No More Learning

Chimène
―
Elvire, oh where are we? What, what do I see?
Rodrigue in this house! Before me, Rodrigue!
Don Rodrigue-
Oh, spare not my blood; unresisted, pray taste
Of my ruin the sweetness, of vengeance the joy.
Chimène-
Alas!
--
Chimène
Don Rodrigue-Hear me, lady!
Chimène
Don Rodrigue-
Chimène
-
Go, I say; let me die!
Don Rodrigue-
Chimène
--
Ah, vouchsafe me a word!
And once I have spoke, make reply with—this sword.
――――――
―――――
Chimène-
What! The sword e'en now red with the blood of my sire!
Don Rodrigue-
Chimène, my Chimène!
―
Hide that hideous steel,
That rebuketh my eyes for thy crime and thy life.
Don Rodrigue-
Chimène-
I die!
-
But one word
Nay, rather behold it, thy hate to excite,
Thy wrath to increase — and my doom so to speed.
-
It is tinged with my blood.
Don Rodrigue-
Plunge it then into mine,
That so it may lose the dread tint of thy veins.
Ah, fate all too cruel! that slays in one day
The father by steel, and the daughter by sight!
Take away, as I bid, what I cannot endure;
Thou will'st that I hearken -and kill'st me meantime!


## p. 4072 (#446) ###########################################

PIERRE CORNEILLE
4072
Don Rodrigue-
What thou wishest I do; but with no less desire
That my life, now deplorable, ends by your hand;
For expect not, I beg, from my passion itself
A coward's repentance of deed so deserved.
From thy father's rash hand came a blow-past recall;
It dishonored my sire in his honored old age.
What are blows to a man of due honor thou knowest.
In the shame I had part, and its author must seek;
Him I saw-both my father and honor I 'venged;
I would do it again, if I had it to do.
Yet think not 'gainst duty to father and self
My love for thee, lady, no contest has made;
Of thy power in this moment do thou be the judge.
Too well might I doubt if such vengeance I dared.
Bound to please thee, Chimène, or to suffer affront,
Too rash seemed my arm - I would fain hold it back;
With a deed all too violent blamed I myself:
Thy beauty had weighed down the balance at last,
Had I not, to thy charms, countervailing, opposed
That a man lost to honor could not thee deserve;
That once having loved me when blameless I lived,
She who cared for me stainless must hate me disgraced;
That to hearken to love, to obey its soft voice,
Was to find myself shameful- thy favor to stain.
Again do I tell thee-and while I shall breathe
Unchanged shall I think and unchanging will say -
I have done thee offense, but I could not halt back,
A disgrace to remove and thyself to deserve.
But now, quits with honor, and quits toward my sire,
'Tis thee, thee alone, I would fain satisfy;
'Tis to proffer my blood that thou seest me here.
I have done what I should what is left I would do.
Well I know that thy father's death arms thee toward mine;
Not thee have I wished of thy victim to cheat.
Boldly immolate, now, the blood he has spilled –
The being who glories that such was his deed.
――――
Chimène-
Ah, Rodrigue! True it is that though hostile I am,
No blame can I speak that disgrace thou hast fled;
Howe'er from my lips this my dolor break forth,
I dare not accuse thee-I weep for my woes.
I know that thy honor, on insult so deep,
Demanded of ardor a valorous proof.


## p. 4073 (#447) ###########################################

PIERRE CORNEILLE
Thou hast done but the duty enjoined on the brave:
Yet more, in its doing 'tis mine thou hast taught.
By thy courage funest, and thy conquest, I'm schooled;
Thy father avenged and thine honor upheld,
Like care, see, is mine; for to load me with grief,
I must father avenge, I must honor uphold!
Alas, 'tis thy part here that brings me despair.
Had aught other misfortune bereft me of sire,
My heart in the joy of beholding thyself
The sole solace that heart could receive would have found
Against my affliction a charm would be strong,
My tears would be dried by the dearest of hands.
But lo! I must lose thee, my father a loss;
And the more that my soul may in torment be thrown,
My star has decreed that I compass thy end.
Expect not, in turn, from the passion I own,
That my hand I shall stay from thy punishment meet;
Thy direful offense makes thee worthy of me;
By thy death I shall show myself worthy of thee.
Unrhymed literal version in the metre of the original, by E. Irenæus
Stevenson.
4073
DON RODRIGUE DESCRIBES TO KING FERNANDO HIS VICTORY
OVER THE MOORS
From The Cid>
NDER me, then, the troop made advance,
With soldierly confidence marked on each brow.
Five hundred we started, but soon reinforced,
Three thousand we were when the port we had reached;
So much did mere sight of our numbers, our mien,
New courage revive in all timorous hearts.
Two-thirds did I ambush, as soon as arrived,
U
In the vessels in harbor, that ready were found;
But the others, whose numbers each hour did increase,
With impatience on fire, all about me encamped,
Stretched out on the earth passed the beauteous night.
In the harbor, I order the guards to like watch;
Their concealment my stratagem further assists;—
I dared to declare, Sire, as thine the command
That I so followed out, and enjoined upon all.
In the radiance pallid that fell from the stars,
At last, with the flood-tide we spy thirty sails;


## p. 4074 (#448) ###########################################

4074
PIERRE CORNEILLE
Beneath swells the wave, and in movement therewith,
The sea and the Moors into harbor advance.
We permit them a passage-to them all seemed calm,
Our soldiers unseen, and the walls without ward.
Our silence profound well deluded their wit;
No longer they doubt our surprise is achieved;
Without fear they draw nearer - they anchor-they land—
They run to the hands that are waiting to strike.
Then rise we together, and all in a breath
Utter clamorous shoutings that heavenward rise.
From the ships to such signal our troops make response;
They stand forth in arms, and the Moors are dismayed;
By dread they are seized when but half-disembarked;
Ere the battle's begun they have deemed themselves lost.
They have come but to pillage - 'tis fight that they meet.
We assail them on sea, we assail them on land;
On the ground runs the blood we set flowing in streams
Ere a soul can resistor fly back to his post.
But soon in our spite the chiefs rallied their host,
Their courage awoke, and their fear was o'ercome:
The shame of their dying without having fought,
Their disorder arrests, and their valor restores.
A firm stand they take, and their swords are unsheathed;
The land and the stream, ay, the fleet and the port,
Are a field where, triumphant o'er carnage, is death.
Oh, many the deeds, the exploits worthy fame,
In that horror of darkness are buried for aye,
When each, the sole witness of blows that he struck,
Could not guess whither Fortune the conflict would steer!
I flew to all sides to encourage our force,
Here to push into action, and there to restrain,
To enrank the newcoming, to spur them in turn,
Yet naught could I know till the breaking of day.
But with dawn and the light, our advantage was plain;
The Moors saw their ruin; their courage declined;
And beholding new succor approach to our side,
Changed their ardor for battle to sheer dread of death.
Their vessels they seek,-every cable is cut;
For farewells to our ears are sent up their wild cries;
Their retreat is a tumult-no man ever heeds
If their princes and kings have made good their escape.
Even duty itself yields to fear so extreme.
On the flood-tide they came, the ebb bears them away;
Meantime their two Kings with our host still engaged,


## p. 4075 (#449) ###########################################

PIERRE CORNEILLE
'Mid a handful of followers, slashed by our blows,
In valiance contending, are selling life dear.
In vain to surrender I beg them- entreat,
With the cimeter gripped, not a word will they hear:
But at sight of their troops falling dead at their feet,
The brave who alone make so vain a defense,
Our chief they demand; and to me they submit.
To you, O my Sire, have I sent them, each one—
And the combatants lacking, the combat was done.
THE WRATH OF CAMILLA
From the 'Horace'
Horatius, the only survivor of the combat, advances to meet his sister
Camilla with Proculus at his side, bearing the swords of the three
one of whom was Camilla's betrothed. Camilla sur-
veys him with horror and disdain as he advances.
slain Curatii
Camilla-
ORATIUS -Lo, sister, the arm that hath brothers avenged! -
H
The arm that our fate so contrary has checked,
The arm that makes Alba our own; and to-day
By one deed the lot of two nations hath fixed.
See these tokens of honor-my glory's attest.
Do thou pay the tribute now due to my fame.
Receive then my tears: for my tears are thy due.
after action so bold.
the combat's dark fate,
Nay, Rome likes them not,
Our brothers, both slain by
Are avenged by this blood no more weeping demand.
If a loss be so paid, then the loss is no more.
Horatius-
Camilla
Horatius-
Camilla
-
―
Horatius
Since thou deemest my brothers by blood so appeased,
I will cease to show sign of my grief for their death;
But who shall avenge me my lover's death, say?
And make me forget in one moment such loss?
What sayest thou, unhappy?
――――――
O beloved Curiace!
4075
O boldness disgraceful, from sister disgraced!
The name on thy lips and the love in thy heart
Of the foe of our people, whose conquest is mine!


## p. 4076 (#450) ###########################################

4076
PIERRE CORNEILLE
Thy criminal flame to such vengeance aspires!
Thou darest to utter such thought of thy heart!
Follow passion the less, better rule thy desire:
Make me not so to blush that thy sighs are not hid;
From this moment thou owest to smother thy flame,
Free thy heart from them- dwell on these trophies instead,
And make them from this hour thy sole pleasure in life.
Camilla
―――
Nay, first give me, cruel, a heart hard as thine,
And if thou wilt seek all my spirit to read,
Give me back Curiace, or my passion let glow.
My joy and my grief of his lot are a part;
Him living I loved him in death I deplore.
No more find me sister-deserted by thee!
Behold in me only a woman outraged,
Who like to some Fury pursuing thy steps-
Unceasing shall charge thee with trespass so great!
O tiger, blood-gorged, who forbiddest my tears,
Who would see me find joy in this death thou hast wrought,
Who vauntest to Heaven itself such a deed,
Shall I by approval bring death to him—twice?
Misfortunes so dire, may they follow thy life
That thou fallest to envying even my own!
Oh, soon by some cowardice mayest thou blot
This glory thy brutal soul reckons so dear!
Horatius-
O heavens! hath any an equal rage seen?
Dost thou think I could brook, all unmoved, such offense ?
That race could endure a dishonor so deep?
Love, love thou the death which means good to thy State,
Prefer to thy passion and thoughts of this man
The sentiment due to a daughter of Rome!
Camilla-
Rome! Object supreme of the wrath that I feel!
This Rome, to whose aid came thy arm-and my loss;
Rome, city that bore thee-by thee so adored!
Rome, hated the more for its honoring thee!
O may each of her neighbors together in league
Sap every foundation, as yet so unsure!
Nay, if Italy be not enough to the fall,
Let the East and the West for her ruin unite;
Let peoples conjoined from the four winds of heaven,
Be met to her downfall; let hills aid, and seas;
O'erthrown on her walls may she prostrate be cast,


## p. 4077 (#451) ###########################################

PIERRE CORNEILLE
4077
Torn out by her own hands, her entrails be strewn!
May the anger of Heaven, here kindled by me,
Rain down on her dwellings a deluge of fire!
O grant that mine own eyes such thunderbolt see! -
See her mansions in ashes, her laurels in dust,
See the latest of Romans yielding his last breath,
I cause of it all- I dying of joy!
[With the last words Camilla rushes from the apartment. Horace snatches
his sword and pursues her, exclaiming:—]
Oh too much! Even reason to passion gives place.
Go, weep thou thy lost Curiace in the shades!
[After an instant is heard behind the scenes the shriek of the wounded
Camilla:-]
Ah, traitor!
Horace [returning to the stage]-
S
――――
Receive thou quick chastisement, due
Whomsoever shall dare Roman foe to lament.
EVERUS
Unrhymed literal version in the metre of the original, by E. Irenæus
Stevenson.
Paulina
.
PAULINA'S APPEAL TO SEVERUS
From Polyeucte
I stand agaze,
Rooted, confounded, in sheer wonderment.
Such blind resolve is so unparalleled,
I scarce may trust the witness of mine ears.
A heart that loves you-and what heart so poor
That knowing, loves you not? —one loved of you,
To leave regretless so much bliss just won!
Nay, more - as though it were a fatal prize —
To his corrival straight to yield it up!
Truly, or wondrous manias Christians have,
Or their self-happiness must be sans bourn,
Since to attain it they will cast away
What others at an empire's cost would win.
For me, had fate, a little sooner kind,
--
Blessed my true service with your hand's reward,
The glory of your eyes had been my worship;
My twin kings had they reigned-kings? nay, my gods!
To dust, to powder, had I grinded been
E'er I had-
Hold! let me not hear too much;
Let not the smoldering embers of old time


## p. 4078 (#452) ###########################################

4078
PIERRE CORNEILLE
Relume to speech unworthy of us both.
Severus, know Paulina utterly:
His latest hour my Polyeuctus nears;
Nay, scarce a minute has he yet to live.
You all unwittingly have been the cause
Of this his death. I know not if your thoughts,
Their portals opening to your wish's knock,
Have dared to some wild hope give harboring,
Based upon his undoing; but know well,
No death so cruel I would not boldly front,
Hell hath no tortures I would not endure,
Or e'er my stainless honor I would spot,
My hand bestowing upon any man
Who anywise were his death's instrument.
And could you for such madness deem me apt,
Hate would replace my erstwhile tender love.
You're generous still be so, to the end:
My father fears you; is in mood to grant
All you might ask; ay, I e'en dare aver
That if my husband he do sacrifice,
"Twill be to you. Save then your hapless victim;
Bestir yourself; stretch him your helping hand!
That this is much to claim of you, I know,
But more the effort's great, the more the glory!
To save a rival 'spite of rivalry
Were greatness all particular to you.
And-be that not enough for your renown
'Twere much to let a woman erst so loved,
And haply who may yet be somewhat dear,
Her greatest treasure owe to your great heart.
In fine, remember that you are Severus!
Adieu! alone determine of your course;
For if you be not all I think you are,
I'd still, not knowing it, believe you such.
English Translation by W. F. Nokes.


## p. 4079 (#453) ###########################################

4079
VICTOR COUSIN
(1792-1867)
LL Philosophy, past and present, has been based on the at-
tempt to make abstract ideas clear. The questions Cousin
endeavors to answer are:-" Do ideas exist apart from
Being and Knowledge; and if so, on what are they founded? " and
his answer involves his whole doctrine.
Victor Cousin, the son of a watchmaker of Voltairean principles
and of a laundress of strong religious convictions, was born in Paris
on November 28th, 1792. But in spite of his humble origin he
obtained a brilliant education, and through
the force of his genius lived to have pre-
cedence at court over his social superiors.
The little gamin owed his start in life to
Madame Viguier, who placed him at school.
On leaving college, from which he was
graduated first in his class at the age
of eighteen, he could have obtained a
position in the Council of State at a yearly
salary of five thousand francs; but he pre-
ferred to enter the Normal School, then
but recently established, with the intention
of teaching literature. The impression
made upon him by Laromiguière's lectures
on philosophy decided him to devote him-
self to the latter branch of study. Philosophy, to Cousin, was not
only a keen delight but a battle as well. Many systems were then
arrayed against each other; these in turn fascinated, his imagination
and excited his enthusiasm, - first the sensual school, then Scottish
philosophy as developed by Royer-Collard and Maine de Biran; then
Kant, Schelling, Hegel, whose genius he was the first to recognize;
and later, Plotinus, Descartes, and Leibnitz. All these doctrines, as
he expounded them in his lectures, simmered in his imagination for
a while, and unconsciously modifying each other, left a deposit from
which arose eclecticism.

VICTOR COUSIN
There was a dearth of French men of letters when Cousin reached
manhood. To become a fashionable lecturer it was only necessary
to speak of literature and philosophy in elegant language; and as to


## p. 4080 (#454) ###########################################

4080
VICTOR COUSIN
these requirements the young orator added a poetic imagination, he
became famous at once.
One of Cousin's distinguishing qualities was the impetus he gave
to other minds. His lectures created positive fanaticism. But twenty
years of age, his delicate face was lighted up with magnificent dark
eyes which emitted fire as his own enthusiasm grew. He had a fine
voice, was a finished comedian, a poet rather than a deep or original
thinker, a preacher rather than a professor, and looked like "a tri-
bune and apostle in one. "
It is difficult to understand nowadays the enthusiasm aroused by
Cousin's philosophy, or the attacks upon it. He advanced no new
truths. No objection could be made to a belief in God, the spirit-
uality and immortality of the soul, and moral liberty. But Cousin
went further. He wished to establish philosophy on an independent
basis; to found an intermediate school that would not clash with
religion, but subsist side by side with, though independent of and in
a certain measure controlling it. This aroused the hostility of the
Church without satisfying the extremists, who clamored for more rad-
ical doctrines. After 1820, when the Normal School was suppressed,
Cousin had recourse to private teaching, and devoted his leisure to
editing the classics. His edition of Plato occupied him many years.
"Every man's life should contain one monument and several epi-
sodes," he declared; and his Plato, he believed, was destined to be
his « monument. "
When Cousin was restored to his chair in 1828, he brought with
him a new philosophy which fulfilled the aspirations of the rising
generation, whose idol he became. During this course he propounded
a few transcendental theories borrowed from Hegel and Schelling,
emitted several contestable historical views, and distributed all the
doctrines he knew,- and, add his enemies, all those he did not
know,- into four divisions. Taken as a whole, Cousin's system has
far more in common with Christianity than with pantheism.
During the next three years he made rapid strides in his career.
He had taken no part in the July Revolution, but his friends were
placed in office by that event, and through their influence he became
successively member of the Royal Council of Public Instruction,
member of the Academy, and Peer of France.
Cousin was in virtual control of French philosophy when, in 1830
he resigned his chair to become Director of the Sorbonne. To his
new task he brought an intelligence matured by time; and the twenty
years of his administration were fruitful of good results.
He formed
a corps of learned professors, perfected the study of French, and
placed philosophy on a sound basis. His indefatigable activity, breadth
of view, and devotion to teaching made him an admirable director of


## p. 4081 (#455) ###########################################

VICTOR COUSIN
4081
Each one was
He regulated
a school destined to train the professors of a nation.
encouraged to take up an original line of research.
the position of the Sorbonne towards religion, instructing the teach-
ers that belief in God, free-will, and duty was to be inculcated.
Not being of a naturally tender disposition, Cousin may not have
loved the students for themselves, but he passionately loved talent,
and exerted himself to foster and develop it. Of a disdainful, sar-
castic turn of mind, Cousin's mordant wit was well known and greatly
feared. His habits were frugal, and though he dressed badly, he was
prodigal with regard to books. He nowhere appeared to better
advantage than in his library at the Sorbonne, where so many of his
books were written. He could talk magnificently on any subject-
for an hour; after that, his own eloquence carried him beyond all
bounds and he was apt to indulge in paradox. Guizot said of him:
"C'est l'esprit qui a le plus besoin de garde-fou. " (His is a mind
which has the greatest need of restraint. ) His voice was wonderfully
expressive: witty sayings, comparisons, anecdotes, crowded upon his
tongue; as a rule he absorbed the entire conversation and created a
sensation, as he loved to do.
Liberal in matters of philosophy rather than in politics, Cousin
engaged in a battle with the clergy, to whom however he cheerfully
conceded the rights granted by the Charter, and a certain preponder-
ance in the schools. He considered it criminal to attack religion,
and required it to be taught in the primary schools, though he
excluded it from the University, where it might clash with philoso-
phy. Towards the end of his life he entered into a correspondence
with the Pope to prevent The True, the Beautiful, the Good' from
being placed on the Index Expurgatorius, and obtained his point
only after lengthy negotiations.
In the earlier years of his life, Cousin's poetic temperament, aided
by youth, carried him towards pure philosophy and German ideas.
The word pantheism however grew to be a very abomination to
him; but storm and protest as he would, it pursued him all his life;
his lyric descriptions of God were rigidly interpreted according to
pantheistic formulæ, and hurled at his head until he cried "Enough!
"
"This is the truth," was answered back, though he had long since
erased that compromising indorsement of Schelling's system.
Debarred from both politics and teaching at the age of sixty, with
intellect and vitality unimpaired, Cousin devoted the fourteen remain-
ing years of his life to literature; and now that the eclectic philos-
ophy is considered merely a brilliant but fleeting system which has
lived its day, we still turn with pleasure to his 'Biographies. '
It was by study of the seventeenth century that Cousin's purely
literary career began. He relates facts and penetrates the nature of
VII-256


## p. 4082 (#456) ###########################################

4082
VICTOR COUSIN
his characters. Taine declares that when at last the lovely face of
Madame de Longueville does appear, crash goes a pile of folios to
the floor! Nevertheless, strength and energy characterize Cousin's
style, and make good his dictum "Style is movement. " To the
very end, Cousin retained the spontaneous emotion of youth. The
quality of vehemence everywhere so apparent in these 'Biographies'
presupposes an intense emotion which is communicated from the
writer to the reader.
It was a current joke among the professors of the Sorbonne that
her biographer was in love with Madame de Longueville. "Every one
knows that Cousin is the chevalier servant of Madame de Longue-
ville," writes Taine. "This noble lady has had the rare privilege
of making post-mortem conquests, and the solid walls of the Sor-
bonne have not protected M. Cousin from the darts of her beautiful
eyes. He is so deeply in love with her that he speaks of Condé (her
brother) as a brother-in-law, and of La Rochefoucauld (her lover) as
a rival. »
Cousin's critics take this retrospective infatuation too seriously.
It was merely an "episode" in his life; and when Sainte-Beuve said,
"Cousin's bust would one day have engraved beneath it: 'He wished
to found a great system of philosophy, and he loved Madame de
Longueville,»»- he was more witty than just. It is only fair to add
that Sainte-Beuve considered Cousin the most brilliant meteor that
had flashed across the sky of the nineteenth century.
In his later years, Cousin recommended 'The True, the Beautiful,
the Good' and his Philosophy of History' for perusal, in preference
to his other books. He was conscious of the drawback attendant
upon scattering his doctrines over so many books, and condensed
them in the former volume. Composed of brilliant and incomplete
fragments, if it does not constitute a systematic whole, the pages
relating to God and necessary and universal principles are however
full of grandeur, and will always endear it to humanity.
On the 2d of January, 1867, Cousin passed away during his sleep,
having been until the last in full possession of the lucidity and vigor
which characterized his mind. He left his fine library to the State,
with ample funds for its maintenance. He has had the privilege of
living in the books of many distinguished men whose minds he
trained, whose careers he advanced, and who have recorded in brill-
iant pages the debt owed him, not by themselves alone, but by all
Frenchmen of succeeding generations.


## p. 4083 (#457) ###########################################

VICTOR COUSIN
4083
PASCAL'S SKEPTICISM
From 'Les Pensées de Pascal'
ASCAL was skeptical of philosophy, not of religion. It is
P because he is skeptical in philosophical matters, and recog-
nizes the powerlessness of reason and the destruction of
natural truth among men, that he clings desperately to religion
as the last resource of humanity.
What is philosophical skepticism? It is a philosophical opinion
which consists in rejecting philosophy as unfounded, on the ground
that man of himself is incapable of reaching any truth, and still
less those truths which constitute what philosophy terms natural
morals and religion, such as free-will; the law of duty; the
distinction between good and evil, the saint and the sinner; the
holiness of virtue; the immateriality of the soul; and divine
providence. Skepticism is not the enemy of any special school
of philosophy, but of all.
Pascal's Pensées' are imbued with philosophical skepticism;
Pascal is the enemy of all philosophy, which he rejected utterly.
He does not admit the possibility of proving God's existence;
and to demonstrate the impotence of reason, he invented a
desperate argument. We can ignore truth, but we cannot ignore
our own interest, the interest of our eternal happiness. Accord-
ing to him, we must weigh the problem of divine Providence
from this point of view. If God does not exist, it cannot hurt
us to believe in him; but if by chance he should exist, and
we do not believe in him, the consequences to us would be ter-
rible.
"Let us examine this point of view and say: God is, or he is
not," writes Pascal. "To which belief do we incline? Reason is
powerless to solve the question for us. Chaos separates us from
its solution. At the extreme end of this infinite distance, a game
is being played in which heads or tails will turn up. What do
we win in either case? Through the power of mere reason we
can neither prove nor disprove God's existence; through the
power of reason we can defend neither proposition. "
On this foundation, not of truth but of interest, Pascal founds
the celebrated calculation to which he applies the law of chance.
Here is the conclusion he reaches: "In the eyes of Reason, to
believe or not to believe in God (the for and against, or as I
say, the game of 'croix ou pile') is equally without consequence;


## p. 4084 (#458) ###########################################

4084
VICTOR COUSIN
but in the eyes of interest the difference is infinite, because the
Infinite is to be gained or lost thereby. "
Pascal considers skepticism legitimate, because philosophy or
natural reason is incapable of attaining to certitude; he affirms
"the sole rôle of reason to be the renouncement of reason; that
true philosophy consists in despising philosophy. "
The God of Abraham, the God of Jacob, not the God of
savants and philosophers, is the God of Pascal. He caught a
gleam of light, and believed he had found peace in submission to
Christ and his confessor. Doubt yielded to grace; but vanquished
doubt carried reason and philosophy in its train.
MADAME DE LONGUEVILLE
From the Life of Madame de Longueville'
WHA
HAT a number of accomplished women the seventeenth cen-
tury produced,-women who inspired adoration, drew all
hearts towards them, and spread among all ranks the
cultus of beauty, termed by Europe, French gallantry! They
accompany this great century upon its too rapid flight, and mark
its principal moments. Madame de Longueville has her place in
the brilliant galaxy of seventeenth-century women by the right
of true beauty and rare charm.
Born in 1619, in the prison of Vincennes, during the captivity
of her father, Henri de Bourbon,- whose wife, the beautiful
Marguerite de Montmorency, shared his imprisonment,- Mademoi-
selle de Bourbon grew in grace under the care of her mother,
dividing her time between the Carmelite Convent and the Hôtel
de Rambouillet, nourishing her soul upon pious and romantic
books. Married at the age of twenty-three to a man twenty-
three years her senior, she found that M. de Longueville, instead
of trying by tenderness to make his young wife forget this dis-
parity, followed the triumphal car of the famous Duchesse de
Montbazon, the veriest coquette of the century. Insulted by her
rival, neglected by her husband, Madame de Longueville yielded
by degrees to the contagion in the midst of which she lived,
and after having spent some time at the frivolous court of
Münster, was fascinated on her return to Paris by the wit,
chivalrous appearance, and distinguished manners of the Prince
de Marcillac, afterwards Duc de la Rochefoucauld. This intimacy
decided her career, the first part of which it closed in 1648.


## p. 4085 (#459) ###########################################

VICTOR COUSIN
4085
The vicissitudes of the Fronde; love, as it was understood at
the Hôtel Rambouillet,- that is, love à la Scudéry, with its
enchantments, its sufferings, intermingled with danger and
glory, crossed by adventures, triumphant over the greatest tests,
yielding finally to its own weakness and exhausting itself,- such
is the second period of Madame de Longueville's life, a period
so short, and yet so crowded with events, which began in 1648
and ended towards the middle of 1654. After 1654 Madame
de Longueville's life was one long repentance, daily growing in
austerity; passed first by the bedside of her husband, and then
at the Carmelite Convent and at Port-Royal, where she died in
1679.
First, spotless brilliancy; then sin and prompt expiation.
Thus is divided the career of Madame de Longueville. A
famous beauty, she possessed height and a fine figure. Her
eyes were of the tenderest blue; her light-brown hair, of excep-
tional fineness, fell in abundant curls around the graceful oval
of her face and rippled over her shoulders, which were fully
exposed in accordance with the fashion of the time. Add to
these attractions a complexion whose fairness, delicacy, and soft
brilliancy justified its being compared with a pearl. Her charm-
ing skin reflected all the emotions of her soul. She spoke in
the softest voice; her gestures harmonized with her face and
voice, making perfect music. But her greatest charm was a
graceful ease of manner, a languor which had brilliant awaken-
ings when she was moved by passion, but which in every-day
life gave her an appearance of aristocratic indifference, of indo-
lence, frequently mistaken for ennui or disdain.
Madame de Longueville loved but one person. For his sake
she sacrificed repose, interest, duty, and reputation. For his sake
she embarked upon the rashest and most contradictory enter-
prises. La Rochefoucauld drew her into the Fronde; it was he
who made her advance or retreat, who separated her from or
reconciled her with her family, who controlled her absolutely.
In his hands she became a heroic instrument. Passion and pride
had their share in the life of adventure she faced so bravely;
but what a soul she must have possessed, to find consolation in
struggles such as these! And as so often happens, the man for
whom she made these sacrifices was unworthy of them. Witty
but selfish, he judged others by himself. Subtle in evil as
she was in good, full of selfish cunning in the pursuit of his


## p. 4086 (#460) ###########################################

4086
VICTOR COUSIN
interests, the least chivalrous of men though he affected the
semblance of the highest chivalry, when he believed that Madame
de Longueville was yielding to the influence of the Duc de
Nemours, he turned against her, blackened her reputation,
revealed the weaknesses by which he had profited, and when
she was struggling to repair her mistakes by the rigid mortifica-
tion of the cloister, he published those Mémoires' in which he
tore her to pieces.
La Rochefoucauld made his peace with the court.
He even
rode in Mazarin's carriages, saying with inimitable aplomb,
"Everything comes to pass in France;" he obtained a pension
for himself, a fine position for his son; and was worshiped by
lovely women, one of whom, Madame de Lafayette, replaced
Madame de Longueville and consecrated her life to him.
How different was Madame de Longueville's conduct! Love
led her into the Fronde, love kept her there; when love failed
her, everything failed her. The proud heroine who waged war
against Mazarin, who sold her jewels, braved the ocean, aroused
the North and South, and held the royal authority at bay, with-
drew from the scene at the age of thirty-five, in the full matu-
rity of her beauty, when her own interest was alone at stake.
To understand Madame de Longueville's character, to exon-
erate her from the charge of inconsistency or want of purpose,
the unity of her life must be sought in her devotion to the man
she loved. It is there in its entirety and unchangeableness; at
once triumphant, absurd, and pathetic in the midst of the great-
est follies. Her recklessness was inspired by the fickle restless
mind of La Rochefoucauld. It was he who drifted from one fac-
tion to another, moved by his own interest alone. To Madame
de Longueville herself belong her courage in the face of danger;
a certain secret delight in the extremity of misfortune; and in
defeat a pride not inferior to that of De Retz himself. She does
not drop her eyes; she directs her gaze towards worthier objects.
Once wounded in that which was most precious to her — her love
--she bade adieu to the world, without currying favor with the
court, and asking pardon of God alone.
(


## p. 4087 (#461) ###########################################

VICTOR COUSIN
4087
MADAME DE CHEVREUSE
From the Life of Madame de Chevreuse
M
ADAME DE CHEVREUSE was endowed with almost all the quali-
ties constituting political genius. One alone was wanting,
and this was precisely the master quality without which
all the others lead but to the ruin of their possessor. She was
incapable of keeping in view a steady aim, or rather of choosing
her own aim; some one else always directed her choice. She
had an essentially feminine temperament; therein lay the secret
of her strength and weakness. Her spring of action was love, or
rather gallantry; and the interest of the man she loved became
for the time being her main object in life. This accounts for
the wonderful sagacity, subtlety and energy she expended in the
pursuit of a chimerical aim which constantly eluded her grasp,
and which seemed to charm her by the spell of its difficulty and
danger. La Rochefoucauld accuses her of bringing misfortune
upon all who loved her. It were more just to say that all whom
she loved drew her into foolhardy enterprises.
Richelieu and Mazarin left no stone unturned to attach
Madame de Chevreuse to their interests. Richelieu considered
her an enemy worthy of his steel; he exiled her several times,
and when after his death the doors of France were opened to
the men he had proscribed, the Cardinal's implacable resentment
survived in the soul of the dying Louis XIII. , who closed them
to her.
If you turn to Mazarin's confidential letters you will see what
intense anxiety this beautiful conspirator caused him in 1643.
During the Fronde, he had reason to congratulate himself on
having effected a reconciliation with her and followed her wise.
advice. In 1660, when the victorious Mazarin signed the treaties.
of Westphalia and the Pyrenees, and Don Luis de Haro con-
gratulated him on the peace which was about to succeed to years
of storms, the Cardinal answered that peace was not possible in
a country where even women were to be feared. "You Span-
iards can speak lightly of such matters, since your women are
interested in love alone; but things are different in France, where
there are three women quite capable of upsetting the greatest
kingdom in the world; namely, the Duchess of Longueville, the
Princess Palatine, and the Duchess of Chevreuse. "


## p. 4088 (#462) ###########################################

4088
VICTOR COUSIN
COMPARISON BETWEEN MADAME DE HAUTEFORT AND
MADAME DE CHEVREUSE
From the Life of Madame de Chevreuse
F^
ATE placed them both in the same century, in the same party
and in the midst of the same events; but far from resem
bling each other, they illustrate opposite poles of the char-
acter and destiny of women. Both were ravishingly beautiful,
brilliantly intelligent, unflinchingly courageous: but one was as
as she was beautiful, uniting grace with majesty and inspir-
ing respect as well as love. The favorite of a king, not a sus-
picion touched her; proud to haughtiness with the great and
powerful, sweet and compassionate to the oppressed; loving
greatness and prizing virtue above the esteem of the world;
combining the wit of a précieuse, the daintiness of a fashionable
beauty, with the intrepidity of a heroine and the dignity of a
great lady, she left an odor of sanctity behind her.
The other possessed even greater powers of fascination and
an irresistible charm. Witty but ignorant; thrown into the
midst of party excesses and thinking but little of religion; too
great a lady to submit to restraint; bowing only to the dictates
of honor; abandoned to gallantry and making light of all else;
despising danger and public opinion for the sake of the man.
she loved; restless rather than ambitious, freely risking her life
and that of others; and after spending her youth in intrigues
and plots, and strewing her path with victims, traveling through
Europe as captive and conqueror and turning the heads of kings;
having seen Chalais ascend the scaffold, Châteauneuf dismissed
from the ministry, the Duc de Lorraine stripped of his possess-
ions, Buckingham assassinated, the King of Spain launched upon
a disastrous war, Queen Anne humiliated, and Richelieu trium-
phant; defiant to the last, always ready to play a part in that
game of politics which had become a passion with her, to descend
to the lowest intrigues or to take the most reckless course of
action; seeing the weakness of her enemy, and daring enough
to undertake his ruin: Madame de Chevreuse was
a devoted
friend, an implacable enemy, the most redoubtable adversary of
both Richelieu and Mazarin.
-


## p. 4089 (#463) ###########################################

4089
ABRAHAM COWLEY
(1618-1667)
BY THOMAS R. LOUNSBURY
BRAHAM COWLEY, the posthumous son of a citizen and stationer
of London, was born in that city in the latter half of 1618.
His early education was received at Westminster school.
In 1637 he became a scholar of Trinity College, Cambridge, where in
1639 he took the degree of B. A. , and in 1642 that of M. A. During
the civil commotions that followed, he was ejected from Cambridge
University and withdrew to Oxford, which had become for the time
being the headquarters of the royalist party. While there he not
only continued his studies, but was present
and in service in several of King Charles's
journeys and expeditions. He finally be-
came secretary to Lord Jermyn, who at the
Restoration was created Earl of St. Albans.
In this capacity he followed to France the
Queen Henrietta Maria, who had left Eng-
land for that country in 1644, and was
there busily engaged in political intrigues
to aid the cause of her husband. In her
service Cowley was diligently employed.
and was dispatched on missions to Jersey,
Scotland, Flanders, and Holland. His prin-
cipal and most absorbing occupation, how-
ever, was carrying on the cipher correspondence that took place
between the King and the Queen. This, and duties allied to this,
were so engrossing that according to Sprat, his intimate friend and
first biographer, they "for some years together took up all his days
and two or three nights every week. "
ABRAHAM COWLEY
After the execution of Charles, Cowley remained in France until
1656. Then he returned to England, practically to play the part of a
spy, if the testimony of the authority already quoted can be trusted.
Once there, he was arrested and imprisoned, but subsequently was
allowed to go at liberty on bail. After the death of Cromwell he
went back to France. He returned at the Restoration, only to meet
with the neglect which was incurred by all the followers of the
exiled monarch who made the mistake of combining an objectionable



## p. 4090 (#464) ###########################################

4090
ABRAHAM COWLEY
sobriety and decency of life with loyalty to the house of Stuart.
Furthermore, certain things he had done had made him an object of
pretended suspicion. He had been created in 1657 a Doctor of Medi-
cine by the University of Oxford, in obedience to an order of the
government. There were passages also in the preface prefixed to the
edition of his works published in 1656, which were taken to imply
submissive acquiescence on his part in the new order of things.
These were satisfactory pretexts for disregarding claims which the
self-sacrificing service of years had established. The mastership of
the Savoy, which he expected and which he had a right to expect,
was given to another. But at last, more fortunate than many of his
fellow-sufferers, he received through the influence of the Earl of St.
Albans and the Duke of Buckingham a provision sufficient to main-
tain him in comfort. Withdrawing entirely from public life, he lived
successively at Barn Elms and at Chertsey in Sussex. At the latter
place he died on July 18th, 1667, and was buried in Westminster
Abbey.
Such is a brief outline of the career of the man who during his
lifetime was the most popular of English poets. In spite of occa-
sional intervals of good fortune, it is on the whole a melancholy
story. Such it seemed to Cowley himself. In the essay entitled
'Of Myself,' quoted below, and in The Complaint,' we get not only
further details of the author's personal fortunes, but an insight into
the feelings of disappointment and dejection which came over him,
as he contrasted the difference between what he had hoped and
expected and what he had succeeded in achieving or gaining. We
learn from the preface to the volume published in 1656, that long
before that time he had been eager to withdraw from the harassing
occupations in which much of his time had already been wasted, and
to spend the remainder of his days in seclusion and study. "My
desire," he then wrote, "has been for some years past (though the
execution has been accidentally diverted), and does still vehemently
continue, to retire myself to some of our American plantations; not
to seek for gold or to enrich myself with the traffic of those parts,
which is the end of most men that travel thither, . . . but to
forsake this world forever, with all the vanities and vexations of it,
and to bury myself in some obscure retreat there, but not without
the consolations of letters and philosophy. "
There seems no reason to doubt the genuineness of the feeling
thus expressed, and there is little difficulty in tracing it to its cause.
Unquestionably the political situation had a good deal to do with its
manifestation at that particular time; but the source of his dejection
lay deeper than any temporary overthrow of the side with which he
sympathized. Cowley's career, however successful, had not fulfilled


## p. 4091 (#465) ###########################################

ABRAHAM COWLEY
4091
the extraordinary promise of his youth. He made his appearance as
a man of letters long before he became a man. Of all authors in
our own tongue, perhaps in any tongue, he was the most precocious.
This is not to say that others have not written as early as he, but
that no one who wrote so early has written so well. In 1633, when
he was but fifteen years old, he brought out a little volume contain-
ing over a thousand lines and entitled 'Poetical Blossomes. ' It was
made up mainly of two productions, entitled respectively Constantia
and Philautus' and 'Pyramus and Thisbe. ' Of this work a second
edition appeared in 1636, with a number of additional poems. In
the epistle prefixed to this impression, he states that Pyramus and
Thisbe' was composed at ten years of age and Constantia and
Philautus' at thirteen. But much more important than either, ap-
peared in this volume of 1636 a poem entitled 'A Vote. ' It consists
of eleven stanzas, the last three of which, with a few slight verbal
alterations, were cited by Cowley in his essay upon himself. This
poetry, which he never surpassed, he there tells us was written when
he was thirteen years old. The early date given to its composition.
may have been due to a slip of memory; at any rate it was not
until 1636 that the piece appeared in print. But even were it not
written till the very year in which it was published, it must be re-
garded as a marvelous production for a boy, not alone for the poetic
ability displayed in it, but for the philosophic view it takes of life.
A third edition of 'Poetical Blossomes' appeared in 1637. In 1638
came out a pastoral comedy, written while he was king's scholar in
Westminster School, and called 'Love's Riddle. ' During that same
year a Latin comedy entitled 'Naufragium Joculare' had been acted
by the students of Trini College, and a little later was published.
All the works mentioned, it will be seen, had been produced by him
before he had completed, and most of them in fact before he had
reached, his twentieth year. For one further dramatic production he
is also responsible at a very early age. In 1641, when the King's
son Charles (afterwards Charles II. ) passed through Cambridge, Cow-
ley "made extempore," as he says, a comedy which was acted, for
the entertainment of the Prince, at Trinity College on March 12th.
It was called 'The Guardian,' and in 1650 it was published.
At a
later period it was rewritten by the author, and in 1661 was brought
out at the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields with a fair degree of suc-
cess. It was then entitled 'Cutter of Coleman Street. '
From the time of leaving Cambridge, though he did not cease
writing, nothing of his was published for a long while, at least un-
der his own name. In 1647 appeared a volume entitled 'The Mis-
tress'; but even this the publisher professed to bring out wholly on
his own responsibility. The work consisted entirely of love poems,


## p. 4092 (#466) ###########################################

4092
ABRAHAM COWLEY
and the very doubtful assertion is steadily repeated in all notices of
Cowley's life that they became the favorite ones of the age.
If so,
the age must have been peculiarly frigid in its feelings. Whatever
excellences these pieces possess, they are not the excellences that
characterize love poetry. It is hardly possible to speak of them as
the transcript of any personal experiences. They are rather aca-
demic exercises, intellectual disquisitions upon the general subject of
love, than the impassioned utterances of a man whose feelings have
ever been profoundly stirred. The Greek scholar Joshua Barnes,
who flourished a little later, declared that in spite of the sentiments
expressed in these pieces, and in a subsequent poem called 'The
Chronicle,' Cowley was never in love but once in his life. It could
not be proved on the evidence of the verses contained in The Mis-
tress that he was ever in love at all. Still, if the poems lack
fervor, they often exhibit ingenuity and grace.
On his return to England during the Protectorate he brought out
a collected edition of his works in folio. It was published in 1656,
and amongst the matter which then appeared for the first time were
the odes written in professed imitation of Pindar. The composition
of these set a literary fashion which did not die out till the latter
half of the next century. To write so-called Pindaric odes became
one of the regular duties of all who were in doubt about their poetic
inspiration, and felt called upon to convince others as well as them-
selves of their possession of it. But Cowley introduced the term and
not the thing. He seems to have fancied that to produce lines with
a different number of feet, and stanzas with a different number of
lines, was the proper method of representing the measure. But Pin-
dar's verse, if it can be called irregular at all, was regularly irregular.
Cowley's imitation was irregular and nothing else.