feeling, of France, with\\nimmense effectiveness. It is, in truth, Voltaire s\\nadvocacy of righteousness, in this instance of in-\\ncredible wrong, that has made the instance itself\\nimmortal. His part in the case of Calas, though\\nthe most signal, is not the only, example of Vol-\\ntaire s literary knighthood. He hated oppression,\\nand he loved liberty, for himself and for all men,\\nwith a passion as deep and as constant as any pas-\\nsion of which nature had made Voltaire capable. If\\nthe liberty that he loved was fundamentally liberty", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0265.jp2"}, "266": {"fulltext": "254 Classic French Course in English\\nas against God no less than as against men, and if\\nthe oppression that he hated was fundamental!} 7 the\\noppression of being put under obligation to obey\\nChrist as lord of life and of thought, this was some-\\nthing of which, probably, Voltaire never clearly\\nthought.\\nWe have now indicated what was most admirable\\nin Voltaire s personal character. On the whole, he\\nwas far from being an admirable man. He was\\nvain, he was shallow, he was frivolous, he was de-\\nceitful, he was voluptuous, he fawned on the great,\\nhe abased himself before them, he licked the dust\\non which they stood. u Trajan, est-il content?\\nu Is Trajan satisfied? this, asked, in nauseous\\nadulation, and nauseous self-abasement, by Vol-\\ntaire of Louis XV., so little like Trajan in charac-\\nter is monumental. The occasion was the produc-\\ntion of a piece of Voltaire s written at the instance\\nof Louis XV. s mistress, the infamous Madame de\\nPompadour. The king, for answer, simply gorgon-\\nized the poet with a stony Bourbon stare.\\nBut, taken altogether, Voltaire s life was a great\\nsuccess. He got on in the world, was rich, was\\nfortunate, was famous, was ga} T if he was not\\nhappy. He had his friendship with the great\\nFrederick of Prussia, who filled for his false French\\nflatterer a return cup of sweetness, cunningly mixed\\nwith exceeding bitterness. His death was an appro-\\npriate coup de thedtre, a felicity of finish to such a\\nlife, quite beyond the reach of art. He came back", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0266.jp2"}, "267": {"fulltext": "Rousseau. 255\\nto Paris, whence he had been an exile, welcomed\\nwith a triumph transcending the triumph of a con-\\nqueror. They made a great feast for him, a feast\\nof flattery, in the theatre. The old man was drunk\\nwith delight. The delight was too much for him.\\nIt literally killed him. It was as if a favorite\\nactress should be quite smothered to death on the\\nstage, under flowers thrown in excessive profusion\\nat her feet.\\nLet Carlyle s sentence be our epigraph on Vol-\\ntaire\\nNo great Man. Found alwaj^s at the top,\\nless by power in swimming than by lightness in\\nfloating.\\nXVI.\\nROUSSEAU.\\n1712-1778.\\nThere are two Rousseaus in French literature.\\nAt least, there was a first, until the second effaced\\nhim, and became the only.\\nWe speak, of course, in comparison, and hyper-\\nbolically. J. B. Rousseau is still named as a lyric\\npoet of the time of Louis XIV. But when Rous-\\nseau, without initials, is spoken of, it is always\\nJean Jacques Rousseau that is meant.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0267.jp2"}, "268": {"fulltext": "256 Classic French Course in English.\\nJean Jacques Rousseau is perhaps the most\\nsqualid, as it certainly is one of the roost splendid,\\namong French literary names. The squalor belongs\\nchiefly to the man, but the splendor is wholly the\\nwriter s. There is hardly another example in the\\nworld s literature of a union so striking of these\\nopposites.\\nRousseau s life he has himself told, in the best,\\nthe worst, and the most imperishable, of his books,\\nthe Confessions. This book is one to which the\\nadjective charming attaches, in a peculiarly literal\\nsense of the word. The spell, however, is repellent\\nas well as attractive. But the attraction of the style\\nasserts and pronounces itself only the more, in\\ntriumph over the much there is in the matter to dis-\\ngust and revolt. It is quite the most offensive, and\\nit is well-nigh the most fascinating, book that we\\nknow.\\nThe 4 Confessions begin as follows\\nI purpose an undertaking that never had an example,\\nand whose execution never will have an imitator. I would\\nexhibit to my fellows a man in all the truth of nature, and\\nthat man myself.\\nMyself alone. I know my own heart, and I am ac-\\nquainted with men. I am made unlike any one I have ever\\nseen, I dare believe unlike any living being. If no better\\nthan, I am at least different from, others. Whether nature\\ndid well or ill in breaking the mould wherein I was cast, can\\nbe determined only after having read me.\\nLet the last trumpet sound when it will, I will come, with\\nthis book in my hand, and present myself before the Sover-", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0268.jp2"}, "269": {"fulltext": "Rousseau. 257\\neign Judge. I will boldly proclaim: Thus have I acted,\\nthus have I thought, such was I. With equal frankness\\nhave I disclosed the good and the evil. I have omitted\\nnothing bad, added nothing good and if I have happened\\nto make use of some unimportant ornament, it has, in every\\ncase, been simply for the purpose of filling up a void oc-\\ncasioned by my lack of memory. I may have taken for\\ngranted as true what I knew to be possible, never what I\\nknew to be false. Such as I was, I have exhibited myself,\\ndespicable and vile, when so; virtuous, generous, sublime,\\nwhen so. I have unveiled my interior being, such as Thou,\\nEternal Existence, hast beheld it. Assemble around me the\\nnumberless throng of my fellow-mortals let them listen to\\nmy confessions, let them blush at my depravities, let them\\nshrink appalled at my miseries. Let each of them, in his\\nturn, with equal sincerity, lay bare his heart at the foot of\\nthy throne, and then let a single one tell thee, if he dare,\\nI was better than that man.\\nNotwithstanding our autobiographer s disavowal\\nof debt to example for the idea of his Confes-\\nsions, it seems clear that Montaigne here was at\\nleast inspiration, if not pattern, to Roussean. But\\nRousseau resolved to do what Montaigne had done,\\nmore ingenuously and more courageously than Mon-\\ntaigne had done it. This writer will make himself\\nhis subject, and then treat his subject with greater\\nfrankness than any man before him ever used about\\nhimself, or than any man after him would ever use.\\nHe undoubtedly succeeded in his attempt. His\\nfrankness, in fact, is so forward and eager, that it is\\nprobably even inventive of things disgraceful to him-\\nself. Montaigne makes great pretence of telling his", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0269.jp2"}, "270": {"fulltext": "258 Classic French Course in English.\\nown faults, but you observe that he generally chooses\\nrather amiable faults of his own to tell. Rousseau s\\nmorbid vulgarity leads him to disclose traits in\\nhimself, of character or of behavior, that, despite\\nwhatever contrary wishes on your part, compel your\\ncontempt of the man. And it is for the man w r ho\\nconfesses, almost more than for the man who is\\nguilty, that you feel the contempt.\\nThe Confessions proceed\\nI was born at Geneva, in 1712, of Isaac Rousseau and\\nSusannah Bernard, citizens. I came into the world\\nweak and sickly. I cost my mother her life, and my birth\\nwas the first of my misfortunes.\\nI never learned how my father supported his loss, but I\\nknow that he remained ever after inconsolable. When\\nhe used to say to me, Jean Jacques, let us speak of your\\nmother, my usual reply w r as, Well, father, we ll cry,\\nthen, a reply which would instantly bring the tears to his\\neyes. Ah! he would exclaim with agitation, give me\\nher back, console me for her loss, fill up the void she has left\\nin my soul. Could I love thee thus wert thou but my son?\\nForty years after having lost her he expired in the arms of\\na second wife, but with the name of the first on his lips,\\nand her image engraven on his heart.\\nSuch were the authors of my being. Of all the gifts\\nHeaven had allotted them, a feeling heart was the only one\\nI had inherited. While, however, this had been the source\\nof their happiness, it became the spring of all my misfor-\\ntunes.\\nA feeling heart That expression tells the\\nliterary secret of Rousseau. It is hardly too much\\nto say that Rousseau was the first French writer to", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0270.jp2"}, "271": {"fulltext": "Rousseau. 259\\nwrite with his heart but heart s blood was the ink\\nin which almost every word of Rousseau s was writ-\\nten. This was the spring of his marvellous power.\\nRousseau\\nMy mother had left a number of romances. These father\\nand I betook us to reading during the evenings. At first\\nthe sole object was, by means of entertaining books, to im-\\nprove me in reading; but, ere long, the charm became so\\npotent, that we read turn about without intermission, and\\npassed whole nights in this employment. Never could we\\nbreak up till the end of the volume. At times my father,\\nhearing the swallows of a morning, would exclaim, quite\\nashamed of himself, Come, let s to bed; I m more of a\\nchild than you are!\\nThe elder Rousseau was right respecting himself.\\nAnd such a father would almost necessarily have\\nsuch a child. Jean Jacques Rousseau is to be\\njudged tenderly for his faults. What birth and\\nwhat breeding were his! The Confessions go\\non\\nI soon acquired, by this dangerous course, not only an\\nextreme facility in reading and understanding, but, for my\\nage, a quite unprecedented acquaintance with the passions.\\nI had not the slightest conception of things themselves, at\\na time when the whole round of sentiments was already\\nperfectly familiar to me. I had apprehended nothing I\\nhad felt all.\\nSome hint now of other books read by the boy", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0271.jp2"}, "272": {"fulltext": "260 Classic French Course in English.\\nWith the summer of 1719 the romance-reading termi-\\nnated. The History of the Church and Empire by\\nLesueur, Bossuet s Dissertation on Universal History,\\nPlutarch s Lives, Nani s History of Venice, Ovid s\\nMetamorphoses, La Bruyere, Fontenelle s Worlds,\\nhis Dialogues of the Dead, and a few volumes of Moliere,\\nwere transported into my father s shop; and I read them to\\nhim every day during his work. For this employment I\\nacquired a rare, and, for my age, perhaps unprecedented,\\ntaste. Plutarch especially became my favorite reading. The\\npleasure which I found in incessantly reperusing him, cured\\nme in some measure of the romance madness and I soon\\ncame to prefer Agesilaus, Brutus, and Aristides, to Oronda-\\ntes, Artemenes, and Juba. From these interesting studies,\\njoined to the conversations to which they gave rise with my\\nfather, resulted that free, republican spirit, that haughty\\nand untamable character, fretful of restraint or subjection,\\nwhich has tormented me my life long, and that in situations\\nthe least suitable for giving it play. Incessantly occupied\\nwith Rome and Athens, living, so to speak, with their great\\nmen, born myself the citizen of a republic [Geneva], the son\\nof a father with whom patriotism was the ruling passion, I\\ncaught the flame from him I imagined myself a Greek\\nor a Roman, and became the personage whose life I was\\nreading.\\nOn such food of reading and of reverie, young\\nRousseau s imagination and sentiment battened,\\nwhile his reason and his practical sense starved\\nand died within him. Unconsciously thus in part\\nwas formed the dreamer of the Emile and of\\nThe Social Contract. Another glimpse of the\\nhome-life if home-life such experience can be\\ncalled of this half-orphan, homeless Genevan\\nboy:", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0272.jp2"}, "273": {"fulltext": "Rousseau. 261\\nI had a brother, my elder by seven years. He fell\\ninto the ways of debauchery, even before he was old enough\\nto be really a libertine. I remember once when my\\nfather was chastising him severely and in anger, that I im-\\npetuously threw myself between them, clasping him tightly.\\nI thus covered him with my body, receiving the blows that\\nwere aimed at him; and I held out so persistently in this\\nposition, that whether softened by my cries and tears, or\\nfearing that I should get the worst of it, my father was\\nforced to forgive him. In the end my brother turned out\\nso bad that he ran away and disappeared altogether.\\nIt is pathetic Rousseau s attempted contrast\\nfollowing, between the paternal neglect of his older\\nbrother and the paternal indulgence of himself\\nIf this poor lad was carelessly brought up, it was quite\\notherwise with his brother. My desires were so little\\nexcited, and so little crossed, that it never came into my\\nhead to have any. I can solemnly aver, that, till the time\\nwhen I was bound to a master, I never knew what it was\\nto have a whim.\\nPoor lad Never knew what it was to have\\na whim! It well might be, however his boy s\\nlife all one whim uncrossed, unchecked no con-\\ntrast of saving restraint, to make him know that he\\nwas living by whim alone! The Confessions\\ntruly say\\nThus commenced the formation or the manifestation in\\nme of that heart at once so haughty and so tender, of that\\neffeminate and yet unconquerable character which, ever\\nvacillating between courage and weakness, between virtue", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0273.jp2"}, "274": {"fulltext": "262 Classic French Coarse in English.\\nand yielding to temptation, has all along set me in contra-\\ndiction to myself, and has resulted in my failing both of\\nabstinence and enjoyment, both of prudence and pleasure.\\nThe half-orphan becomes orphan entire, not by\\nthe death, but by the withdrawing, of the father.\\nThat father, having been accused of a misdemeanor,\\npreferred, Rousseau somewhat vaguely sa}^s,\\nto quit Geneva for the remainder of his life,\\nrather than give up a point wherein honor and lib-\\nerty appeared to him compromised. Jean Jacques\\nwas sent to board with a parson, who taught him\\nLatin, and, along with Latin, supplied, Rousseau\\nscornfully says, all the accompanying mass of\\npaltry rubbish styled education. He adds\\nThe country was so entirely new to me, that I could never\\ngrow weary in my enjoyment of it and I acquired so strong\\na liking for it, that it has never become extinguished.\\nYoung Jean Jacques was at length apprenticed\\nto an engraver. He describes the contrast of his\\nnew situation and the effect of the contrast upon\\nhis own character and career\\nI learned to covet in silence, to dissemble, to dissimulate,\\nto lie, and at last to steal, \u00e2\u0080\u0094a propensity for which I had\\nnever hitherto had the slightest inclination, and of which\\nI have never since been able quite to cure myself.\\nMy first theft was the result of complaisance, but it\\nopened the door to others which had not so laudable a\\nmotive.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0274.jp2"}, "275": {"fulltext": "Rousseau. 263\\nMy master had a journeyman named M. Yerrat.\\n[He] took it into his head to rob his mother of some of her\\nearly asparagus and sell it, converting the proceeds into\\nsome extra good breakfasts. As he did not wish to expose\\nhimself, and not being very nimble, he selected me for this\\nexpedition. Long did I stickle, but he persisted. I\\nnever could resist kindness, so I consented. I went every\\nmorning to the garden, gathered the best of the asparagus,\\nand took it to the Molard, where some good creature,\\nperceiving that I had just been stealing it, would insinuate\\nthat little fact, so as to get it the cheaper. In my terror I\\ntook whatever she chose to give me, and carried it to M.\\nYerrat.\\nThis little domestic arrangement continued for several\\ndays before it came into my head to rob the robber, and\\ntithe M. Yerrat for the proceeds of the asparagus. I\\nthus learned that to steal was, after all, not so very terrible\\na thing as I had conceived; and ere long I turned this dis-\\ncovery to so good an account, that nothing I had an inclina-\\ntion for could safely be left within my reach.\\nAnd now, before giving myself over to the fatality of my\\ndestiny, let me, for a moment, contemplate what would\\nnaturally have been my lot had I fallen into the hands of a\\nbetter master. Nothing was more agreeable to my tastes,\\nnor better calculated to render me happy, than the calm and\\nobscure condition of a good artisan, more especially in cer-\\ntain lines, such as that of an engraver at Geneva. In\\nmy native country, in the bosom of my religion, of my\\nfamily, and my friends, I. should have led a life gentle and\\nuncheckered as became my character, in the uniformity of\\na pleasing occupation and among connections dear to my\\nheart. I should have been a good Christian, a good citizen,\\na good father, a good friend, a good artisan, and a good\\nman in every respect. I should have loved my station; it\\nmay be I should have been an honor to it and after having\\npassed an obscure and simple, though even and happy, life,", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0275.jp2"}, "276": {"fulltext": "264 Classic French Course in English.\\nI should peacefully have departed in the bosom of ray kin-\\ndred. Soon, it may be, forgotten, I should at least have\\nbeen regretted as long as the remembrance of me survived.\\nInstead of this what a picture am I about to draw\\nThus ends the first book of the Confessions.\\nThe picture Rousseau is about to draw has in\\nit a certain Madame de Warens for a principal fig-\\nure. (Apprentice Jean Jacques has left his master,\\nand entered on a vagabond life.) This lady is a\\ncharacter very difficult for us Protestant Americans\\nin our contrasted society to conceive as real or as\\npossible. She kept a house of, what shall we call\\nit? detention, for souls doubtfully in the way of\\nbeing reclaimed from Protestant error into the\\nbosom of the Roman-Catholic Church. She was\\nherself a Roman-Catholic convert from Protestant-\\nism. She had forsaken a husband, not loved, and\\nwas living on a bounty from King Victor Amadeus\\nof Sardinia. For Annecy, the home of Madame de\\nWarens, our young Jean Jacques, sent thither by a\\nRoman-Catholic curate, sets out on foot. The dis-\\ntance was but one day s walk which one day s\\nwalk, however, the humor of the wanderer stretched\\ninto a saunter of three days. The man of fifty-\\nfour, become the biographer of his own youth, finds\\nno loathness of self-respect to prevent his detailing\\nthe absurd adventures with which he diverted him-\\nself on the way. For example\\nNot a country-seat could I see, either to the right or left,\\nwithout going after the adventure which I was certain", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0276.jp2"}, "277": {"fulltext": "Rousseau. 265\\nawaited me. I could not muster courage to enter the man-\\nsion, nor even to knock, for I was excessively timid but I\\nsang beneath the most inviting window, very much aston-\\nished to find, after wasting my breath, that neither lady\\nnor miss made her appearance, attracted by the beauty of\\nmy voice, or the spice of my songs, seeing that I knew\\nsome capital ones that my comrades had taught me, and\\nwhich I sang in the most admirable manner.\\nRousseau describes the emotions he experienced\\nin his first meeting with Madame de Warens\\nI had pictured to myself a grim old devotee M. de\\nPontverre s worthy lady could, in my opinion, be none\\nother. But lo, a countenance beaming with charms, beau-\\ntiful, mild blue eyes, a complexion of dazzling fairness, the\\noutline of an enchanting neck Xothing escaped the rapid\\nglance of the young proselyte; for that instant I was hers,\\nsure that a religion preached by such missionaries could not\\nfail to lead to paradise\\nThis abnormally susceptible youth had remark-\\nable experiences, all within his own soul, during his\\nsojourn, of a few days only, on the present occasion,\\nunder Madame de Warens s hospitable roof. These\\nexperiences, the autobiographer, old enough to call\\nhimself old dotard, has, nevertheless, not grown\\nwise enough to be ashamed to be very detailed and\\npsychological in recounting. It was a case of pre-\\ncocious love at first sight. One could afford to laugh\\nat it as ridiculous, but that it had a sequel full of\\nsin and of sorrow. Jean Jacques was now for-\\nwarded to Turin, to become inmate of a sort of\\ncharity school for the instruction of catechumens.\\nThe very day after he started on foot, his father,", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0277.jp2"}, "278": {"fulltext": "266 Classic French Course in English.\\nwith a friend of his, reached Annecy on horseback,\\nin pursuit of the truant boy. They might easily\\nhave overtaken him, but they let him go his way.\\nRousseau explains the case on behalf of his father\\nas follows\\nMy father was not only an honorable man, but a person\\nof the most reliable probity, and endowed with one of those\\npowerful minds that perform deeds of loftiest heroism. I\\nmay add, he was a good father, especially to me. Tenderly\\ndid he love me, but he loved his pleasures also and, since\\nour living apart, other ties had, in a measure, weakened his\\npaternal affection. He had married again, at Nyon; and\\nthough his wife was no longer of an age to present me with\\nbrothers, yet she had connections another family-circle was\\nthus formed, other objects engrossed his attention, and the\\nnew domestic relations no longer so frequently brought back\\nthe remembrance of me. My father was growing old, and\\nhad nothing on which to rely for the support of his declin-\\ning years. My brother and I had something coming to us\\nfrom my mother s fortune; the interest of this my father\\nwas to receive during our absence. This consideration did\\nnot present itself to him directly, nor did it stand in the way\\nof his doing his duty it had, however, a silent, and to him-\\nself imperceptible, influence, and at times slackened his zeal,\\nwhich, unacted upon by this, would have been carried much\\nfarther. This, I think, was the reason, that, having traced\\nme as far as Annecy, he did not follow me to Chamberi,\\nwhere he was morally certain of overtaking me. This will\\nalso explain why, in visiting him many times after my\\nflight, I received from him on every occasion a father s kind-\\nness, though unaccompanied by any very pressing efforts to\\nretain me.\\nKousseau s filial regard for his father was pecul-\\niar. It did not lead him to hide, it only led him", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0278.jp2"}, "279": {"fulltext": "Rousseau. 267\\nto account for, his father s sorclidness. The son\\ngeneralized and inferred a moral maxim for the con-\\nduct of life from this behavior of the father s, a\\nmaxim, which, as he thought, had done him great\\ngood. He says\\nThis conduct on the part of a father of whose affection\\nand virtue I have had so many proofs, has given rise within\\nme to reflections on my own character which have not a\\nlittle contributed to maintain my heart uncorrupted. I have\\nderived therefrom this great maxim of morality, perhaps\\nthe only one of any use in practice; namely, to avoid such\\nsituations as put our duty in antagonism with our interest,\\nor disclose our own advantage in the misfortunes of another,\\ncertain that in such circumstances, however sincere the love\\nof virtue we bring with us, it will sooner or later, and\\nwhether we perceive it or not, become weakened, and we\\nshall come to be unjust and culpable in our acts without\\nhaving ceased to be upright and blameless in our intentions.\\nThe fruitful maxim thus deduced by Rousseau,\\nhe thinks he tried faithfully to put in practice.\\nWith apparent perfect assurance concerning him-\\nself, he says\\nI have sincerely desired to do what was right. I have,\\nwith all the energy of my character, shunned situations\\nwhich set my interest in opposition to the interest of another,\\nthus inspiring me with a secret though involuntary desire\\nprejudicial to that man.\\nJean Jacques at Turin made speed to convert\\nhimself, by the abjurations required, into a pretty\\ngood Catholic. He was hereon free to seek his", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0279.jp2"}, "280": {"fulltext": "268 Classic French Course in English.\\nfortune in the Sardinian capital. This he did by\\ngetting successively various situations in service.\\nIn one of these he stole, so he tells us, a piece of\\nribbon, which was soon found in his possession.\\nHe said a maid-servant, naming her, gave it to him.\\nThe two were confronted with each other. In spite\\nof the poor girl s solemn appeal, Jean Jacques per-\\nsisted in his lie against her. Both servants were\\ndischarged. The autobiographer protests that he\\nhas suffered much remorse for this lie of his to the\\nharm of the innocent maid. He expresses confident\\nhope that his suffering sorrow, already experienced\\non this behalf, will stand him in stead of punishment\\nthat might be his due in a future state. Remorse\\nis a note in Rousseau that distinguishes him from\\nMontaigne. Montaigne reviews his own life to live\\nover his sins, not to repent of them.\\nThe end of several vicissitudes is, that young\\nRousseau gets back to Madame de Warens. She\\nwelcomes him kindly. He says\\nFrom the first day, the most affectionate familiarity sprang\\nup between us, and that to the same degree in which it con-\\ntinued during all the rest of her life. Petit Child was\\nmy name, Maman Mamma hers and Petit and Maman\\nwe remained, even when the course of time had all but\\neffaced the difference of our ages. These two names seem\\nto me marvellously well to express our tone towards each\\nother, the simplicity of our manners, and, more than all, the\\nrelation of our hearts. She was to me the tenderest of\\nmothers, never seeking her own pleasure, but ever my wel-\\nfare and if the senses had any thing to do with my attach-", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0280.jp2"}, "281": {"fulltext": "Rousseau. 269\\nment for her, it was not to change its nature, but only to\\nrender it more exquisite, and intoxicate me with the charm\\nof having a young and pretty mamma whom it was delight-\\nful for me to caress. I say quite literally, to caress; for it\\nnever entered into her head to deny me the tenderest mater-\\nnal kisses and endearments, nor into my heart to abuse\\nthem. Some may say that, in the end, quite other relations\\nsubsisted between us. I grant it; but have patience, I\\ncannot tell every thing at once.\\nWith Madame de Warens, Rousseau s relations,\\nas is intimated above, became licentious. This\\ncontinued until, after an interval of years (nine\\nyears, with breaks), in a fit of jealousy he forsook\\nher. Rousseau s whole life was a series of self-\\nindulgences, grovelling, sometimes, beyond what is\\nconceivable to any one not learning of it all in detail\\nfrom the man s own pen. The reader is fain at\\nlast to seek the only relief possible from the sicken-\\ning story, by flying to the conclusion that Jean\\nJacques Rousseau, with all his genius, was wanting\\nin that mental sanity which is a condition of com-\\nplete moral responsibility.\\nWe shall, of course, not follow the Confessions\\nthrough their disgusting recitals of sin and shame.\\nWe should do wrong, however, to the literary, and\\neven to the moral, character of the work, were we\\nnot to point out that there are frequent oases of\\nsweetness and beauty set in the wastes of incred-\\nible foulness which overspread so widely the pages\\nof Rousseau s Confessions. Here, for exam-\\nple, is an idyll of vagabondage that might almost", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0281.jp2"}, "282": {"fulltext": "270 Classic French Course in English.\\nmake one willing to play tramp one s self, if one by\\nso doing might have such an experience\\nI remember, particularly, having passed a delicious night\\nwithout the city on a road that skirted the Rhone or the\\nSaone, for I cannot remember which. On the other side\\nwere terraced gardens. It had been a very warm day the\\nevening was charming; the dew moistened the faded grass;\\na calm night, without a breeze; the air was cool without\\nbeing cold the sun in setting had left crimson vapors in the\\nsky, which tinged the water with its roseate hue, while the\\ntrees along the terrace were filled with nightingales gushing\\nout melodious answers to each other s song. I walked along\\nin a species of ecstasy, giving up heart and senses to the\\nenjoyment of the scene, only slightly sighing with regret at\\nenjoying it alone. Absorbed in my sweet reverie, I pro-\\nlonged my walk far into the night, without perceiving that\\nI was wearied out. At length I discovered it. I lay volup-\\ntuously down on the tablet of a sort of niche or false door\\nsunk in the terrace wall. The canopy of my couch was\\nformed by the over-arching boughs of the trees a nightingale\\nsat exactly above me its song lulled me to sleep my slum-\\nber was sweet, and my awaking still more so. It was broad\\nday; my eyes, on opening, fell on the water, the verdure, and\\nthe admirable landscape spread out before me. I arose and\\nshook off dull sleep and, growing hungry, I gayly directed\\nmy steps towards the city, bent on transforming two pieces\\nde six blancs that I had left, into a good breakfast. I was\\nso cheerful that I went singing along the whole way.\\nThis happy-go-lucky, vagabond, grown-up child,\\nthis sentimentalist of genius, had now and then dif-\\nferent experiences, experiences to which the re-\\nflection of the man grown old attributes important\\ninfluence on the formation of his most controlling\\nbeliefs", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0282.jp2"}, "283": {"fulltext": "Rousseau. 271\\nOne day, among others, having purposely turned aside to\\nget a closer view of a spot that appeared worthy of all\\nadmiration, I grew so delighted with it, and wandered round\\nit so often, that I at length lost myself completely. After\\nseveral hours of useless walking, weary and faint with hun-\\nger and thirst, I entered a peasant s hut which did not pre-\\nsent a very promising appearance, but it was the only one I\\nsaw around. I conceived it to be here as at Geneva and\\nthroughout Switzerland, where all the inhabitants in easy\\ncircumstances are in the situation to exercise hospitality. I\\nentreated the man to get me some dinner, offering to pay\\nfor it. He presented me with some skimmed milk and\\ncoarse barley bread, observing that that was all he had. I\\ndrank the milk with delight, and ate the bread, chaff and\\nall; but this was not very restorative to a man exhausted\\nwith fatigue. The peasant, who was watching me narrowly,\\njudged of the truth of my story by the sincerity of my appe-\\ntite. All of a sudden, after having said that he saw perfectly\\nwell that I was a good and true young fellow that did not\\ncome to betray him, he opened a little trap-door by the side\\nof his kitchen, went down and returned a moment after-\\nwards with a good brown loaf of pure wheat, the remains of\\na toothsome ham, and a bottle of wine, the sight of which\\nrejoiced my heart more than all the rest. To these he\\nadded a good thick omelette, and I made such a dinner as\\nnone but a walker ever enjoyed. When it came to pay, lo\\nhis disquietude and fears again seized him he would none of\\nmy money, and rejected it with extraordinary manifestations\\nof disquiet. The funniest part of the matter was, that I\\ncould not conceive what he was afraid of. At length, with\\nfear and trembling, he pronounced those terrible words,\\nCommissioners and Cellar-rats. He gave me to understand\\nthat he concealed his wine because of the excise, and his\\nbread on account of the tax, and that he was a lost man if\\nthey got the slightest inkling that he was not dying of hunger.\\nEvery thing he said to me touching this matter, whereof,", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0283.jp2"}, "284": {"fulltext": "272 Classic French Course in English.\\nindeed, I had not the slightest idea, produced an impression\\non me that can never be effaced. It became the germ of\\nthat inextinguishable hatred that afterwards sprang up in\\nmy heart against the vexations to which these poor people\\nare subject, and against their oppressors. This man, though\\nin easy circumstances, dared not eat the bread he had gained\\nby the sweat of his brow, and could escape ruin only by\\npresenting the appearance of the same misery that reigned\\naround him.\\nA hideously false world, that world of French\\nsociety was, in Rousseau s time. The falseness was\\nfull ripe to be laid bare by some one and Rous-\\nseau s experience of life, as well as his temperament\\nand his genius, fitted him to do the work of expos-\\nure that he did. What we emphatically call char-\\nacter was sadly wanting in Rousseau how sadly,\\nwitness such an acted piece of mad folly as the\\nfollowing\\nI, without knowing aught of the matter, gave myself\\nout for a [musical] composer. Nor was this all: having\\nbeen presented to M. de Freytorens, law-professor, who\\nloved music, and gave concerts at his house, nothing would\\ndo but I must give him a sample of my talent so I set about\\ncomposing a piece for his concert quite as boldly as though\\nI had really been an adept in the science. I had the con-\\nstancy to work for fifteen days on this fine affair, to copy it\\nfair, write out the different parts, and distribute them with\\nas much assurance as though it had been a masterpiece of\\nharmony. Then, what will scarcely be believed, but which\\nyet is gospel truth, worthily to crown this sublime produc-\\ntion, I tacked to the end thereof a pretty minuet which was\\nthen having a run on the streets. I gave it as my own", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0284.jp2"}, "285": {"fulltext": "Rousseau. 273\\njust as resolutely as though I had been speaking to inhabit-\\nants of the moon.\\nThey assembled to perform my piece. I explain to each\\nthe nature of the movement, the style of execution, and the\\nrelations of the parts I was very full of business. For\\nfive or six minutes they were tuning; to me each minute\\nseemed an age. At length, all being ready, I rap with a\\nhandsome paper baton on the leader s desk the five or six\\nbeats of the Make ready. Silence is made I gravely\\nset to beating time they commence No, never since\\nFrench operas began, was there such a charivari heard.\\nWhatever they might have thought of my pretended talent,\\nthe effect was worse than they could possibly have imagined.\\nThe musicians choked with laughter; the auditors opened\\ntheir eyes, and would fain have closed their ears. But that\\nwas an impossibility. My tormenting set of symphonists,\\nw T ho seemed rather to enjoy the fun, scraped away with a\\ndin sufficient to crack the tympanum of one born deaf. I\\nhad the firmness to go right ahead, however, sweating, it is\\ntrue, at every pore, but held back by shame not daring to\\nretreat, and glued to the spot. For my consolation I heard\\nthe company whispering to each other, quite loud enough for\\nit to reach my ear: It is not bearable! said one. What\\nmusic gone mad! cried another. What a devilish din!\\nadded a third. Poor Jean Jacques, little dreamed you, in\\nthat cruel moment, that one day before the King of France\\nand all the court, thy sounds would excite murmurs of sur-\\nprise and applause, and that in all the boxes around thee\\nthe loveliest ladies would burst forth with, What charming\\nsounds! what enchanting music! every strain reaches the\\nheart!\\nBut what restored every one to good humor was the\\nminuet. Scarcely had they played a few measures than I\\nheard bursts of laughter break out on all hands. Every one\\ncongratulated me on my fine musical taste they assured me\\nthat this minuet would make rne spoken about, and that I", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0285.jp2"}, "286": {"fulltext": "274 Classic French Course in English.\\nmerited the loudest praises. I need not attempt depicting\\nmy agony, nor own that I well deserved it.\\nReaders have now had an opportunity to judge for\\nthemselves, by specimen, of the style, both of the\\nwriter and of the man Jean Jacques Rousseau.\\nThe writer s style they must have felt, even through\\nthe medium of imperfect anonymous translation, to\\nbe a charming one. If they have felt the style of\\nthe man to be contrasted, as squalor is contrasted\\nwith splendor, that they must not suppose to be a\\ncontrast of which Jean Jacques himself, the con-\\nfessor, was in the least displacently conscious. Far\\nfrom it. In a later part of his u Confessions, a\\npart that deals with the author as one already now\\nacknowledged a power in the world of letters, though\\nwith all his chief works still to write, Rousseau\\nspeaks thus of himself (he was considering at the\\ntime the ways and means available to him of obtain-\\ning a livelihood)\\nI felt that writing for bread would soon have extinguished\\nmy genius, and destroyed my talents, which were less in my\\npen than in my heart, and solely proceeded from an elevated\\nand noble manner of thinking. It is too difficult to\\nthink nobly when we think for a livelihood.\\nIs not that finely said? And one need not doubt\\nthat it was said with perfect sincerity. For our\\nown part, paradoxical though it be to declare it, we\\nare wholly willing to insist that Rousseau did think", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0286.jp2"}, "287": {"fulltext": "Rousseau. 275\\non a lofty plane. The trouble with him was, not\\nthat he thus thought with his heart, rather than with\\nhis head, which, however, he did, but that he\\nthought with his heart alone, and not at all with\\nhis conscience and his will. In a word, his thought\\nwas sentiment rather than thought. He was a senti-\\nmentalist instead of a thinker. One illustration of\\nthe divorce that he decreed for himself, or rather\\nfor we have used too positive a form of expression\\nthat he allowed to subsist, between sentiment\\nand conduct, will suffice. It was presently to be\\nhis fortune, as author of a tract on education (the\\nu \u00c2\u00a3mile to change the habit of a nation in the\\nmatter of nurture for babes. French mothers of\\nthe higher social class in Rousseau s time almost\\nuniversally gave up their infants to be nursed at\\nalien bosoms. Rousseau so eloquently denounced\\nthe unuaturalness of this, that from his time it be-\\ncame the fashion for French mothers to suckle their\\nchildren themselves. Meantime, the preacher him-\\nself of this beautiful humanity, living in unweddecl\\nunion with a woman (not Madame de TTarens, but a\\nwoman of the laboring class, found after Madame de\\nWarens was abandoned), sent his illegitimate chil-\\ndren, against the mother s remonstrance, one after\\nanother, to the number of five, to be brought up un-\\nknown at the hospital for foundlings He tells the\\nstory himself in his Confessions. This course\\non his own part he subsequently laments with many\\ntears and many self-upbraidings. But these, alas,", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0287.jp2"}, "288": {"fulltext": "276 Classic French Course in English.\\nhe intermingles with self-justifications, nearly as\\nmany, so that at last it is hard to say whether the\\nbalance of his judgment inclines for or against him-\\nself in the matter. A paradox of inconsistencies\\nand self-contradictions, this man, a problem in\\nhuman character, of v which the supposition of partial\\ninsanity in him, long working subtly in the blood,\\nseems the only solution. The occupation finally\\nadopted by Rousseau for obtaining subsistence, was\\nthe copying of music. It extorts from one a meas-\\nure of involuntary respect for Rousseau, to see\\npatiently toiling at this slavish work, to earn its\\nowner bread, the same pen that had lately set all\\nEurope in ferment with the fimile and The So-\\ncial Contract.\\nFrom Rousseau s Confessions, we have not\\nroom to purvey further. It is a melancholy book,\\nwritten under monomaniac suspicion on the part of\\nthe author that he was the object of a wide-spread\\nconspiracy against his reputation, his peace of mind,\\nand even his life. The poor, shattered, self-con-\\nsumed sensualist and sentimentalist paid dear in the\\nagonies of his closing years for the indulgences of\\nan unregulated life. The tender-hearted, really\\naffectionate and loyal, friend came at length to live\\nin a world of his own imagination, full of treachery\\nto himself. David Hume, the Scotchman, tried to\\nbefriend him but the monomaniac was incapable of\\nbeing befriended. Nothing could be more pitiful\\nthan were the decline and the extinction that", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0288.jp2"}, "289": {"fulltext": "Rousseau. 271\\noccurred of so much brilliant genius, and so much\\nlovable character. It is even doubtful whether\\nRousseau did not at last take his own life. The\\nvoice of accusation is silenced, in the presence of\\nan earthly retribution so dreadful. One may not\\nindeed approve, but one may at least be free to pity,\\nmore than he blames, in judging Rousseau.\\nAccompanying, and in some sort complementing,\\nthe Confessions, are often published several\\ndetached pieces called Reveries, or Walks.\\nThese are very peculiar compositions, and very\\ncharacteristic of the author. They are dreamy\\nmeditations or reveries, sad, even sombre, in spirit,\\nbut beautiful exceedingly, in form of expression.\\nSuch works as the Rene of Chateaubriand,\\nworks but too abundant since in French literature,\\nmust all trace their pedigree to Rousseau s Walks.\\nWe introduce two specimen extracts. The shadow\\nof Rousseau s monomania will be felt thick upon\\nthem\\nIt is dow fifteen years since I have been in this strange\\nsituation, which yet appears to me like a dream; ever im-\\nagining that, disturbed by indigestion, I sleep uneasily, but\\nshall soon awake, freed from my troubles, but surrounded\\nby my friends.\\nHow could I possibly foresee the destiny that awaited\\nme Could I. if in my right senses, suppose that one\\nday, the man I was, and yet remain, should be taken, with-\\nout any kind of doubt, for a monster, a poisoner, an assas-\\nsin, the horror of the human race, the sport of the rabble,\\nmy only salutation to be spit upon, and that a whole genera-", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0289.jp2"}, "290": {"fulltext": "278 Classic French Course in English.\\ntion would unanimously amuse themselves in burying me\\nalive When this strange revolution first happened, taken\\nby unawares, I was overwhelmed with astonishment my\\nagitation, my indignation, plunged me into a delirium,\\nwhich ten years have scarcely been able to calm during\\nthis interval, falling from error to error, from fault to fault,\\nand folly to folly, I have, by my imprudence, furnished the\\ncontrivers of my fate with instruments, which they have\\nartfully employed to fix it without resource.\\nEvery future occurrence will be immaterial to me I have\\nin the world neither relative, friend, nor brother I am on\\nthe earth as if I had fallen into some unknown planet if\\nI contemplate any thing around me, it is only distressing,\\nheart-rending objects every thing I cast my eyes on conveys\\nsome new subject either of indignation or affliction I will\\nendeavor henceforward to banish from my mind all painful\\nideas which unavailingly distress me. Alone for the rest of\\nmy life, I must only look for consolation, hope, or peace in\\nmy own breast; and neither ought nor will, henceforward,\\nthink of any thing but myself. It is in this state that I re-\\nturn to the continuation of that severe and just examination\\nwhich formerly I called my Confessions I consecrate my\\nlatter days to the study of myself, and to the preparation of\\nthat account which I must shortly render up of my actions.\\nI resign my thoughts entirely to the pleasure of conversing\\nwith my own soul that being the only consolation that\\nman cannot deprive me of. If by dint of reflection on my\\ninternal propensities, I can attain to putting them in better\\norder, and correcting the evil that remains in me, these\\nmeditations will not be utterly useless and though I am\\naccounted worthless on earth, shall not cast away my latter\\ndays. The leisure of my daily walks has frequently been\\nfilled with charming contemplations, which I regret having\\nforgot but I will write down those that occur in future\\nthen, every time I read them over, I shall forget my misfor-", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0290.jp2"}, "291": {"fulltext": "Rousseau. 279\\ntunes, disgraces, and persecutors, in recollecting and con-\\ntemplating the integrity of my own heart.\\nKousseau s books in general are now little read.\\nThe} worked their work, and ceased. But there are\\nin some of them passages that continue to live.\\nOf these, perhaps quite the most famous is the\\nSavoyard Curate s Confession of Faith, a docu-\\nment of some length, incorporated into the ic Emile.\\nThis, taken as a whole, is the most seductively elo-\\nquent argument against Christianity that perhaps\\never was written. It contains, however, concessions\\nto the sublime elevation of Scripture and to the\\nunique virtue and majesty of Jesus, which are often\\nquoted, and which will bear quoting here. The\\nSavoyard Curate is represented speaking to a young\\nfriend as follows\\nI will confess to you further, that the majesty of the\\nScriptures strikes me with admiration, as the purity of the\\ngospel hath its influence on my heart. Peruse the works of\\nour philosophers with all their pomp of diction how mean,\\nhow contemptible, are they, compared with the Scripture\\nIs it possible that a book at once so simple and sublime\\nshould be merely the work of man Is it possible that the\\nSacred Personage, whose history it contains, should be him-\\nself a mere man Do we find that he assumed the tone of\\nan enthusiast or ambitious sectary What sweetness, what\\npurity, in his manners What an affecting gracefulness in\\nhis delivery What sublimity in his maxims What pro-\\nfound wisdom in his discourses What presence of mind,\\nwhat subtilty, what truth, in his replies How great the\\ncommand over his passions Where is the man, where the", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0291.jp2"}, "292": {"fulltext": "280 Classic French Course in English.\\nphilosopher, who could so live and die, without weakness\\nand without ostentation When Plato described his imagi-\\nnary good man loaded with all the shame of guilt, yet mer-\\niting the highest reward of virtue, he described exactly the\\ncharacter of Jesus Christ the resemblance was so striking\\nthat all the Fathers perceived it.\\nWhat prepossession, what blindness, must it be to compare\\nthe son of Sophroniscus to the Son of Mary What an in-\\nfinite disproportion there is between them Socrates, dying\\nwithout pain or ignominy, easily supported his character to\\nthe last and if his death, however easy, had not crowned\\nhis life, it might have been doubted whether Socrates, with\\nall his wisdom, was any thing more than a vain sophist.\\nHe invented, it is said, the theory of morals. Others, how-\\never, had before put them in practice he had only to say\\nwhat they had done, and reduce their examples to precepts.\\nAristides had been just before Socrates defined justice\\nLeonidas gave up his life for his country before Socrates de-\\nclared patriotism to be a duty the Spartans were a sober\\npeople before Socrates recommended sobriety before he had\\neven defined virtue, Greece abounded in virtuous men. But\\nwhere could Jesus learn, among his compatriots, that pure\\nand sublime morality of which he only has given us both\\nprecept and example The greatest wisdom was made\\nknown amidst the most bigoted fanaticism, and the simpli-\\ncity of the most heroic virtues did honor to the vilest people\\non the earth. The death of Socrates, peaceably philosophiz-\\ning with his friends, appears the most agreeable that could\\nbe wished for that of Jesus, expiring in the midst of ago-\\nnizing pains, abused, insulted, cursed by a whole nation, is\\nthe most horrible that could be feared. Socrates, in receiv-\\ning the cup of poison, blessed indeed the weeping execu-\\ntioner who administered it but Jesus, in the midst of\\nexcruciating tortures, prayed for his merciless tormentors.\\nYes, if the life and death of Socrates are those of a sage,\\nthe life and death of Jesus are those of a God. Shall we", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0292.jp2"}, "293": {"fulltext": "Rousseau. 281\\nsuppose the evangelic history a mere fiction Indeed, my\\nfriend, it bears not the marks of fiction on the contrary,\\nthe history of Socrates, which nobody presumes to doubt, is\\nnot so well attested as that of Jesus Christ. Such a suppo-\\nsition, in fact, only shifts the difficulty without removing it\\nit is more inconceivable that a number of persons should\\nagree to write such a history, than that one only should fur-\\nnish the subject of it. The Jewish authors were incapable\\nof the diction, and strangers to the morality contained in\\nthe gospel, the marks of whose truth are so striking and\\ninimitable that the inventor would be a more astonishing\\ncharacter than the hero.\\nSo far in eloquent ascription of incomparable ex-\\ncellence to the Bible and to the Founder of Christi-\\nanity. But then immediately Rousseau s Curate\\nproceeds\\nAnd yet, with all this, the same gospel abounds with\\nincredible relations, with circumstances repugnant to rea-\\nson, and which it is impossible for a man of sense either to\\nconceive or admit.\\nThe compliment to Christianity almost convinces\\nyou, until suddenly you are apprised that the au-\\nthor of the compliment was not convinced himself\\nJean Jacques Rousseau, in the preface to his\\nConfessions, appealed from the judgment of men\\nto the judgment of God. This judgment it was his\\nhabit, to the end of his days, thanks to the effect\\nof his early Genevan education, always to think of\\nas certainly impending. Let us adjourn our final\\nsentence upon him, until we hear that Omniscient\\naward.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0293.jp2"}, "294": {"fulltext": "282 Classic French Course in English.\\nXVII.\\nTHE ENCYCLOPAEDISTS.\\nA cenotaph is a monument erected to the memory\\nof one dead, but not marking the spot in which his\\nremains rest. The present chapter is a cenotaph to\\nthe French Encyclopaedists. It is in the nature of\\na memorial of their literary work, but it will be\\nfound to contain no specimen extracts from their\\nwritings.\\nEverybody has heard of the Encyclopaedists of\\nFrance. Who are they? They are a group of men\\nwho, during the eighteenth century, associated them-\\nselves together for the production of a great work\\nto be the repository of all human knowledge, in\\none word, of an encyclopaedia. The project was a\\nlaudable one and the motive to it was laudable\\nin part. For there was mixture of. motive in the\\ncase. In part, the motive was simple desire to\\nadvance the cause of human enlightenment in\\npart, however, the motive was desire to undermine\\nChristianity. This latter end the encyclopaedist\\ncollaborators may have thought to be an indispen-\\nsable means subsidiary to the former end. They\\nprobably did think so with such imperfect sincer-\\nity as is possible to those who set themselves, con-\\nsciously or unconsciously, against God. The fact", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0294.jp2"}, "295": {"fulltext": "The Encyclopedists. 283\\nis, that s the Encyclopaedists came at length to be\\nnearly as much occupied in extinguishing Christian-\\nity, as in promoting public enlightenment. They\\nwent about this their task of destroying, in a way\\nas effective as has ever been devised for accomplish-\\ning a similar work. They gave a vicious turn of\\ninsinuation against Christianity to as many arti-\\ncles as possible. In the most unexpected places,\\nthroughout the entire work, pitfalls were laid of\\nanti- Christian implication, awaiting the unwary feet\\nof the reader. You were nowhere sure of your\\nground. The world has never before seen, it has\\nnever seen since, an example of propagandism alto-\\ngether so adroit and so alert. It is not too much\\nto say further, that history can supply few instances\\nof propagandism so successful. The Encyclopae-\\ndists might almost be said to have given the human\\nmind a fresh start and a new orbit. The fresh\\nstart is, perhaps, spent the new orbit has at length,\\nto a great extent, returned upon the old but it\\nholds true, nevertheless, that the Encyclopaedists of\\nFrance were for a time, and that not a short time,\\na prodigious force of impulsion and direction to the\\nOccidental mind. It ought to be added that the\\naim of the Encyclopaedists was political also, not\\nless than religious. In truth, religion and politics,\\nChurch and State, in their day, and in France, were\\nmuch the same thing. The Encyclopaedia was\\nas revolutionary in politics as it was atheistic in\\nreligion.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0295.jp2"}, "296": {"fulltext": "284 Classic French Course in English.\\nThe leader in this movement of insurrectionary\\nthought was Denis Diderot. Diderot (1713-1784)\\nwas born to be an encyclopaedist, and a captain of\\nencyclopaedists. Force inexhaustible, and inex-\\nhaustible willingness to give out force unappeas-\\nable curiosity to know irresistible impulse to impart\\nknowledge versatile capacity to do every thing, car-\\nried to the verge, if not carried beyond the verge,\\nof incapacity to do any thing thoroughly well\\nquenchless zeal and quenchless hope levity enough\\nof temper to keep its subject free from those depres-\\nsions of spirit and those cares of conscience which\\nweigh and wear on the over-earnest man abundant\\nphysical health, gifts such as these made up the\\nmanifold equipment of Diderot for rowing and steer-\\ning the gigantic enterprise of the Encyclopaedia\\ntriumphantly to the port of final completion, through\\nmany and many a zone of stormy adverse wind and\\nsea, traversed on the way. Diderot produced no\\nsignal independent and original work of his own\\nprobably he could not have produced such a work.\\nOn the other hand, it is simply just to say that\\nhardly anybody but Diderot could have achieved the\\nEncyclopaedia. That, indeed, may be considered\\nan achievement not more to the glory, than to the\\nshame, of its author but whatever its true moral\\ncharacter, in whatever proportion shameful or glori-\\nous, it is inalienably and peculiarly Diderot s achieve-\\nment at least in this sense, that without Diderot the\\nu Encyclopaedia would never have been achieved.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0296.jp2"}, "297": {"fulltext": "The Encyclopcedists. 285\\nWe have already, in discussing Voltaire, adverted\\nsufficiently to Mr. John Morley s volumes in honor\\nof Diderot and his compeers. Diderot is therein\\nably presented in the best possible light to the\\nreader and we are bound to say, that, despite Mr.\\nMorley s friendly endeavors, Diderot therein appears\\nvery ill. He married a young woman, whose simple\\nand touching self-sacrifice on her husband s behalf,\\nhe presently requited by giving himself away, body\\nand soul, to a rival. In his writings, he is so easily\\ninsincere, that not unfrequently it is a problem, even\\nfor his biographer, to decide when he is expressing\\nhis sentiments truly and when not insomuch that,\\nonce and again, Mr. Morley himself is obliged to\\nsay, This is probably hypocritical on Diderot s\\npart, or something to that effect. As for filthy\\ncommunication out of his mouth and from his pen,\\nnot, of course, habitual, but occasional, the subject\\nwill not bear more than this mention. These be thy\\ngods, O Atheism! one, in reading Mr. Morley on\\nDiderot, is tempted again and again to exclaim.\\nTo offset such lowness of character in the man, it\\nmust in justice be added that Diderot was, notwith-\\nstanding, of a generous, uncalculating turn of mind,\\nnot grudging, especially in intellectual relations, to\\ngive of his best to others, expecting nothing again.\\nDiderot, too, as well as Voltaire, had his royal or\\nimperial friends, in the notorious Empress Catherine\\nof Kussia, and in King Stanislaus of Poland. He\\nvisited Catherine once in her capital, and was there", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0297.jp2"}, "298": {"fulltext": "286 Classic French Course in English.\\nmunificently entertained by her. She was regally\\npleased to humor this gentleman of France, permit-\\nting him to bring down his fist in gesture violently\\non the redoubtable royal knee, according to a pleas-\\nant way Diderot had of emphasizing a point in\\nfamiliar conversation. His truest claim to praise\\nfor intellectual superiority is, perhaps, that he was\\na prolific begetter of wit in other men.\\nD Alembert (Jean le Rond, 1717-1783) was\\nan eminent mathematician. He wrote especially,\\nthough not at first exclusively, on mathematical\\nsubjects, for the Encyclopaedia. He was, in-\\ndeed, at the outset, published as mathematical editor\\nof the work. His European reputation in science\\nmade his name a tower of strength to the Ci Enc} r clo-\\npaedia, even after he ceased to be an editorial\\ncoadjutor in the enterprise. For there came a\\ntime when D Alembert abdicated responsibility as\\neditor, and left the undertaking to fall heavily on\\nthe single shoulder, Atlantean shoulder it proved to\\nbe, of Diderot. The celebrated Preliminary Dis-\\ncourse, prefixed to the Enc} 7 clopaadia, proceeded\\nfrom the hand of D Alembert. This has always\\nbeen esteemed a masterpiece of comprehensive grasp\\nand lucid exposition. A less creditable contribu-\\ntion of D Alembert s to the Encyclopaedia was\\nhis article on Geneva, in the course of which, at\\nthe instance of Voltaire, who wanted a chance to\\nhave his plays represented in that city, he went out\\nof his way to recommend to the Genevans that they", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0298.jp2"}, "299": {"fulltext": "The Encyclopaedists. 287\\nestablish for themselves a theatre. This brought\\nout Rousseau iu au eloquent harangue against the\\ntheatre as exerting influence to debauch public\\nmorals. D Alembert, in the contest, did not carry\\noff the honors of the day. D Alerabert s filoges,\\nso called, a series of characterizations and appre-\\nciations written by the author in his old age, of\\nmembers of the French Academy, enjo} deserved\\nreputation for sagacious intellectual estimate, and\\nfor clear, though not supremely elegant, style of\\ncomposition.\\nDiderot and D Alembert are the only men whose\\nnames appear on the titlepage of the 4 c Enc} T clopa\\ndia but Voltaire, Rousseau, Turgot, Helve tius,\\nDuclos, Condillac, Buffon, Grimm, D Holbach, with\\nmany others whom we must not stay even to men-\\ntion, contributed to the work.\\nThe influence of the Encyclopaedia, great dur-\\ning its day, is by no means yet exhausted. But it\\nis an influence indirectly exerted, for the Encyclo-\\npaedia itself has long been an obsolete work.\\nThere is a legal maxim that the laws are silent,\\nwhen a state of war exists. Certainly, amid the\\nmadness of a Revolution such as, during the closing\\nyears of the eighteenth century, the influence of\\nVoltaire, Rousseau, and the Encyclopaedists, with\\nBeaumarchais, reacting against the accumulated po-\\nlitical and ecclesiastical oppressions of ages, precip-\\nitated upon France, it might safely be assumed\\nthat letters would be silent. But the nation mean-", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0299.jp2"}, "300": {"fulltext": "288 Classic French Course in English.\\ntime was portentously preparing material for a litera-\\nture which many wondering centuries to follow would\\noccupy themselves with writing.\\nXVIII.\\nEPILOGUE.\\nIn looking backward over the preceding pages,\\nwe think of many things which we should like still\\nto say. Of these many things, we limit ourselves\\nto saying here, as briefly as we can, some four or\\nfive only.\\nTo begin with, in nearly every successive case,\\nwe have found ourselves lamenting afresh that, from\\nthe authors to be represented, the representative ex-\\ntracts must needs be so few and so short. We have,\\ntherefore, sincerely begrudged to ourselves every\\nline of room that we felt obliged to occupy with\\nmatter, preparatory, explanatory, or critical, of our\\nown. Whatever success we may have achieved in\\nfulfilling our purpose, our purpose has been to say\\nourselves barely so much as was indispensable in\\norder finally to convey, upon the whole, to our read-\\ners, within the allotted space, the justest and the\\nfullest impression of the selected authors, through\\nthe medium of their own quoted words.\\nIn the second place, it was with great regret that\\nwe yielded to the necessity of omitting entirely, or", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0300.jp2"}, "301": {"fulltext": "Epilogue. 289\\ndismissing with scant mention, such literary names,\\nfor example, as Boileau, of the age of Louis Qua-\\ntorze, and, a little later than he, Fontenelle, span-\\nning with his century of years the space from 1657\\nto 1757, these, and, belonging to the period that\\nushered in the Revolution, Bernardin St. Pierre,\\nthe teller of the tale of Paul and Virginia, with\\nalso that hero of a hundred romantic adventures,\\nBeaumarchais, half Themistocles, half Alcibiades,\\nthe author of The Barber of Seville. The line\\nhad to be drawn somewhere and, whether wisely or\\nnot, at least thoughtfully, we drew it to run as it does.\\nA third, and a yet graver, occasion of regret was\\nthat we must stop short on the threshold, without\\ncrossing it, of the nineteenth-century literature of\\nFrance. With so many shining names seen just\\nahead of us, beacon-like, to invite our advance, we\\nfelt it as a real self-denial to stay our steps at that\\npoint. We hope still to deal with Chateaubriand,\\nMadame de Stael, Lamartine, Alfred de Musset,\\nSainte-Beuve, Victor Hugo, and perhaps others, in\\na future volume.\\nOur eye is caught with the antithetical terms,\\nclassicism and romanticism, occurring here\\nand there and the observation is forced upon us,\\nthat these terms, in their mutual relation, are no-\\nwhere by us defined. The truth is, they scarcely,\\nas thus used, admit of hard and fast definition. It\\nis in a somewhat loose conventional sense of each\\nterm, that, in late literary language, they are set", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0301.jp2"}, "302": {"fulltext": "290 Classic French Course in English.\\noff, one over against the other. They name two\\ndifferent, but by no means necessarily antagonistic,\\nforces or tendencies in literature. Classicism stands\\nfor what you might call the established order, against\\nwhich romanticism is a revolt. Paradoxical though\\nit be to say so, both the established order, and the\\nrevolt against it, are good things. The established\\norder, which was never really any thing more or\\nless than the dominance in literature of rules and\\nstandards derived through criticism from the ac-\\nknowledged best models, especially the ancient,\\ntended at last to cramp and stifle the life which it\\nshould, of course, only serve to shape and conform.\\nThe mould, always too narrow perhaps, but at any\\nrate grown too rigid, needed itself to be fashioned\\nanew. Fresh life, a full measure, would do this.\\nSuch is the true mission of romanticism, not to\\nbreak the mould that classicism sought to impose\\non literaiy production, but to expand that mould,\\nmake it more pliant, more free. A mould, for\\nthings living and growing, should be plastic in the\\npassive, as well as in the active, sense of that word,\\nshould accept form, as well as give form. Ro-\\nmanticism will accordingly have won its legitimate\\nvictory, not when it shall have destroyed classicism\\nand replaced it, but when it shall have made classi-\\ncism over, after the law of a larger life. To risk a\\nconcrete illustration among our American poets,\\nBryant, in the perfectly self-consistent unity of his\\nwhole intellectual development, may be said to rep-", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0302.jp2"}, "303": {"fulltext": "Epilogue. 291\\nresent classicism while in Lowell, as Lowell ap-\\npears in the later, more protracted, phase of his\\ngenius, romanticism is represented. The u Thana-\\ntopsis of Bryant and the Cathedral of Lowell\\nmay stand for individual examples respectively of\\nthe classic and the romantic styles in poetry. Com-\\npare these two productions, and in the difference\\nbetween the chaste, well-pruned severity of the one,\\nand the indulged, perhaps stimulated, luxuriance of\\nthe other, you will feel the difference between classi-\\ncism and romanticism. But Victor Hugo is the\\ngreat recent romanticist and when, hereafter, we\\ncome to speak somewhat at large of him, it will be\\nseasonable to enter more fully into the question of\\nthese two tendencies in literature.\\nWe cannot consent to have said here our very\\nlast word, without emphasizing once again our sense\\nof the really extraordinary pervasiveness in French\\nliterature of that element in it which one does not\\nlike to name, even to condemn it, we mean its\\nimpurity. The influence of French literary models,\\nvery strong among us just now, must not be per-\\nmitted insensibly to pervert our own cleaner and\\nsweeter national habit and taste in this matter.\\nBut we, all of us together, need to be both vigilant\\nand firm for the beginnings of corruption here are\\nvery insidious. Let us never grow ashamed of our\\nsaving Saxon shamefacedness. They may nick-\\nname it prudery, if they will but let us, American\\nand English, for our part, always take pride in such\\nprudery.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0303.jp2"}, "304": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0304.jp2"}, "305": {"fulltext": "INDEX,\\n[The pronunciation of proper names in this index is taken from the\\nPronouncing Biographical Dictionary appended to Webster s Unabridged\\nDictionary. For certain convenient guiding rules in French pronuncia-\\ntion, the student is referred to pp. 1682-1684, inclusive, of that work.]\\nAb e-lard (1079-1142) 6.\\nAcademy, French, 10, 12, 75, 156,\\n287.\\n^Es chy-lus, 94, 152, 166, 168.\\n./E sop, 85.\\nAl-ci-bi a-des, 289.\\nAlembert. See D Alembert.\\nAl-ex-an der (the Great), 5, 131.\\nAl-ex-an drine, 5, 86, 153.\\nAm-y-ot (a-me-o Jacques (1513-\\n1593), 8.\\nAn ge-lo, Michel, 156.\\nAriosto, 245, 247.\\nAr is-tot-le, 50.\\nAr-nauld (ar-no Antoine (1612-\\n1694), 119.\\nArthur (King), 5.\\nAu gus-tine, St., Latin Christian\\nFather, 83.\\nAu-gus tus (the Emperor), 131.\\nBa con, Francis, 48, 63.\\nBa ker, Jehu, 226.\\nBa laam, 154.\\nBal zac, Jean Louis Guez de (1594-\\n1654), 10, 11.\\nBeau-mar-chais de (bd-mar-sha\\nPierre Augustin Caron (1732-\\n1799), 287, 289.\\nBenedictines, 29.\\nBoi-leau -Des-pre-aux (bwa-lo -da-\\npra-oO Nicolas (1636-1711) 9, 12,\\n14, 83, 84, 167, 168, 171, 289.\\nBolton, A. S., 69.\\nBOS-SU-ET (bo-su-a Jacques Be-\\nnigne (1627-1704), 11, 12, 77, 127,\\n166, 170, 182-188, 205, 206, 224, 225.\\nBOUR-DA-LOUE Louis (1632-\\n1704), 3, 12, 77, 143, 148, 182, 185,\\n188, 189-197, 198, 201, 202.\\nBrook Farm, 38.\\nBry ant, William Cullen, 290, 291.\\nBuckle, Henry Thomas, 234.\\nBuffon (biif-foNO, Georges Louis\\nLeclerc de (1707-1788), 287.\\nBur gun-dy, Duke of (1682-1712),\\n177, 207, 208, 209, 214, 216.\\nBurke, Edmund, 48, 75.\\n293", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0305.jp2"}, "306": {"fulltext": "294\\nIndex.\\nBus sy, Count, 135.\\nBy ron, Lord, 48.\\nCaesar, Julius, 56, 131.\\nCalas, Jean, 253.\\nCalvin, John (1509-1564), 7.\\nCarlyle, Thomas, 251, 255.\\nCatherine (Empress of Russia), 285.\\nCham-forf (shoN for Sebastien\\nRoch Nicolas (1741-1794), 85.\\nChanson (shoN soN 5.\\nChar-le -magne (shar-le-man 5.\\nCharles I. (of England), 170, 185.\\nCharles IX. (of France), 63.\\nCha-teau-bri-and (sha-to-bre-ON\\nFrancois Auguste de (1768-1848),\\n3, 13, 14, 206, 277, 289.\\nChaucer, Geoffrey, 5, 20.\\nClassicism, 10, 14, 289, 290.\\nClaude, Jean (1619-1687), 182.\\nColeridge, S. T., 7, 34, 43.\\nComines (ko-meen Philippe de\\n(1445-1509), 7, 25, 28.\\nConde (koN-da Prince of, The\\nGreat Conde (1621-1686), 144.\\nCondillac (koN-de-yak Etienne\\nBonnot de (1715-1780), 287.\\nCondorcet (koN-dor-sa/), Marie\\nJean Antoine Nicolas Caritat de\\n(1743-1794), 128.\\nCORNEILLE (kor-nal Pierre\\n(1606-1684), 2, 11, 12, 16, 78, 79,\\n80, 151-166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 182,\\n183, 239.\\nCotin, 100.\\nCotton, Charles (1630-1687), 44,48.\\nCousin (koo-zaN Victor (1792-\\n1867), 128.\\nD Alembert (da-loN-beV), Jean le\\nRond (1717-1783), 13, 251, 286,\\n287.\\nDante, 50, 93, 94, 114.\\nDavid (King), 198.\\nDescartes (da-karf), Rene (1596-\\n1650), 11, 12, 104, 115.\\nD Holbach (dol-bak Paul Henri\\nThyry (1723-1789), 287.\\nDickens, Charles, 35, 149.\\nDiderot (de-dro Denis (1713-\\n1784), 13, 237, 250, 284, 285, 286,\\n287.\\nDryden, John, 48, 166.\\nDuclos (du-kloO, Charles Pineau\\n(1704-1772), 287.\\nEcrasez Vlnfame 252.\\nEdinburgh Review, 140.\\nEdward (the Black Prince), 21-25.\\nEdwards, President, 194.\\nEmerson, Ralph Waldo, 49, 51, 52,\\n61.\\nEncyclopaedia Britannica, 18.\\nENCYCLOPEDISTS, 13, 218, 249,\\n250, 282-288.\\nEpictetus, 65.\\nEpicurus, 50.\\nErasmus, 43, 126.\\nEuripides, 153, 166, 171.\\nFabliaux (faVle-50, 6.\\nFaugere (f5-zher Arnaud Prosper\\n(1810- )il28.\\nFENELOff f fan-Ion Francois de\\nSaliguac de la Mothe (1651-1715),\\n12, 85, 177, 178, 181, 205-224.\\nFlechier (fla-she-a Esprit (1632-\\n1710), 182.\\nFoix (fwa), Count de, 26, 27.\\nFontenelle (foNt-neT), Bernard le\\nBovier (1657-1757), 289.\\nFranciscans, 29.\\nFrederick (the Great) 254.\\nFriar John, 40.\\nFROISSART (frwa-sarO, Jean\\n(1337-1410?), 7, 1S-28.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0306.jp2"}, "307": {"fulltext": "Index.\\n295\\nGaillard (ga-yar Gabriel Henri\\n(1726-1806), 155.\\nGar-gant ua, 29, 36, 37, 39.\\nGibbon, Edward, 153.\\nGoldsmith, Oliver, 83, 225.\\nGrignan, Madame de, 138.\\nGrimm, Friedrich Melchior (1723-\\n1807), 287.\\nGulliver s Travels, 37.\\nGuyon (ge-yoN Madame (1648-\\n1717), 210.\\nHallam, Henry, 18, 34.\\nHavet (late editor of Pascal s works)\\n128, 129.\\nHawkesworth, Dr., 222.\\nHazlitt, W. Carew, 48.\\nHelvetius (el-va-se-uss Claude\\nAdrien (1715-1771), 287.\\nHenriette, Princess, 170.\\nHenry of Navarre, 63.\\nHerod (King), 198.\\nHerodotus, 7, 18.\\nHolbach. See D Holbach.\\nHomer, 244.\\nHooker The judicious 205.\\nHorace, 245.\\nHugo (ii go Victor. See Victor\\nHugo.\\nHume, David, 48, 276.\\nIsaiah (the prophet) 94.\\nIsrael, 154.\\nJames (King), 210.\\nJob, 94, 210.\\nJohn (the Baptist) 198.\\nJohn (King), 21, 22.\\nJohnes, Thomas, 19.\\nJohnson, Samuel, 160, 249.\\nJoinville (zhwftN-vel Jean de\\n(1224P-1319?), 7.\\nJulian (the Apostate) 178.\\nKant, Emmanuel, 42.\\nKnox, John, 198.\\nLa Boetie (la bo-a-te fitienne\\n(1530-1563), 58, 59.\\nLA BRUYERE (labru-e-yer 7 Jean\\n(1646 ?-l 696), 12, 75-81, 153.\\nLA FONTAINE (la foN-tan Jean\\nde (1621-1695), 12, 81-92.\\nLamartine (la-mar-ten Alphonse\\nMarie Louis de (1790-1869), 14,\\n206, 289.\\nLangue d oc, 4.\\nLangue d oil, 4.\\nLanier, Sidney (1842-1881), 25.\\nLA ROCHEFOUCAULD (la rosh-\\nfoo-k6 Francois, Due de (1613-\\n1680), 12, 48, 66-75, 131, 147, 148.\\nLongfellow, Henry W., 50.\\nLouis IX. (1215-1270) (St. Louis),\\n6, 7.\\nLouis XI. (1423-1483), 7.\\nLouis XIII. (1601-1643), 10, 95.\\nLouis XIV. (1638-1715) (Quatorze),\\n10, 12, 113, 135, 136, 169, 172, 176,\\n181, 184, 189, 190, 198, 199, 200, 207,\\n208, 213, 217-219, 223, 255.\\nLouis XV. (1710-1774), 199, 214,\\n254.\\nLouvois (loo-vwa Marquis de,\\n142.\\nLowell, James Russell, 291.\\nLucan, 151, 153, 240.\\nLucretius, 94, 166.\\nLuther, Martin, 7, 40.\\nMaintenon (m N-teh-noisrO, Madame\\nde (1635-1719), 172, 181, 210, 211.\\nMalherbe (mal-erb Franyois (1555-\\n1628), 9, 10, 14.\\nMarti n(mar-taN) Henri (1810-\\n183.\\nMary, Queen of Scots, 8, 198.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0307.jp2"}, "308": {"fulltext": "296\\nIndex.\\nMASSILLON (mas-se-yoN Jean\\nBaptiste (1663-1742), 3, 12, 148,\\n182, 185, 188, 197-205.\\nM Crie, Thomas, 119.\\nMichael (the Archangel), 205.\\nMilton, John, 92, 182, 206, 247.\\nMOLIERE (mo-leh-er real name,\\nJean Baptiste Poquelin (1622-\\n1673), 12, 16, 83, 92-114, 127, 154,\\n165, 167, 169, 240.\\nMontagu, Lady Mary Wortley, 151.\\nMONTAIGNE (mon-tan Michel\\nEyquem de (1533-1592), 2, 7, 8,\\n44-65, 67, 75, 131, 230, 234, 257, 268.\\nMontespan (moN-tess-paN Ma-\\ndame de (1641-1707), 138, 139, 140.\\nMONTESQUIEU, de (moN-tes-\\nke-uhO, Charles de Secondat\\n(1689-1755), 13, 218, 225-237.\\nMorley, Henry, 249.\\nMorley, John, 249, 251, 285.\\nMotteux, ter Anthony (1660-\\n1718), 30.\\nMusset (mii-sa (1810-1857), Al-\\nfred de, 289.\\nNapoleon Bonaparte, 13, 166.\\nNathan (the prophet) 198.\\nNewton, Sir Isaac, 115.\\nNicole (ne-koK), Pierre (1625-1695),\\n3, 143, 147, 168.\\nObscurantism (disposition, in\\nthe sphere of the intellect, to love\\ndarkness rather than light), 252.\\nPan-tag -ru-el, 29, 40, 41, 42.\\nPanurge (pa-niirzh 40, 41, 42.\\nPASCAL, Blaise (1623-1662), 3, 12,\\n48, 62, 65, 80, 115-133, 193.\\nPascal, Jacqueline, 116.\\nPelisson, 149.\\nPetrarch, Francesco, 20.\\nPhasdrus, 85.\\nPlato, 50, 51, 59.\\nPleiades (ple ya-dez), 8, 10, 13.\\nPlutarch, 8, 48, 56.\\nPo-co-cu rant-ism, 248.\\nPompadour, Madame de, 254.\\nPompey, 56.\\nPope, Alexander, 48, 166.\\nPoquelin (po-ke-laN r \u00c2\u00a3eeMoliere,\\n94, 95.\\nPort Royal, 119, 127, 128, 147, 168.\\nPradon, 171.\\nProvenqal (pro-voN-sal), 4.\\nPtolemy Philadelphus, 8.\\nQuentin Durward, 7.\\nRABELAIS (ra-bla Francois\\n(1495P-1553?), 3, 7, 28-43, 60, 65,\\n83, 146.\\nRACINE (ra-seen Jean (1639-\\n1699) 12, 78, 79, 80, 83, 151, 152,\\n153, 166-181, 205.\\nRambouillet (raN-bo5-yaO, Hotel\\nde, 10, 11, 12, 100, 105, 155, 156, 183.\\nRaphael (archangel), 205.\\nRecamier (ra-ka-me-a 7 Madame\\n(1777-1849), 11.\\nRichard, the Lion-hearted, 117.\\nRichelieu (resh-le-uh Cardinal,\\n10, 12, 95, 154, 156.\\nRoman (ro-maN 5.\\nRomanticism, 289, 290.\\nRomanticists, 14.\\nRonsard (roN-sar Pierre de (1524-\\n1585), 8, 9.\\nRonsardism, 14.\\nRousseau (roo-so Jean Baptiste\\n(1670-1741), 255.\\nROUSSEAU, Jean Jacques (1712-\\n1778), 3, 13, 14, 48, 206, 218, 249,\\n250, 251, 255-281, 287.\\nRuskin, John, 73.", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0308.jp2"}, "309": {"fulltext": "Index.\\n297\\nRutebeuf (ru-te bnF (b. 1230),\\ntr outer e, 6.\\nSabliere (sa-bli-er 7 Madame de la,\\n83, 84.\\nSaci (sa-se 7 M. de, 65,\\nSaintsbury, George, 17, 58.\\nSaiiite-Beuve (sSNt-buV 7 Charles\\nAugustin (1804-1869), 9, 14, 189,\\n193, 199, 235, 289.\\nSaVa-din (Saracen antagonist of\\nRichard the Lion-hearted), 117.\\nSalon (sa-loN )j U\u00c2\u00ab\\nSand (soxd), George (Madame\\nDndevant, 1S04-1876), 3, 14.\\nSaurin (so-rax 7 Jacques (1677-\\n1730), 182.\\nSavoyard Curate s Confession,\\n279.\\nScott, Sir Walter, 7, 19, 25, 105.\\nSelden, John The learned 205.\\nSeneca, 43, 50.\\nSEYIGXE (sa-ven-ya 7 Madame de,\\nMarie de Rabutin-Chantal (1626-\\n1696), 11, 105, 134-151, 170.\\nShakspeare, 16, 48, 63, 92, 94, 114,\\n160, 240.\\nSocrates (contrasted by Rousseau\\nwith Jesus), 280, 281.\\nSophocles, 153, 166, 168.\\nStael-Holstein (stii-eT ol-stax 7\\nAnne Louise Germanie de (1766-\\n1S17), 13,289.\\nStanislaus (King of Poland), 285.\\nSt. John, Bayle, 56, 58, 59.\\nSt. Pierre, Jacques Henri Bernardin\\nde (1737-1814), 289.\\nSt. Simon, Louis de Rouvroi, Due\\nde (1675-1755), 208, 209.\\nSwift, Dean, 37.\\nSwinburne, Algernon Charles, 94.\\nTacitus, 7.\\nTaine, H. (1828- 233.\\nTartuffe (tar-tuf), 106-114, 147.\\nTasso, 245, 247.\\nTheleme (ta-lem 7 38, 40.\\nThemistocles, 289.\\nThibaud (te-\\\\ o troubadour (1201-\\n1253), 6.\\nTrajan, 254.\\nTroubadour, 4.\\nTrouvere (troo-ver 7 5, 6.\\nTully (Cicero), 246.\\nTurgot (tiir-go 7 Anne Robert\\nJacques (1727-1781), 287.\\nUrquhart, Sir Thomas, 30.\\ni Van Laun, H., 17.\\nVatel, 143, 144, 145.\\nYauvenargues (vo-ve-narg^) Luc\\nde Clapiers, Marquis de (1715-\\n1747), 79, 80, 81.\\nVercingetorix, 226\\nVictor Hugo (1802-1885), 14, 16, 94,\\n2S9, 291.\\nVillehardouin (vel-ar-doo-ax 7\\nGeoff roy (U65P-1213?), 7.\\nVillemain (vel-max 7 Abel Fran-\\ncois (1790-1870), 118.\\nVirgil, 5, 9, 81, 166, 172, 245.\\nVoiture (vwa-tiir 7 Vincent (1598-\\n1648), 11.\\nYOLTAIRE (vol-ter 7 Francois\\nMarie Arouet de (1694-1778), 2,\\n13, 38, 48, 68, 80, 127, 152, 153, 160,\\n161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 204, 218, 234,\\n235, 238-255, 285, 286, 2S7.\\nWall, C. H., 106.\\nWalpole, Horace, 151, 230.\\nWarens (va-rax 7 Madame de, 264,\\n265, 268, 269, 275.\\nWebster, Daniel, 188.\\nWright, Elizur, 86.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0309.jp2"}, "310": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0310.jp2"}, "311": {"fulltext": "Recommended Supplementary Reading.\\nfour new volumes in the Garnet Series.\\nREADINGS FROM MILTON. With introduction by Bishop Henry\\nW. Warren, D.D., LL.D $0.75\\nREADINGS FROM GOLDSMITH. With introduction by Edward\\nEverett Hale, D.D., LL.D .75\\nASCHAM AND ARNOLD. With introduction by James H. Carlisle,\\nD.D., President WofTord College 75\\nSELECTED ESSAYS OF ADDISON. With introduction by C. T. Win-\\nchester, Professor of English Literature at Wesleyan University, .75\\nThe Entire Set in a Neat Box, $3.00, by mail, postpaid.\\nOne can hardly say too much in praise of this little library. Boston\\nEvening Transcript.\\nThe Chautauqua Press has only to continue to publish such volumes aL\\nthese to fulfil its promise to provide for its students a library of choice litera-\\nture. New-York Observer.\\nThe volumes are excellent, and deserve a very wide circulation. Begin-\\nners in the reading of our best literature should not fail to possess themselves\\nof this Garnet Series, which is altogether unexceptionable, and cannot fail\\nto do great good. The Beacon, Boston.\\nTHE NEW CAME OF MYTHOLOGY.\\nRoman and Greek.\\nInteresting and instructive. Contains one hundred cards, grouped into\\nbooks of from three to six cards each, not arbitrarily, but according to a nat-\\nural classification. This is a special feature of this game, and is a most valu-\\nable aid to the memory, and to an intelligent grasp of the subject. As an\\nadditional feature, well-executed outline cuts are given of the chief deities,\\ntaken in almost every case from some famous statue or picture, Beautifully\\nprinted in colors and put up in a neat box. Price 50 cts., by mail, postpaid.\\nHOME STATIONERY FOR C. L. S. C.\\nEach class printed in different color, on paper of the finest quality,\\nand put up in attractive style, in one and two quire boxes.\\nSee what High Praise it has Received.\\nHon. Henderson Elliott, Vice-President Class of 1882, writes: The\\ndesigns for the various classes are exceedingly neat and appropriate. That\\nof the class of 1882 strikes me exactly, Pioneers we love to be called.\\nYour paper is fine and easily impressed, and the prices very reasonable.\\nRev. H. C. Farrar, President Class of 1883, writes: The C. L. S. C.\\npaper is beautiful and worthy a large sale. I know it must make every true\\nChautauquan more thoroughly in love with the Chautauqua idea, for writing\\nhis C. L. S. C. letters on this paper.\\nJ. B. Underwood, President Class of 1884, adds his testimony in these\\nwords: It will be with great pleasure that each graduate Invincible must\\nwelcome such superb taste as displayed in that prepared for their use, and the\\nwriter congratulates you and the C. L. S. C. upon finally having some sta\\ntionery adapted to the home use of refined and cultivated firesides.\\nMiss Carrie Hart, Treasurer Class of 1885, writes: I am enjoying using\\nit very much, and advertising it to my friends as fast as my correspondence\\nwill permit. It is the only C. L. S. C. stationery that has met my ideas of\\nelegance and beauty for home use.\\nOne-quire box, 60 cents two-quire box, $1.00, by mail, postpaid.\\nCHAUTAUQUA PRESS, 117 Franklin St, Boston.", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0311.jp2"}, "312": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0312.jp2"}, "313": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0313.jp2"}, "314": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0314.jp2"}, "315": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4114", "width": "2621", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0315.jp2"}, "316": {"fulltext": "LIBRARY OF CONGRESS", "height": "4092", "width": "2507", "jp2-path": "classicfrenchcou00wilk_0316.jp2"}}