Chapter VIII: Epilogue: 288 (7)

What is there wanting in such eloquence as the foregoing? Wherein lies its deficiency of power to penetrate and subdue? Voltaire avowed that he found the sermons of Massillon to be among "the most agreeable books we have in our language. I love," he went on, "to have them read to me at table." There are things in Massillon that Voltaire should not have delighted to read, or to hear read,--things that should have made him wince and revolt, if they did not make him yield and be converted. Was there fault in the preacher? Did he preach with professional, rather than with personal, zeal? Did his hearers feel themselves secretly acquitted by the man, at the self-same moment at which they were openly condemned by the preacher? It is impossible to say. But Massillon's virtue was not lofty and regal; however it may have been free from just reproach. He was somewhat too capable of compliance. He was made bishop of Clermont, and his promotion cost him the anguish of having to help consecrate a scandalously unfit candidate as archbishop of Cambray. Massillon's, however, is a fair, if not an absolutely spotless, fame. Hierarch as he was, and orthodox Catholic, this most elegant of eloquent orators had a liberal strain in his blood which allied him politically with the "philosophers" of the time succeeding. He, with Fenelon, and perhaps with Racine, makes seem less abrupt the transition in France from the age of absolutism to the age of revolt and final revolution. There is distinct advance in Massillon, and advance more than is accounted for by his somewhat later time, toward the easier modern spirit in church and in state, from the high, unbending austerity of that antique pontiff and minister, Bossuet.

XIII.

FENELON.

1651-1715.

If Bossuet is to Frenchmen a synonym for sublimity, no less to them is Fenelon a synonym for saintliness. From the French point of view, one might say, "the sublime Bossuet," "the saintly Fenelon," somewhat as one says, "the learned Selden," "the judicious Hooker." It is as much a French delight to idealize Fenelon an archangel Raphael, affable and mild, as it is to glorify Bossuet a Michael in majesty and power.

But saintliness of character was in Fenelon commended to the world by equal charm of person and of genius. The words of Milton describing Eve might be applied, with no change but that of gender, to Fenelon, both the exterior and the interior man:--

Grace was in all his steps, heaven in his eye,
In every gesture dignity and love.

The consent is general among those who saw Fenelon, and have left behind them their testimony, that alike in person, in character, and in genius, he was such as we thus describe him.

Twice, in his youth, he was smitten to the heart with a feeling of vocation to be a missionary. Both times he was thwarted by the intervention of friends. The second time, he wrote disclosing his half-romantic aspiration in a glowing letter of confidence and friendship to Bossuet, his senior by many years, but not yet become famous. Young Fenelon's friend Bossuet was destined later to prove a bitter antagonist, almost a personal foe.

Until he was forty-two years old, Francois Fenelon lived in comparative retirement, nourishing his genius with study, with contemplation, with choice society. He experimented in writing verse. Not succeeding to his mind, he turned to prose composition, and leading the way, in a new species of literature, for Rousseau, for Chateaubriand, for Lamartine, and for many others, to follow, went on writing what, in ceasing to be verse, did not cease to be poetry.

The great world will presently involve Fenelon in the currents of history. Louis XIV., grown old, and become as selfishly greedy now of personal salvation as all his life he has been selfishly greedy of personal glory, seeks that object of his soul by serving the church in the wholesale conversion of Protestants. He revokes the Edict of Nantes, which had secured religious toleration for the realm, and proceeds to dragoon the Huguenots into conformity with the Roman-Catholic church. The reaction in public sentiment against such rigors grew a cry that had to be silenced. Fenelon was selected to visit the heretic provinces, and win them to willing submission. He stipulated that every form of coercion should cease, and went to conquer all with love. His success was remarkable. But not even Fenelon quite escaped the infection of violent zeal for the Church. It seems not to be given to any man to rise wholly superior to the spirit of the world in which he lives.

The lustre of Fenelon's name, luminous from the triumphs of his mission among the Protestants, was sufficient to justify the choice of this man, a man both by nature and by culture so ideally formed for the office as was he, to be tutor to the heir prospective of the French monarchy. The Duke of Burgundy, grandson to Louis XIV., was accordingly put under the charge of Fenelon to be trained for future kingship. Never, probably, in the history of mankind, has there occurred a case in which the victory of a teacher could be more illustrious than actually was the victory of Fenelon as teacher to this scion of the house of Bourbon. We shall be giving our readers a relishable taste of St. Simon, the celebrated memoir-writer of the age of Louis XIV., if out of the portrait in words, drawn by him from the life, of Fenelon's princely pupil, we transfer here a few strong lines to our pages. St. Simon says:--

In the first place, it must be said that Monseigneur the Duke of
Burgundy had by nature a most formidable disposition. He was
passionate to the extent of wishing to dash to pieces his clocks
when they struck the hour which called him to what he did not like,
and of flying into the utmost rage against the rain if it
interfered with what he wanted to do. Resistance threw him into
paroxysms of fury. I speak of what I have often witnessed in his
early youth. Moreover, an ungovernable impulse drove him into
whatever indulgence, bodily or mental, was forbidden him. His
sarcasm was so much the more cruel as it was witty and piquant, and
as it seized with precision upon every point open to ridicule. All
this was sharpened by a vivacity of body and of mind that proceeded
to the degree of impetuosity, and that during his early days never
permitted him to learn any thing except by doing two things at
once. Every form of pleasure he loved with a violent avidity, and
all this with a pride and a haughtiness impossible to describe;
dangerously wise, moreover, to judge of men and things, and to
detect the weak point in a train of reasoning, and to reason
himself more cogently and more profoundly than his teachers. But at
the same time, as soon as his passion was spent, reason resumed
her sway; he felt his faults, he acknowledged them, and sometimes
with such chagrin that his rage was rekindled. A mind lively,
alert, penetrating, stiffening itself against obstacles, excelling
literally in every thing. The prodigy is, that in a very short time
piety and grace made of him a different being, and transformed
faults so numerous and so formidable into virtues exactly opposite.

St. Simon attributes to Fenelon "every virtue under heaven;" but his way was to give to God rather than to man the praise of the remarkable change which, during Fenelon's charge of the Duke of Burgundy, came over the character of the prince.

The grandfather survived the grandson; and it was never put to the stern proof of historical experiment, whether Fenelon had indeed turned out one Bourbon entirely different from all the other members, earlier or later, of that royal line.

Before, however, the Duke of Burgundy was thus snatched away from the perilous prospect of a throne, his beloved teacher was parted from him, not indeed by death, but by what, to the archbishop's susceptible and suffering spirit, was worse than death,--by "disgrace." The disgrace was such as has ever since engaged for its subject the interest, the sympathy, and the admiration, of mankind. Fenelon lost the royal favor. That was all,--for the present,--but that was much. He was banished from court, and he ceased to be preceptor to the Duke of Burgundy. The king, in signal severity, used his own hand to strike Fenelon's name from the list of the household of his grandson and heir. The archbishop--for Fenelon had previously been made archbishop of Cambray--returned into his diocese as into an exile. But his cup of humiliation was by no means full. Bossuet will stain his own glory by following his exiled former pupil and friend, with hostile pontifical rage, to crush him in his retreat.

The occasion was a woman, a woman with the charm of genius and of exalted character, a Christian, a saint, but a mystic--it was Madame Guyon. Madame Guyon taught that it was possible to love God for himself alone, purely and disinterestedly. Fenelon received the doctrine, and Madame Guyon was patronized by Madame de Maintenon. Bossuet scented heresy. He was too much a "natural man" to understand Madame Guyon. The king was like the prelate, his minister, in spirit, and in consequent incapacity. It was resolved that Fenelon must condemn Madame Guyon. But Fenelon would not. He was very gentle, very conciliatory, but in fine he would not. Controversy ensued, haughty, magisterial, domineering, on the part of Bossuet; on the part of Fenelon, meek, docile, suasive. The world wondered, and watched the duel. Fenelon finally did what king James's translators misleadingly make Job wish that his adversary had done,--he wrote a book, "The Maxims of the Saints." In this book, he sought to show that the accepted, and even canonized, teachers of the Church had taught the doctrine for which, in his own case and in the case of Madame Guyon, condemnation was now invoked. Bossuet was pope at Paris; and he, in full presence, denounced to the monarch the heresy of Fenelon. At this moment of crisis for Fenelon, it happened that news was brought him of the burning of his mansion at Cambray with all his books and manuscripts. It will always be remembered that Fenelon only said: "It is better so than if it had been the cottage of a poor laboring-man."

Madame de Maintenon, till now his friend, with perfectly frigid facility separated herself from the side of the accused. The controversy was carried to Rome, where at length Fenelon's book was condemned,--condemned mildly, but condemned. The pope is said to have made the remark that Fenelon erred by loving God too much, and Fenelon's antagonists by loving their fellow-man too little. Fenelon bowed to the authority of the Church, and meekly in his own cathedral confessed his error. It was a logical thing for him, as loyal Catholic, to do; and he did it with a beautiful grace of humility. The Protestant spirit, however, rebels on his behalf, and finds it difficult even to admire the manner in which was done by him a thing that seems so unfit to have been done by him at all. Bossuet did not long survive his inglorious triumph over so much sanctity of personal character, over so much difficult and beautiful height of doctrinal and practical instruction to virtue. Fenelon seems to have been reported as preaching a funeral sermon on the dead prelate. "I have wept and prayed," he wrote to a friend, "for this old instructor of my youth; but it is not true that I celebrated his obsequies in my cathedral, and preached his funeral sermon. Such affectation, you know, is foreign to my nature." The iron must have gone deep, to wring from that gentle bosom even so much cry as this of wounded feeling.

It is hard to tell what might now have befallen Fenelon, in the way of good fortune,--he might even have been recalled to court, and re-installed in his office of tutor to the prince,--had not a sinister incident, not to have been looked for, at an inopportune moment occurred. The "Telemachus" appeared in print, and kindled a sudden flame of popular feeling which instantly spread in universal conflagration over the face of Europe. This composition of Fenelon's the author had written to convey, under a form of quasi-poetical fiction, lessons of wisdom in government to the mind of his royal pupil. The existence of the manuscript book would seem to have been intended to be a secret from the king,--indeed, from almost every one, except the pupil himself for whose use it was made. But a copyist proved false to his trust, and furnished a copy of "Telemachus" to a printer in Holland, who lost no time in publishing a book so likely to sell. But the sale of the book surpassed all expectation. Holland not only, but Belgium, Germany, France, and England multiplied copies, as fast as they could; still, Europe could not get copies as fast as it wanted them.

The secret of such popularity did not lie simply in the literary merits of "Telemachus." It lay more in a certain interpretation that the book was supposed to bear. "Telemachus" was understood to be a covert criticism of Louis XIV., and of the principle of absolute monarchy embodied in him. This imputed intention of the book could not fail to become known at Versailles. The result, of course, was fatal, and finally fatal, to the prospects, whatever these may have been, of Fenelon's restoration to favor at court. The archbishop thenceforward was left to do in comparative obscurity the duties of his episcopal office in his diocese of Cambray. He devoted himself, with exemplary and touching fidelity, to the interests of his flock, loving them and loved by them, till he died. It was an entirely worthy and adequate employment of his powers. The only abatement needful from the praise to be bestowed upon his behavior in this pastoral relation is, that he suffered himself sometimes to think of his position as one of "disgrace." His reputation meantime for holy character and conduct was European. His palace at Cambray, hospitably open ever to the resort of suffering need, indeed almost his whole diocese, lying on the frontier of France, was, by mutual consent of contending armies, treated in war as a kind of mutual inviolable ground, invested with privilege of sanctuary. It was an instructive example of the serene and beautiful ascendency sometimes divinely accorded to illustrious personal goodness.

There had been a moment, even subsequently to the affair of the "Telemachus" publication, when it looked as if, after long delay, a complete worldly triumph for Fenelon was assured, and was near. The father of the Duke of Burgundy died, and nothing then seemed to stand between Fenelon's late pupil and the throne,--nothing but the precarious life of an aged monarch, visibly approaching the end. The Duke of Burgundy, through all changes, had remained unchangingly fast in his affectionate loyalty to Fenelon. Sternly forbidden, by the jealous and watchful king, his grandfather, to communicate with his old teacher, he yet had found means to send to Fenelon, from time to time, reassuring signals of his trust and his love. Fenelon was now, in all eyes, the predestined prime minister of a new reign about to commence. Through devoted friends of his own, near to the person of the prince at court, Fenelon sent minutes of advice to his pupil, which outlined a whole beneficent policy of liberal monarchical rule. A new day seemed dawning for France. The horrible reaction of the Regency and of Louis XV. might, perhaps, have been averted, and, with that spared to France, the Revolution itself might have been accomplished without the Revolution. But it was not to be. The Duke of Burgundy first buried his wife, and then, within a few days, followed her himself to the grave. He died sincerely rejoicing that God had taken him away from the dread responsibility of reigning.

"All my ties are broken," mourned Fenelon; "there is no longer any thing to bind me to the earth." In truth, the teacher survived his pupil but two or three years. When he died, his sovereign, gloomy with well-grounded apprehension for the future of his realm, said, with tardy revival of recognition for the virtue that had perished in Fenelon: "Here was a man who could have served us well under the disasters by which my kingdom is about to be assailed!"

Fenelon's literary productions are various; but they all have the common character of being works written for the sake of life, rather than for the sake of literature. They were inspired each by a practical purpose, and adapted each to a particular occasion. His treatise on the "Education of Girls" was written for the use of a mother who desired instruction on the topic from Fenelon. His argument on the "Being of a God" was prepared as a duty of his preceptorship to the prince. But the one book of Fenelon which was an historical event when it appeared, and which stands an indestructible classic in literature, is the "Telemachus." It remains for us briefly to give some idea of this book.

The first thing to be said is, that those are mistaken who suppose themselves to have obtained a true idea of "Telemachus" from having partly read it at school, as an exercise in French. The essence of the work lies beyond those few opening pages to which the exploration of school-boys and school-girls is generally limited. This masterpiece of Fenelon is much more than a charming piece of romantic and sentimental poetry in prose. It is a kind of epic, indeed, like the "Odyssey," only written in rhythmical prose instead of rhythmical verse; but, unlike the "Odyssey," it is an idyllic epic written with an ulterior purpose of moral and political didactics. It was designed as a manual of instruction,--instruction made delightful to a prince,--to inculcate the duties incumbent on a sovereign.

Telemachus, our readers will remember, was the son of Ulysses. Fenelon's story relates the adventures encountered by Telemachus, in search for his father, so long delayed on his return from Troy to Ithaca. Telemachus is imagined by Fenelon to be attended by Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, masked from his recognition, as well as from the recognition of others, under the form of an old man. Minerva, of course, constantly imparts the wisest counsel to young Telemachus, who has his weaknesses, as had the young Duke of Burgundy, but who is essentially well-disposed, as Fenelon hoped his royal pupil would finally turn out to be. Nothing can exceed the urbanity and grace with which the delicate business is conducted by Fenelon, of teaching a bad prince, with a very bad example set him by his grandfather, to be a good king. The style in which the story is told, and in which the advice is insinuated, is exquisite, is beyond praise. The "soft delicious" stream of sound runs on, as from a fountain, and like "linked sweetness long drawn out." Never had prose a flow of melody more luscious. It is perpetual ravishment to the ear. The invention, too, of incident is fruitful, while the landscape and coloring are magical for beauty. We give a few extracts, to be read with that application to Louis XIV., and the state of France, in mind, which, when the book was first printed, gave it such an exciting interest in the eyes of Europe. Telemachus, after the manner of AEneas to Queen Dido, is relating to the goddess Calypso, into whose island he has come, the adventures that have previously befallen him. He says that he, with Mentor (Minerva in disguise), found himself in Crete. Mentor had been there before, and was ready to tell Telemachus all about the country. Telemachus was naturally interested to learn respecting the Cretan monarchy. Mentor, he says, informed him as follows:--

The king's authority over the subject is absolute, but the
authority of the law is absolute over him. His power to do good is
unlimited, but he is restrained from doing evil. The laws have put
the people into his hands, as the most valuable deposit, upon
condition that he shall treat them as his children. It is the
intent of the law that the wisdom and equity of one man shall be
the happiness of many, and not that the wretchedness and slavery of
many should gratify the pride and luxury of one. The king ought to
possess nothing more than the subject, except what is necessary to
alleviate the fatigue of his station, and impress upon the minds of
the people a reverence of that authority by which the laws are
executed. Moreover, the king should indulge himself less, as well
in ease as in pleasure, and should be less disposed to the pomp and
the pride of life than any other man. He ought not to be
distinguished from the rest of mankind by the greatness of his
wealth, or the vanity of his enjoyments, but by superior wisdom,
more heroic virtue, and more splendid glory. Abroad he ought to be
the defender of his country, by commanding her armies; and at home
the judge of his people, distributing justice among them, improving
their morals, and increasing their felicity. It is not for himself
that the gods have intrusted him with royalty. He is exalted above
individuals, only that he may be the servant of the people. To the
public he owes all his time, all his attention, and all his love;
he deserves dignity only in proportion as he gives up private
enjoyments for the public good.

Pretty sound doctrine, the foregoing, on the subject of the duties devolving on a king. The "paternal" idea, to be sure, of government is in it; but there is the idea, too, of limited or constitutional monarchy. The spirit of just and liberal political thought had, it seems, not been wholly extinguished, even at the court, by that oppression of mind--an oppression seldom, if ever, in human history exceeded--which was enforced under the unmitigated absolutism of Louis XIV. The literature that, with Montesquieu, Voltaire, Rousseau, the Encyclopaedists, prepared the Revolution, had already begun virtually to be written when Fenelon wrote his "Telemachus." It is easy to see why the fame of Fenelon should by exception have been dear even to the hottest infidel haters of that ecclesiastical hierarchy to which the archbishop of Cambray himself belonged. This lover of liberty, this gentle rebuker of kings, was of the free-thinkers, at least in the sympathy of political thought. Nay, the Revolution itself is foreshown in a remarkable glimpse of conjectural prophecy which occurs in the "Telemachus." Idomeneus is a headstrong king, whom Mentor is made by the author to reprove and instruct, for the Duke of Burgundy's benefit. To Idomeneus--a character taken, and not unplausibly taken, to have been suggested to Fenelon by the example of Louis XIV.--to this imaginary counterpart of the reigning monarch of France, Mentor holds the following language. How could the sequel of Bourbon despotism in France--a sequel suspended now for a time, but two or three generations later to be dreadfully visited on the heirs of Louis XIV.--have been more truly foreshadowed? The "Telemachus:"--

Remember, that the sovereign who is most absolute is always least
powerful; he seizes upon all, and his grasp is ruin. He is, indeed,
the sole proprietor of whatever his state contains; but, for that
reason, his state contains nothing of value: the fields are
uncultivated, and almost a desert; the towns lose some of their few
inhabitants every day; and trade every day declines. The king, who
must cease to be a king when he ceases to have subjects, and who is
great only in virtue of his people, is himself insensibly losing
his character and his power, as the number of his people, from
whom alone both are derived, insensibly diminishes. His dominions
are at length exhausted of money and of men: the loss of men is the
greatest and the most irreparable he can sustain. Absolute power
degrades every subject to a slave. The tyrant is flattered, even to
an appearance of adoration, and every one trembles at the glance of
his eye; but, at the least revolt, this enormous power perishes by
its own excess. It derived no strength from the love of the people;
it wearied and provoked all that it could reach, and rendered every
individual of the state impatient of its continuance. At the first
stroke of opposition, the idol is overturned, broken to pieces, and
trodden under foot. Contempt, hatred, fear, resentment, distrust,
and every other passion of the soul, unite against so hateful a
despotism. The king who, in his vain prosperity, found no man bold
enough to tell him the truth, in his adversity finds no man kind
enough to excuse his faults, or to defend him against his enemies.

So much is perhaps enough to indicate the political drift of the "Telemachus." That drift is, indeed, observable everywhere throughout the book.

We conclude our exhibition of this fine classic, by letting Fenelon appear more purely now in his character as dreamer and poet. Young Prince Telemachus has, Ulysses-like, and AEneas-like, his descent into Hades. This incident affords Fenelon opportunity to exercise his best powers of awful and of lovely imagining and describing. Christian ideas are, in this episode of the "Telemachus," superinduced upon pagan, after a manner hard, perhaps, to reconcile with the verisimilitude required by art, but at least productive of very noble and very beautiful results. First, one glimpse of Tartarus as conceived by Fenelon. It is the spectacle of kings who on earth abused their power, that Telemachus is beholding:--

Telemachus observed the countenance of these criminals to be pale
and ghastly, strongly expressive of the torment they suffered at
the heart. They looked inward with a self-abhorrence, now
inseparable from their existence. Their crimes themselves had
become their punishment, and it was not necessary that greater
should be inflicted. They haunted them like hideous spectres, and
continually started up before them in all their enormity. They
wished for a second death, that might separate them from these
ministers of vengeance, as the first had separated their spirits
from the body,--a death that might at once extinguish all
consciousness and sensibility. They called upon the depths of hell
to hide them from the persecuting beams of truth, in impenetrable
darkness; but they are reserved for the cup of vengeance, which,
though they drink of it forever, shall be ever full. The truth,
from which they fled, has overtaken them, an invincible and
unrelenting enemy. The ray which once might have illuminated them,
like the mild radiance of the day, now pierces them like
lightning,--a fierce and fatal fire, that, without injury to the
external parts, infixes a burning torment at the heart. By truth,
now an avenging flame, the very soul is melted like metal in a
furnace; it dissolves all, but destroys nothing; it disunites the
first elements of life, yet the sufferer can never die. He is, as
it were, divided against himself, without rest and without comfort;
animated by no vital principle, but the rage that kindles at his
own misconduct, and the dreadful madness that results from despair.

If the "perpetual feast of nectared sweets" that the "Telemachus" affords, is felt at times to be almost cloying, it is not, as our readers have now seen, for want of occasional contrasts of a bitterness sufficiently mordant and drastic. But the didactic purpose is never lost sight of by the author. Here is an aspect of the Elysium found by Telemachus. How could any thing be more delectably conceived and described? The translator, Dr. Hawkesworth, is animated to an English style that befits the sweetness of his original. The "Telemachus:"--

In this place resided all the good kings who had wisely governed
mankind from the beginning of time. They were separated from the
rest of the just; for, as wicked princes suffer more dreadful
punishment than other offenders in Tartarus, so good kings enjoy
infinitely greater felicity than other lovers of virtue, in the
fields of Elysium.

Telemachus advanced towards these kings, whom he found in groves of
delightful fragrance, reclining upon the downy turf, where the
flowers and herbage were perpetually renewed. A thousand rills
wandered through these scenes of delight, and refreshed the soil
with a gentle and unpolluted wave; the song of innumerable birds
echoed in the groves. Spring strewed the ground with her flowers,
while at the same time autumn loaded the trees with her fruit. In
this place the burning heat of the dog-star was never felt, and the
stormy north was forbidden to scatter over it the frosts of winter.
Neither War that thirsts for blood, nor Envy that bites with an
envenomed tooth, like the vipers that are wreathed around her arms,
and fostered in her bosom, nor Jealousy, nor Distrust, nor Fears,
nor vain Desires, invade these sacred domains of peace. The day is
here without end, and the shades of night are unknown. Here the
bodies of the blessed are clothed with a pure and lambent light,
as with a garment. This light does not resemble that vouchsafed to
mortals upon earth, which is rather darkness visible; it is rather
a celestial glory than a light--an emanation that penetrates the
grossest body with more subtilety than the rays of the sun
penetrate the purest crystal, which rather strengthens than dazzles
the sight, and diffuses through the soul a serenity which no
language can express. By this ethereal essence the blessed are
sustained in everlasting life; it pervades them; it is incorporated
with them, as food with the mortal body; they see it, they feel it,
they breathe it, and it produces in them an inexhaustible source of
serenity and joy. It is a fountain of delight, in which they are
absorbed as fishes are absorbed in the sea; they wish for nothing,
and, having nothing, they possess all things. This celestial light
satiates the hunger of the soul; every desire is precluded; and
they have a fulness of joy which sets them above all that mortals
seek with such restless ardor, to fill the vacuity that aches
forever in their breast. All the delightful objects that surround
them are disregarded; for their felicity springs up within, and,
being perfect, can derive nothing from without. So the gods,
satiated with nectar and ambrosia, disdain, as gross and impure,
all the dainties of the most luxurious table upon earth. From these
seats of tranquillity all evils fly far away; death, disease,
poverty, pain, regret, remorse, fear, even hope,--which is
sometimes not less painful than fear itself,--animosity, disgust,
and resentment can never enter there.

The leaden good sense of Louis XIV. pronounced Fenelon the "most chimerical" man in France. The Founder of the kingdom of heaven would have been a dreamer, to this most worldly-minded of "Most Christian" monarchs. Bossuet, who, about to die, read something of Fenelon's "Telemachus," said it was a book hardly serious enough for a clergyman to write. A more serious book, whether its purpose be regarded, or its undoubted actual influence in moulding the character of a prospective ruler of France, was not written by any clergyman of Fenelon's or Bossuet's time.

Fenelon was an eloquent preacher as well as an elegant writer. His influence exerted in both the two functions, that of the writer and that of the preacher, was powerfully felt in favor of the freedom of nature in style as against the conventionality of culture and art. He insensibly helped on that reform from a too rigid classicism which in our day we have seen pushed to its extreme in the exaggerations of romanticism. Few wiser words have ever been spoken on the subject of oratory, than are to be found in his "Dialogues on Eloquence."

French literature, unfortunately, is on the whole such in character as to need all that it can show, to be cast into the scale of moral elevation and purity. Fenelon alone is, in quantity as in quality, enough, not indeed to overcome, but to go far toward overcoming, the perverse inclination of the balance.

XIV.

MONTESQUIEU.

1689-1755.

To Montesquieu belongs the glory of being the founder, or inventor, of the philosophy of history. Bossuet might dispute this palm with him; but Bossuet, in his "Discourse on Universal History," only exemplified the principle which it was left to Montesquieu afterward more consciously to develop.

Three books, still living, are associated with the name of Montesquieu,--"The Persian Letters," "The Greatness and the Decline of the Romans," and "The Spirit of Laws." "The Persian Letters" are a series of epistles purporting to be written by a Persian sojourning in Paris and observing the manners and morals of the people around him. The idea is ingenious; though the ingenuity, we suppose, was not original with Montesquieu. Such letters afford the writer of them an admirable advantage for telling satire on contemporary follies. This production of Montesquieu became the suggestive example to Goldsmith for his "Citizen of the World; or, Letters of a Chinese Philosopher." We shall have here no room for illustrative citations from Montesquieu's "Persian Letters."

The second work, that on the "Greatness and the Decline of the Romans," is less a history than a series of essays on the history of Rome. It is brilliant, striking, suggestive. It aims to be philosophical rather than historical. It deals in bold generalizations. The spirit of it is, perhaps, too constantly and too profoundly hostile to the Romans. Something of the ancient Gallic enmity--as if a derivation from that last and noblest of the Gauls, Vercingetorix--seems to animate the Frenchman in discussing the character and the career of the great conquering nation of antiquity. The critical element is the element chiefly wanting to make Montesquieu's work equal to the demands of modern historical scholarship. Montesquieu was, however, a full worthy forerunner of the philosophical historians of to-day. We give a single extract in illustration,--an extract condensed from the chapter in which the author analyzes and expounds the foreign policy of the Romans. The generalizations are bold and brilliant,--too bold, probably, for strict critical truth. (We use, for our extract, the recent translation by Mr. Jehu Baker, who enriches his volume with original notes of no little interest and value.) Montesquieu:--

This body [the Roman Senate] erected itself into a tribunal for the
judgment of all peoples, and at the end of every war it decided
upon the punishments and the recompenses which it conceived each to
be entitled to. It took away parts of the lands of the conquered
states, in order to bestow them upon the allies of Rome, thus
accomplishing two objects at once,--attaching to Rome those kings
of whom she had little to fear and much to hope, and weakening
those of whom she had little to hope and all to fear.

Allies were employed to make war upon an enemy, but the destroyers
were at once destroyed in their turn. Philip was beaten with the
half of the AEtolians, who were immediately afterwards annihilated
for having joined themselves to Antiochus. Antiochus was beaten
with the help of the Rhodians, who, after having received signal
rewards, were humiliated forever, under the pretext that they had
requested that peace might be made with Perseus.

When they had many enemies on hand at the same time, they accorded
a truce to the weakest, which considered itself happy in obtaining
such a respite, counting it for much to be able to secure a
postponement of its ruin.

When they were engaged in a great war, the senate affected to
ignore all sorts of injuries, and silently awaited the arrival of
the proper time for punishment; when, if it saw that only some
individuals were culpable, it refused to punish them, choosing
rather to hold the entire nation as criminal, and thus reserve to
itself a useful vengeance.

As they inflicted inconceivable evils upon their enemies, there
were not many leagues formed against them; for those who were most
distant from danger were not willing to draw nearer to it. The
consequence of this was, that they were rarely attacked; whilst, on
the other hand, they constantly made war at such time, in such
manner, and against such peoples, as suited their convenience; and,
among the many nations which they assailed, there were very few
that would not have submitted to every species of injury at their
hands if they had been willing to leave them in peace.

It being their custom to speak always as masters, the ambassadors
whom they sent to nations which had not yet felt their power were
certain to be insulted; and this was an infallible pretext for a
new war.

As they never made peace in good faith, and as, with the design of
universal conquest, their treaties were, properly speaking, only
suspensions of war, they always put conditions in them which began
the ruin of the states which accepted them. They either provided
that the garrisons of strong places should be withdrawn, or that
the number of troops should be limited, or that the horses or the
elephants of the vanquished party should be delivered over to
themselves; and if the defeated people was powerful on sea, they
compelled it to burn its vessels, and sometimes to remove, and
occupy a place of habitation farther inland.

After having destroyed the armies of a prince, they ruined his
finances by excessive taxes, or by the imposition of a tribute
under pretext of requiring him to pay the expenses of the war,--a
new species of tyranny, which forced the vanquished sovereign to
oppress his own subjects, and thus to alienate their affection.

When they granted peace to a king, they took some of his brothers
or children as hostages. This gave them the means of troubling his
kingdom at their pleasure. If they held the nearest heir, they
intimidated the possessor; if only a prince of a remote degree,
they used him to stir up revolts against the legitimate ruler.

Whenever any people or prince withdrew their obedience from their
sovereign, they immediately accorded to them the title of allies of
the Roman people, and thus rendered them sacred and inviolable; so
that there was no king, however great he might be, who could for a
moment be sure of his subjects, or even of his family.

Although the title of Roman ally was a species of servitude, it
was, nevertheless, very much sought after; for the possession of
this title made it certain that the recipients of it would receive
injuries from the Romans only, and there was ground for the hope
that this class of injuries would be rendered less grievous than
they would otherwise be.

Thus, there was no service which nations and kings were not ready
to perform, nor any humiliation which they did not submit to, in
order to obtain this distinction....

These customs were not merely some particular facts which happened
at hazard. They were permanently established principles, as may be
readily seen; for the maxims which the Romans acted upon against
the greatest powers were precisely those which they had employed in
the beginning of their career against the small cities which
surrounded them....

But nothing served Rome more effectually than the respect which she
inspired among all nations. She immediately reduced kings to
silence, and rendered them as dumb. With the latter, it was not a
mere question of the degree of their power: their very persons were
attacked. To risk a war with Rome was to expose themselves to
captivity, to death, and to the infamy of a triumph. Thus it was
that kings, who lived in pomp and luxury, did not dare to look with
steady eyes upon the Roman people, and, losing courage, they hoped,
by their patience and their obsequiousness, to obtain some
postponement of the calamities with which they were menaced.

The "Spirit of Laws" is probably to be considered the masterpiece of Montesquieu. It is our duty, however, to say, that this work is quite differently estimated by different authorities. By some, it is praised in terms of the highest admiration, as a great achievement in wide and wise political or juridical philosophy. By others, it is dismissed very lightly, as the ambitious, or, rather, pretentious, effort of a superficial man, a showy mere sciolist. It acquired great contemporary fame, both at home and abroad. It was promptly translated into English, the translator earning the merited compliment of the author's own hearty approval of his work. Horace Walpole, who was something of a Gallomaniac, makes repeated allusion to Montesquieu's "Spirit of Laws," in letters of his written at about the time of the appearance of the book. But Walpole's admiring allusions themselves contain evidence that admiration equal to his own of the work that he praised, was by no means universal in England.

The general aspect of the book is that of a composition meant to be luminously analyzed and arranged. Divisions and titles abound. There are thirty-one "books"; and each book contains, on the average, perhaps about the same number of chapters. The library edition, in English, consists of two volumes, comprising together some eight hundred open pages, in good-sized type. The books and chapters are therefore not formidably long. The look of the work is as if it were readable; and its character, on the whole, corresponds. It would hardly be French, if such were not the case. Except that Montesquieu's "Spirit of Laws" is, as we have indicated, a highly organized, even an over-organized, book, which, by emphasis, Montaigne's "Essays" is not, these two works may be said, in their contents, somewhat to resemble each other. Montesquieu is nearly as discursive as Montaigne. He wishes to be philosophical, but he is not above supplying his reader with interesting historical instances.

We shall not do better, in giving our readers a comprehensive idea of Montesquieu's "Spirit of Laws," than to begin by showing them the titles of a number of the books:--