No More Learning

Theodoric contented himself with executing
the ringleader, and the following year put to death Boëtius's father-
in-law Symmachus in fear of his plotting revenge. Even so, the
executions were a bad political mistake: they must have enraged and
thoroughly alienated the Senatorial party,- that is, the chief Italian
families, and made a fusion of the foreign and native elements
definitively out of the question. We need not blame Boëtius or the
Senate for their very natural aspiration to live under a civilized
instead of a barbarian jurisdiction, even though they had their own
codes and courts; but the de facto governing power had its rights also.
In 996 Boëtius's bones were removed to the church of St. Augus-
e, where his tomb may still be seen. As time elapsed, his death
was considered a martyrdom, and he was canonized as St. Severinus.
Boëtius was a thorough student of Greek philosophy, and formed
the plan of translating all of Plato and Aristotle and reconciling their
philosophies. This work he never completed. He wrote a treatise
on music which was used as a text-book as late as the present
century; and he translated the works of Ptolemy on astronomy, of
Nicomachus on arithmetic, of Euclid on geometry, and of Archime-
des on mechanics. His great work in this line was a translation of
Aristotle, which he supplemented by a commentary in thirty books.
Among his writings are a number of works on logic and a comment-
ary on the Topica' of Cicero. In addition to these, five theological
tracts are ascribed to him, the most important being a discussion of
the doctrine of the Trinity.
___
The work which has done most to perpetuate his name is the
'Consolations of Philosophy,' in five books, - written during his im-
prisonment at Pavia,- which has been called "the last work of


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Roman literature. " It is written in alternate prose and verse, and
treats of his efforts to find solace in his misfortune. The first book
opens with a vision of a woman, holding a book and sceptre, who
comes to him with promises of comfort. She is his lifelong com-
panion, Philosophy. He tells her the story of his troubles. In the
second book, Philosophy tells him that Fortune has the right to take
away what she has bestowed, and that he still has wife and children,
the most precious of her gifts; his ambition to shine as statesman
and philosopher is foolish, as no greatness is enduring. The third
book takes up the discussion of the Supreme Good, showing that it
consists not in riches, power, nor pleasure, but only in God. In the
fourth book the problems of the existence of evil in the world and
the freedom of the will are examined; and the latter subject con-
tinues through the fifth book. During the Middle Ages this work
was highly esteemed, and numerous translations appeared. In the
ninth century Alfred the Great gave to his subjects an Anglo-Saxon
version; and in the fourteenth century Chaucer made an English
translation, which was published by Caxton in 1480. Before the six-
teenth century it was translated into German, French, Italian, Spanish,
and Greek.
It is now perhaps best known for the place it occupies in the
spiritual development of Dante. He turned to it for comfort after
the death of his Beatrice in 1291. Inspired by its teachings, he gave
himself up for a time to the study of philosophy, with the result of
his writing the 'Convito,' a book in which he often refers to his
favorite author. In his 'Divine Comedy he places Boëtius in the
Heaven of the Sun, together with the Fathers of the Church and the
schoolmen.
OF THE GREATEST GOOD
From the Consolations of Philosophy'
E
VERY mortal is troubled with many and various anxieties, and
yet all desire, through various paths, to arrive at one goal;
that is, they strive by different means to attain one happi-
ness: in a word, God. He is the beginning and the end of every
good, and he is the highest happiness. Then said the Mind:-
This, methinks, must be the highest good, so that men should.
neither need, nor moreover be solicitous, about any other good
besides it; since he possesses that which is the roof of all other
good, inasmuch as it includes all other good, and has all other
kinds within it. It would not be the highest good if any good
―


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BOËTIUS
were external to it, because it would then have to desire some
good which itself had not. Then answered Reason, and said: - It
is very evident that this is the highest happiness, for it is both
the roof and the floor of all good. What is that then but the
best happiness, which gathers the other felicities all within it, and
includes and holds them within it; and to it there is a deficiency
of none, neither has it need of any, but they come all from it
and again all to it, as all waters come from the sea and again all
come to the sea? There is none in the little fountain, which
does not seek the sea, and again from the sea it returns into the
earth, and so it flows gradually through the earth, till it again
comes to the same fountain that it before flowed from, and so
again to the sea.
Now, this is an example of the true good, which all mortal
men desire to obtain, though they by various ways think to
arrive at it. For every man has a natural good in himself,
because every mind desires to obtain the true good; but it is
hindered by the transitory good, because it is more prone thereto.
For some men think that it is the best happiness that a man
be so rich that he have need of nothing more, and they choose
their life accordingly. Some men think that this is the highest
good, that he be among his fellows the most honorable of his
fellows; and they with all diligence seek this. Some think that
the supreme good is in the highest power. These strive either
themselves to rule, or else to associate themselves to the friend-
ship of rulers. Some persuade themselves that it is best that
a man be illustrious and celebrated and have good fame; they
therefore seek this both in peace and in war. Many reckon it
for the greatest good and for the greatest happiness that a man
be always blithe in this present life, and follow all his lusts.
Some indeed who desire these riches are desirous thereof be-
cause they would have the greater power, that they may the more
securely enjoy these worldly lusts, and also the riches. Many
there are who desire power because they would gather money;
or again, they are desirous to spread their name.
On account of such and other like frail and perishing ad-
vantages, the thought of every human mind is troubled with
anxiety and with care. It then imagines that it has obtained
some exalted good when it has won the flattery of the people;
and to me it seems that it has bought a very false greatness.
Some with much anxiety seek wives, that thereby they may above


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all things have children, and also live happily. True friends,
then, I say, are the most precious things of all these worldly
felicities. They are not indeed to be reckoned as worldly goods,
but as divine; for deceitful fortune does not produce them, but
God, who naturally formed them as relations. For of every other
thing in this world, man is desirous, either that he may through
it obtain power, or else some worldly lust; except of the true
friend, whom he loves sometimes for affection and for fidelity,
though he expect to himself no other rewards. Nature joins and
cements friends together with inseparable love. But with these
worldly goods, and with this present wealth, men make oftener
enemies than friends. From these, and from many such proofs,
it may be evident to all men that all the bodily goods are in-
ferior to the faculties of the soul. We indeed think that a man
is the stronger, because he is great in his body. The fairness,
moreover, and the strength of the body, rejoices and invigorates
the man, and health makes him cheerful. In all these bodily
felicities men seek one single happiness, as it seems to them.
For whatsoever every man chiefly loves above all other things,
that, he persuades himself, is best for him, and that is his
highest good. When therefore he has acquired that, he imagines
that he may be very happy. I do not deny that these goods and
this happiness are the highest good of this present life. For
every man considers that thing best which he chiefly loves above
other things, and therefore he deems himself very happy if he
can obtain what he then most desires. Is not now clearly
enough shown to thee the form of the false goods; namely, riches,
and dignity, and power, and glory, and pleasure? Concerning
pleasure, Epicurus the philosopher said, when he inquired con-
cerning all those other goods which we before mentioned: then
said he, that pleasure was the highest good, because all the other
goods which we before mentioned gratify the mind and delight
it, but pleasure chiefly gratifies the body.
But we will still speak concerning the nature of men, and
concerning their pursuits. Though, then, their mind and their
nature be now obscured, and they are by that descent fallen to
evil and inclined thither, yet they are desirous, so far as they
can and may, of the highest good. As the drunken man knows
that he should go to his house and to his rest, and yet is not
able to find the way thither, so is it also with the mind, when it
is weighed down by the anxieties of this world. It is sometimes.


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intoxicated and misled by them, so far that it cannot rightly find
out good. Nor yet does it appear to those men that they aught
mistake who are desirous to obtain this, namely, that they need
labor after nothing more. But they think that they are able to
collect together all these goods, so that none may be excluded
from the number.
Two things may dignity and power do, if they come to the
unwise. It may make him honorable and respectable to other
unwise persons.
But when he quits the power, or the power
him, then is he to the unwise neither honorable nor respectable.
Has power, then, the custom of exterminating and rooting out
vices from the minds of great men and planting therein virtues?
I know, however, that earthly power never sows the virtues, but
collects and gathers vices; and when it has gathered them, then
it nevertheless shows and does not conceal them. For the vices
of great men many men see; because many know them and
many are with them. Therefore we always lament concerning
power, and also despise it, when we see that it comes to the
worst, and to those who are to us most unworthy.
Every virtue has its proper excellence; and the excellence and
the dignity which it has, it imparts immediately to every one
who loves it. Thus, wisdom is the highest virtue, and it has in
it four other virtues; of which one is prudence, another temper-
ance, the third is fortitude, the fourth justice. Wisdom makes
its lovers wise, and prudent, and moderate, and patient, and
just; and it fills him who loves it with every good quality. This
they who possess the power of this world cannot do. They can-
not impart any virtue to those who love them, through their
wealth, if they have it not in their nature. Hence it is very
evident that the rich in worldly wealth have no proper dignity;
but the wealth is come to them from without, and they cannot
from without have aught of their own. Consider now, whether
any man is the less honorable because many men despise him.
But if any man be the less honorable, then is every foolish man
the less honorable, the more authority he has, to every wise.
man. Hence it is sufficiently clear that power and wealth can-
not make its possessor the more honorable. But it makes him
the less honorable, when it comes to him, if he were not before
virtuous. So is also wealth and power the worse, if he who
possesses it be not virtuous. Each of them is the more worth-
less, when they meet with each other.


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But I can easily instruct you by an example, so that you may
clearly enough perceive that this present life is very like a
shadow, and in that shadow no man can attain the true good.
If any very great man is driven from his country, or goes on
his lord's errand, and so comes to a foreign people, where no
man knows him, nor he any man, nor even knows the language,
do you think his greatness can make him honorable in that
land? Of course it cannot. But if dignity were natural to
wealth and were its own, or again if wealth were the rich man's
own, then it could not forsake him. Let the man who possessed
them be in whatsoever land he might, then his wealth and his
dignity would be with him. But because the wealth and the
power are not his own, they forsake him; and because they have
no natural good in themselves, they go away like a shadow or
smoke. Yet the mistaken opinion and fancy of unwise men
judge that power is the highest good. It is entirely otherwise.
When a great man is either among foreigners, or among wise
men in his own country, his wealth counts nothing to either one
when they learn that he was exalted for no virtue, but through
the applause of the ignorant. But if his power arose from any
personal merit, he would keep that even if he lost the power.
He would not lose the good that came from nature; that would
always follow him and always make him honorable, whatever
land he was in.
Worthless and very false is the glory of this world! Concern-
ing this a certain poet formerly sung. When he contemned this
present life, he said:-O glory of this world! wherefore do erring
men call thee, with false voice, glory, when thou art none! - For
man more frequently has great renown, and great glory, and
great honor, through the opinion of the unwise, than he has
through his deserts. But tell me now, what is more unmeet
than this; or why men may not rather be ashamed of themselves
than rejoice, when they hear that any one belies them. Though
men even rightly praise any one of the good, he ought not the
sooner to rejoice immoderately at the people's words. But at
this he ought to rejoice, that they speak truth of him. Though
he rejoice at this, that they spread his name, it is not the sooner
so extensively spread as he persuades himself; for they cannot
spread it over all the earth, though they may in some land;
for though it be to one known, yet it is to another unknown.
Though he in this land be celebrated, yet is he in another not


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BOËTIUS
celebrated. Therefore is the people's favor to be held by every
man for nothing; since it comes not to every man according to
his deserts, nor indeed remains always to any one. Consider
first concerning noble birth. If any one boast of it, how vain
and how useless is the boast; for every one knows that all men
come from one father and from one mother. Or again, concern-
ing the people's favor, and concerning their applause, I know
not why we rejoice at it. Though they whom the vulgar ap-
plaud be illustrious, yet are they more illustrious and more
rightly to be applauded who are dignified by virtues. For no
man is really the greater or the more praiseworthy for the excel-
lence of another, or for his virtues, if he himself has it not. Are
you ever the fairer for another man's beauty? A man is little
the better though he have a good father, if he himself is inca-
pable of anything. Therefore I advise that you rejoice in other
men's good and their nobility, but so far only that you ascribe
it not to yourself as your own; because every man's good, and
his nobility, is more in the mind than in the flesh. This only,
indeed, I know of good in nobility: that it shames many a man
if he is worse than his ancestors were, and he therefore endeav
ors with all his power to imitate the manners of some one of
the best, and his virtues.


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2141
NICHOLAS BOILEAU-DESPRÉAUX
(1636-1711)
HE name of Louis XIV. suggests ultra-lavishness in life and
taste; a time when French society, surfeited with pleasure,
demanded a stimulus of continual novelty in current litera-
ture. The natural result was preciosité, hyperbole, falsetto sentiment,
which ranked the unusual above the natural, clever conceit above
careful workmanship. It was tainted with artificiality, and now seems
mawkish and superficial.
But Boileau changed all that. Perhaps no author unendowed with
genius has ever so influenced literature.
was usu-
Aside from his work, the man and his
life seem essentially commonplace. Nich-
olas Boileau, who, adding another name to
his own,- quite a fashion then,
ally called Despréaux by his contempora-
ries, was born in Paris, in the palace court,
nearly opposite the royal Sainte Chapelle.
He rarely went farther from the city than
to the little house at Auteuil, where he
spent twenty summers. So he knew his
Paris very intimately, and was limited too
by knowing only her life and thought. To
his repressed youth, guarded by a strict
father and a cross servant,- for his mother
died in his babyhood, -is sometimes attrib-
uted his lack of emotional quality. But his was not an intense nature,
and probably no training could have made the didactic poet lyric or
passionate. Sincerity and common-sense were his predominating qual-
ities, and he had the rare faculty of obedience to his own instincts.
He first studied for the priesthood, but anything like mysticism was
too repellent to his matter-of-fact mind. Then, as many of his family
had been lawyers, he naturally turned toward that career. But the
practice as taught him seemed senseless and arbitrary. Its rational
basis upon a logical theory only dawned upon him later. In spite of
his literary tastes, there was something extremely mundane about the
pleasure-loving bachelor, so fond of good eating and of jovial café
revels with Racine, Furetière, Ninon de L'Enclos, and other witty Bohe-
mians. With them he was much happier than in the more fastidious

—
BOILEAU


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NICHOLAS BOILEAU-DESPRÉAUX
society of the Hôtel Rambouillet, from which he retired after reading
aloud a satiric poem not favorably received. Neither was he happy
at court, in spite of the favor of Louis XIV. , who, entertained by his
rough honesty, gave him a pension of two thousand francs. Later,
when appointed with Racine to write a history of the reign,- that
unfortunate history which was accidentally burned,—we find him an
unwilling follower on royal expeditions, his ungainly horsemanship
the mock of high-bred courtiers. In fact, he was bourgeois through
and through, and not at ease with the aristocrats. He was thrifty
bourgeois too; so often called miserly as well as malicious that it is
pleasant to remember certain illustrations of his nobler side. The
man who offered to resign his own pension if that of old disfavored
Corneille might be continued, and when the latter was forced to
sell his library, paid him its full value and then left him in lifelong
possession,-was generous if he did love to save sous. His was a fine
independence, which felt his art too lofty for purchase, and would
accept nothing from the booksellers.
He had always wished to be a poet. Feeble of body, asthmatic,
and in later life deaf and almost deprived of voice, he found in
writing all the charm of a brilliant and ingenious game. Then too
he had something definite to say, as all his work consistently testifies.
Neither rich nor poor, without family cares, he could give himself
unreservedly to authorship. In 1660 he published a satire upon the
vices of Paris, which inaugurated his great success. Seven satires
appeared in 1666, and he afterward added five others. Their mali-
cious wit, their novel form, the harmonious swing of the couplet
rhyme, forced immediate attention. They held up contemporary lit-
erary weaknesses to scorn, and indulged in the most merciless per-
sonalities, sparing not even his own brother, the poet Gilles Boileau.
All retorts upon himself the author bore with complacent superiority
which forced his adversaries to feel worsted.
From 1666 to 1774 most of the 'Epistles' were written; and also
his best known work, 'L'Art poétique' (The Art of Poetry). In the
satires he had been destructive, but he was too practical to be neg-
ative. The Art of Poetry,' modeled after Horace's work of that
name, offers the theory of poetic composition. It is a work in four
cantos of couplets: the first setting forth general rules of metrical
composition; the second a dissertation upon different forms-ode,
sonnet, pastoral, and others; the third treating tragedy, comedy, and
epic poetry; and the last consisting of general reflections and advice
to authors. Briefly stated, Boileau's desire was to establish literature
upon a foundation of unchanging laws. Why did some works speed-
ily die while others endure through the centuries? Because works
akin to the eternal classics did not, like much contemporary writing,


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NICHOLAS BOILEAU-DESPRÉAUX
2143
reflect the trivial and evanescent. They contained what is peren-
nially true of humanity; and stated this in a simple, interesting, and
reasonable way. Above all, Boileau demands truth in subject, and
the conscientious workmanship which finds the most suitable form of
expression. To see a word at the end of a couplet only because it
rhymes with the word above it, he finds inexcusable. Without a
method resulting in unity, clearness, and proportion, writing is not
literature. Later, in his 'Reflections upon Longinus,' Boileau repeated
and emphasized these views.
His mock-heroic poem 'Le Lutrin' (The Reading-Desk), ridiculing
clerical pettinesses, was strong in realistic descriptions, and was per.
haps his most popular work.
A modern poet's definition of poetry as "the heat and height of
sane emotion" would have been unintelligible to Boileau. Deficient
in imagination, he always saw life on its material side, and was irri-
tated by any display of emotion not reducible to logic. Sọ his
poetry is sensible, clear argument in exquisitely careful metre. His
great strength lay in a taste which recognized harmony and fitness
instinctively. To us his quality is best translated by the dainty, per-
fect couplets of his imitator Pope. His talent, essentially French in
its love of effect and classification, has strewn the language with
clever saws, and his works have been studied as authoritative models
by generation after generation of students.
But after all, it is less as a poet than as a critic, "the lawgiver
of the French Parnassus," that the world has always known Boileau.
Before him the art of criticism had hardly existed. Authors had
received indiscriminate praise or blame, usually founded upon inter-
ested motives or personal bias; but there had been little comparison
with an acknowledged standard. This slashing reviewer in verse,"
as Saintsbury calls him, was a severe pedagogue, but his public did
learn their lesson. He made mistakes, was neither broad-minded nor
profound in attainments, was occasionally unjust; but he showed
readers why they should praise or blame; taught them appreciation
of his greater friends Molière and Racine; and pointed out to authors
what their purpose should be. With a greater creative power seek-
ing self-expression, he might have accomplished less in literary
reform.


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NICHOLAS BOILEAU-DESPRÉAUX
ADVICE TO AUTHORS
From The Art of Poetry'
THE
HERE is a kind of writer pleased with sound,
Whose fustian head with clouds is compassed
round-
No reason can disperse them with its light;
Learn then to think, ere you pretend to write
As your idea's clear, or else obscure,
The expression follows, perfect or impure;
What we conceive with ease we can express;
Words to the notions flow with readiness.
Observe the language well in all you write,
And swerve not from it in your loftiest flight.
The smoothest verse and the exactest sense
Displease if uncouth language give offense;
A barbarous phrase no reader can approve;
Nor bombast, noise, or affectation love.
In short, without pure language, what you write
Can never yield us profit or delight.
Take time for thinking; never work in haste;
And value not yourself for writing fast;
A rapid poem, with such fury writ,
Shows want of judgment, not abounding wit.
More pleased we are to see a river lead
His gentle streams along a flowery mead,
Than from high banks to hear loud torrents roar,
With foamy waters, on a muddy shore.
Gently make haste, of labor not afraid;
A hundred times consider what you've said;
Polish, repolish, every color lay,
And sometimes add, but oftener take away.
'Tis not enough, when swarming faults are writ,
That here and there are scattered sparks of wit;
Each object must be fixed in the true place,
And differing parts have corresponding grace;
Till, by a curious art disposed, we find
One perfect whole of all the pieces joined.
Keep to your subject close in all you say,
Nor for a sounding sentence ever stray.


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NICHOLAS BOILEAU-DESPRÉAUX
The public censure for your writings fear,
And to yourself be critic most severe;
Fantastic wits their darling follies love,
But find you faithful friends that will reprove,
That on your works may look with careful eyes,
And of your faults be zealous enemies.
Lay by an author's pride and vanity,
And from a friend a flatterer descry,
Who seems to like, but means not what he says;
Embrace true counsel, but suspect false praise.
A sycophant will everything admire;
Each verse, each sentence, sets his soul on fire;
All is divine! there's not a word amiss!
He shakes with joy and weeps with tenderness;
He overpowers you with his mighty praise.
Truth never moves in those impetuous ways.
A faithful friend is careful of your fame,
And freely will your heedless errors blame;
He cannot pardon a neglected line,
But verse to rule and order will confine,
Reprove of words the too-affected sound,—
"Here the sense flags, and your expression's bound,
Your fancy tires, and your discourse grows vain;
Your term's improper;-make it just and plain. "
Thus 'tis a faithful friend will freedom use.
But authors partial to their darling muse
Think to protect it they have just pretense,
And at your friendly counsel take offense.
"Said you of this, that the expression's flat?
Your servant, sir, you must excuse me that,"
He answers you. "This word has here no grace,
Pray leave it out. "-"That, sir, 's the properest place. "
"This term I like not. "-"'Tis approved by all. "
Thus, resolute not from one fault to fall,
If there's a symbol as to which you doubt,
'Tis a sure reason not to blot it out.
2145
Yet still he says you may his faults confute,
And over him your power is absolute.
But of his feigned humility take heed:
'Tis a bait laid to make you hear him read;
And when he leaves you, happy in his muse,
Restless he runs some other to abuse,
1
1
1
1
IV-135


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NICHOLAS BOILEAU-DESPRÉAUX
And often finds; for in our scribbling times
No fool can lack a fool to praise his rhymes;
The flattest work has here within the court
Met with some zealous ass for its support;
And in all times a forward scribbling fop
Has found some greater fool to cry him up.
THE PASTORAL, THE ELEGY, THE ODE, AND THE EPIGRAM
From The Art of Poetry'
SA fair nymph, when rising from her bed,
Α
With sparkling diamonds dresses not her head,
But without gold, or pearl, or costly scents,
Gathers from neighboring fields her ornaments:
Such, lovely in its dress, but plain withal,
Ought to appear a perfect Pastoral.
Its humble method nothing has of fierce,
But hates the rattling of a lofty verse;
There native beauty pleases and excites,
And never with harsh sounds the ear affrights.
But in this style a poet, often spent
In rage, throws by his rural instrument,
And vainly, when disordered thoughts abound,
Amidst the eclogue makes the trumpet sound;
Pan flies alarmed into the neighboring woods,
And frighted nymphs dive down into the floods.
Opposed to this, another, low in style,
Makes shepherds speak a language low and vile;
His writings, flat and heavy, without sound,
Kissing the earth and creeping on the ground;
You'd swear that Randal, in his rustic strains,
Again was quavering to the country swains,
And changing, without care of sound or dress,
Strephon and Phyllis into Tom and Bess.
'Twixt these extremes 'tis hard to keep the right:
For guides take Virgil and read Theocrite;
Be their just writings, by the gods inspired,
Your constant pattern, practiced and admired.
By them alone you'll easy comprehend
How poets without shame may condescend
To sing of gardens, fields, of flowers and fruit,
To stir up shepherds and to tune the flute;


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NICHOLAS BOILEAU-DESPRÉAUX
2147
Of love's rewards to tell the happy hour,
Daphne a tree, Narcissus make a flower,
And by what means the eclogue yet has power
To make the woods worthy a conqueror;
This of their writings is the grace and flight;
Their risings lofty, yet not out of sight.
The Elegy, that loves a mournful style,
With unbound hair weeps at a funeral pile;
It paints the lover's torments and delights,
A mistress flatters, threatens, and invites;
But well these raptures if you'll make us see,
You must know love as well as poetry.
I hate those lukewarm authors, whose forced fire
In a cold style describes a hot desire;
That sigh by rule, and raging in cold blood,
Their sluggish muse whip to an amorous mood.
Their transports feigned appear but flat and vain;
They always sigh, and always hug their chain,
Adore their prisons and their sufferings bless,
Make sense and reason quarrel as they please.
'Twas not of old in this affected tone
That smooth Tibullus made his amorous moan;
Nor Ovid, when, instructed from above,
By nature's rule he taught the art of love.
The heart in elegies forms the discourse.
The Ode is bolder and has greater force;
Mounting to heaven in her ambitious flight,
Amongst the gods and heroes takes delight;
Of Pisa's wrestlers tells the sinewy force,
And sings the lusty conqueror's glorious course;
To Simois's streams does fierce Achilles bring,
And makes the Ganges bow to Britain's king.
Sometimes she flies like an industrious bee,
And robs the flowers by nature's chemistry;
Describes the shepherd's dances, feasts, and bliss,
And boasts from Phyllis to surprise a kiss,
When gently she resists with feigned remorse,
That what she grants may seem to be by force.
Her generous style at random oft will part,
And by a brave disorder shows her art.
Unlike those fearful poets whose cold rime
In all their raptures keeps exactest time;


## p. 2148 (#346) ###########################################

2148
NICHOLAS BOILEAU-DESPRÉAUX
That sing the illustrious hero's mighty praise-
Lean writers! - by the terms of weeks and days,
And dare not from least circumstances part,
But take all towns by strictest rules of art.
Apollo drives those fops from his abode;
And some have said that once the humorous god,
Resolving all such scribblers to confound,
For the short Sonnet ordered this strict bound,
Set rules for the just measure and the time,
The easy-running and alternate rime;
But above all, those licenses denied
Which in these writings the lame sense supplied,
Forbade a useless line should find a place,
Or a repeated word appear with grace.
A faultless sonnet, finished thus, would be
Worth tedious volumes of loose poetry.
A hundred scribbling authors, without ground,
Believe they have this only phœnix found,
When yet the exactest scarce have two or three,
Among whole tomes, from faults and censure free;
The rest, but little read, regarded less,
Are shoveled to the pastry from the press.
Closing the sense within the measured time,
'Tis hard to fit the reason to the rime.
The Epigram, with little art composed,
Is one good sentence in a distich closed.
These points, that by Italians first were prized,
Our ancient authors knew not, or despised;
The vulgar, dazzled with their glaring light,
To their false pleasures quickly they invite;
But public favor so increased their pride,
They overwhelmed Parnassus with their tide.
The Madrigal at first was overcome,
And the proud Sonnet fell by the same doom;
With these grave Tragedy adorned her flights,
And mournful Elegy her funeral rites.
A hero never failed them on the stage:
Without his point a lover durst not rage;
The amorous shepherds took more care to prove
True to his point, than faithful to their love.
Each word, like Janus, had a double face,
And prose, as well as verse, allowed it place;


## p. 2149 (#347) ###########################################

NICHOLAS BOILEAU-DESPRÉAUX
2149
The lawyer with conceits adorned his speech,
The parson without quibbling could not preach
At last affronted reason looked about,
And from all serious matters shut them out;
Declared that none should use them without shame,
Except a scattering, in the epigram —
-
Provided that by art, and in due time,
They turned upon the thought, and not the rime.
Thus in all parts disorders did abate;
Yet quibblers in the court had leave to prate,
Insipid jesters and unpleasant fools,
A corporation of dull, punning drolls.
'Tis not but that sometimes a dextrous muse
May with advantage a turned sense abuse,
And on a word may trifle with address;
But above all, avoid the fond excess,
And think not, when your verse and sense are lame,
With a dull point to tag your epigram.
TO MOLIÈRE
From The Satires'
UNE
NEQUALED genius, whose warm fancy knows
No rhyming labor, no poetic throes;
To whom Apollo has unlocked his store;
Whose coin is struck from pure Parnassian ore;
Thou, dextrous master, teach thy skill to me,
And tell me, Molière, how to rhyme like thee!
You never falter when the close comes round,
Or leave the substance to preserve the sound;
You never wander after words that fly,
For all the words you need before you lie.
But I, who smarting for my sins of late —
With itch of rhyme am visited by fate,
Expend on air my unavailing force,
And, hunting sounds, am sweated like a horse.
In vain I often muse from dawn till night:
When I mean black, my stubborn verse says white;
If I should paint a coxcomb's flippant mien,
I scarcely can forbear to name the Dean;
If asked to tell the strains that purest flow,
My heart says Virgil, but my pen Quinault;
-


## p. 2150 (#348) ###########################################

2150
NICHOLAS BOILEAU-DESPRÉAUX
In short, whatever I attempt to say,
Mischance conducts me quite the other way.
At times, fatigued and fretted with the pain,
When every effort for relief is vain,
The fruitless chase I peevishly give o'er,
And swear a thousand times to write no more:
But, after thousand vows, perhaps by chance,
Before my careless eyes the couplets dance.
Then with new force my flame bursts out again,
Pleased I resume the paper and the pen;
And, all my anger and my oaths forgot,
I calmly muse and resolutely blot.
Yet, if my eager hand, in haste to rhyme,
Should tack an empty couplet at a time,
Great names who do the same I might adduce;
Nay, some who keep such hirelings for their use.
Need blooming Phyllis be described in prose
By any lover who has seen a rose?
Who can forget heaven's masterpiece, her eye,
Where, within call, the Loves and Graces lie?
Who can forget her smile, devoid of art,
Her heavenly sweetness and her frozen heart?
How easy thus forever to compound,
And ring new changes on recurring sound;
How easy, with a reasonable store
Of useful epithets repeated o'er,
Verb, substantive, and pronoun, to transpose,
And into tinkling metre hitch dull prose.
But I who tremble o'er each word I use,
And all that do not aid the sense refuse,
Who cannot bear those phrases out of place
Which rhymers stuff into a vacant space-
Ponder my scrupulous verses o'er and o'er,
And when I write five words, oft blot out four.
Plague on the fool who taught us to confine
The swelling thought within a measured line;
Who first in narrow thraldom fancy pent,
And chained in rhyme each pinioned sentiment.
Without this toil, contentment's soothing balm
Might lull my languid soul in listless calm:
Like the smooth prebend how might I recline,
And loiter life in mirth and song and wine!


## p. 2151 (#349) ###########################################

NICHOLAS BOILEAU-DESPRÉAUX
Roused by no labor, with no care opprest,
Pass all my nights in sleep, my days in rest.
My passions and desires obey the rein;
No mad ambition fires my temperate vein;
The schemes of busy greatness I decline,
Nor kneel in palaces at Fortune's shrine.
In short, my life had been supremely blest
If envious rhyme had not disturbed my rest:
But since this freakish fiend began to roll
His idle vapors o'er my troubled soul,
Since first I longed in polished verse to please,
And wrote with labor to be read with ease,
Nailed to my chair, day after day I pore
On what I write and what I wrote before;
Retouch each line, each epithet review,
Or burn the paper and begin anew.
While thus my labors lengthen into years,
I envy all the race of sonneteers.
Hail, happy Scudére! whose prolific brain
Brings forth a monthly volume without pain;
What though thy works, offending every rule,
Proclaim their author an insipid fool;
Still have they found, whate'er the critic says,
Traders to buy and emptier fools to praise.
And, truly, if in rhymes the couplets close,
What should it matter that the rest is prose?
Who stickles now for antiquated saws,
Or cramps his verses with pedantic laws?
The fool can welcome every word he meets,
With placid joy contemplating his feats;
And while each stanza swells his wondering breast
Admires them all, yet thinks the last the best.
But towering Genius, hopeless to attain
That unknown summit which he pants to gain,
Displeased himself, enchanting all beside,
Scorns each past effort that his strength supplied,
And filling every reader with delight,
Repents the hour when he began to write.
To you, who know how justly I complain,
To you I turn for medicine to my pain!
Grant me your talent, and impart your store,
Or teach me, Molière, how to rhyme no more.
2151


## p. 2152 (#350) ###########################################

2152
GASTON BOISSIER
GASTON BOISSIER
(1823-)
M
ARIE LOUIS GASTON BOISSIER is known in Paris as one of the
most prominent professors of the Collège de France, and to
the outside world as the author of a number of scholarly
books of essays, most of them on Roman subjects. Born at Nîmes
in 1823, his life has been devoted entirely to literature. Soon after
his graduation from the École Normale he was made professor of
rhetoric at Angoulême, and later held the same position at Nîmes.
He has received the degree of Doctor, and occupied a number of high
positions, culminating in that of professor
of Latin poetry in the Collège de France,
which he still holds. His works have a
high value in the world of scholars, and
have won him the red ribbon of the Le-
gion of Honor, as well as a seat in the
Académie Française, which he entered in
1876. His best known works, 'Cicero et
ses Amis (Cicero and His Friends), was
crowned by the Académie; and Promé-
nades Archéologiques, Rome et Naples,'
written in 1880, has been translated into
English, as has also his life of Madame de
Sévigné, which contains many charming
bits of comment on the seventeenth cen-
he is quiet and
and writes with
He contributes

tury. As a biographer, and also as a historian,
accurate - never dry. He has great charm of style,
elegance, correctness, clearness, and originality.
largely, also, to the Revue des Deux Mondes and to scientific publi-
cations.
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ AS A LETTER-WRITER
From the Life of Madame de Sévigné
HE passages just cited appear so simple, and utter so nat-
urally what we all experience, that they are read the first
time without surprise. There seems nothing remarkable
about them except this very simplicity and naturalness. Now,


## p. 2153 (#351) ###########################################

GASTON BOISSIER
2153
these are not the qualities which attract attention. It is difficult
to appreciate them in works where they occur, and it is only by
reading works where they are lacking that we realize all their
importance. But here, as soon as we reflect, we are astonished
to perceive that this great emotion is expressed in language
strong, confident, and correct, with no hesitation and no bun-
gling. The lively sequence of these complaints implies that
they were poured forth all at once, in a single outburst; and yet
the perfection of the style seems impossible of attainment with-
out some study and some retouching. It is sometimes said that
a strong passion at once creates the language to express it. I
greatly doubt this. On the contrary, it seems to me that when
the soul is violently agitated, the words by which we try to ex-
press our feelings always appear dull and cold; we are tempted
to make use of exaggerated and far-fetched expressions in order
to rise to the level of our sorrow or joy. Hence come some-
times excessive terms, discordant metaphors. We might be in-
clined to regard these as thought out at leisure and in cold
blood, while on the contrary they are the product of the first
impulse of the effort we instinctively make to find an expression
corresponding to the intensity of our passion. There is nothing
of this kind in Madame de Sévigné's letters; and however vio-
lent her grief may be, it always speaks in accurate and fitting
language. This is a valuable quality, and one extremely rare.
That we may not be surprised at finding it so highly developed
in her, we need only remember what has just been said of the
way in which she was unconsciously prepared to become a great
writer.
Another characteristic of Madame de Sévigné's letters, not less
remarkable, is that generally her most loving messages are clev-
erly expressed. I do not refer merely to certain isolated phrases
that have sometimes appeared rather affected. "The north wind
bound for Grignan makes me ache for your chest. " "My dear,
how the burden within you weighs me down! " "I dare not
read your letters for fear of having read them. " These are only
occasional flashes; but almost always, when on the point of giv-
ing way to all her emotion, she gives her phrase an ingenious
turn, she makes witty observations, is bright, pleasing, elegant.
All this seems to some readers to proceed from a mind quite
self-possessed, and not so far affected by passion as to be inat-
tentive to elegant diction.


## p. 2154 (#352) ###########################################

2154
GASTON BOISSIER
Just now I placed naturalness among Madame de Sévigné's
leading qualities. There are those who are not of this opinion,
and contend that naturalness is just the merit she most lacks;
but we must define our meaning. Naturalness for each one is
what is conformable to his nature; and as each one of us has a
nature of his own very different from that of his neighbors, nat-
uralness cannot be exactly the same in every instance. Moreover,
education and habit give us each a second nature which often has
more control over us than the original one. In the society in
which Madame de Sévigné lived, people made a point of speaking
wittily. The first few times one appeared in this society, it
required a little study and effort to assume the same tone as the
rest. One had to be on the watch for those pleasant repartees
that, among the frequenters of the Rambouillet and Richelieu
houses, gave the new-comer a good reputation; but after a while
these happy sayings came unsought. To persons trained in such
a school, what might at first sight appear subtle and refined is
ordinary and natural. Whether they speak or write, their ideas
take a certain form which is not the usual one; and bright, witty,
and dainty phrases, which would require labor from others, occur
to them spontaneously.
>>
To be sure, I do not mean that Madame de Sévigné wrote
well without knowing it. This is a thing of which a witty woman
always has an inkling; and besides, her friends did not permit
her to be ignorant of it. "Your letters are delightful," they told
her, "and you are like your letters. It was all the easier to
believe this, because she paid to herself in a whisper such com-
pliments as others addressed to her aloud. One day, when she
had recently written to her friend Dr. Bourdelot, she said to her
daughter, "Brava! what a good answer I sent him! That is a
foolish thing to say, but I had a good, wide-awake pen that
day. " It is very delightful to feel that one has wit, and we can
understand how Madame de Sévigné might sometimes have yielded
to this feeling with some satisfaction. In her most private corre-
spondence, that in which she least thought of the public, we
might note certain passages in which she takes pleasure in elab-
orating and decorating her thought, and in adding to it new
details more and more dainty and ingenious. This she does with-
out effort, to satisfy her own taste and to give herself the pleasure
of expressing her thought agreeably. It has been remarked that
good talkers are not sensitive to the praises of others only: they


## p. 2155 (#353) ###########################################

GASTON BOISSIER
2155
also wish to please themselves, independently of the public around
them; and like to hear themselves talk. It might be said in the
same sense that Madame de Sévigné sometimes likes to see herself
write. This is one of those pretty artifices which in women do
not exclude sincerity, and which may be united with naturalness.
Copyrighted by A. C. McClurg and Company, Chicago.
FRENCH SOCIETY IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
From the Life of Madame de Sévigné›
STU
TUDYING the seventeenth century in the histories is one thing,
and seeking to become acquainted with it by reading con-
temporary letters is another and a far different thing. The
two procedures give rise to conflicting impressions. Historians,
taking a bird's-eye view of their subject, portray its most general
characteristics; they bring out only the prominent features, and
sacrificing all the rest, draw pictures whose precision and sim-
plicity captivate our minds. We finally get into the habit of see-
ing an epoch as they have painted it, and cannot imagine there
was anything in it besides the qualities they specify. But when
we read letters relating, without alteration or selection, events as
they took place, the opinions of men and things we have drawn
from the historians are greatly modified. We then perceive that
good and evil are at all times mingled, and even that the propor-
tions of the mixture vary less than one would think. Cousin says
somewhere, "In a great age all is great. " It is just the contrary
that is true: there is no age so great that there is not much little-
ness about it; and if we undertake to study history we should
expect this, so as not to reckon without our host. No epoch has
been more celebrated, more admired, than the reign of Louis
XIV. ; there is danger lest the correspondence of Madame de
Sévigné may much abate the warmth of our admiration. She is
constantly telling strange stories that compel us to pause and
reflect. When, in a society represented as so noble, so delicate,
so regular, we meet with so many shameful disorders, so many
ill-assorted households, so many persons whose fortunes are sus-
tained only by dishonest expedients, with great lords buying and
not paying, promising and not keeping their word, borrowing and
never returning, kneeling before ministers and ministers' mis-
tresses, cheating at play like M. de Cessac, living like Caderousse


## p. 2156 (#354) ###########################################

2156
GASTON BOISSIER
at the expense of a great lady, surrendering like Soubise a wife.
to the king, or like Villarceaux a niece, or insisting with Bussy
that "the chariest of their honor should be delighted when such
a good fortune befalls their family," it seems to me we have a
right to conclude that people then were hardly our superiors;
that perhaps in some points we are better than they were; and
that in any case it is not worth while to set them up as models
to the disparagement of our own times.
-
In one respect, however, they were unlike us. In those days
there were certain subjects on which people were generally
agreed, and these were precisely the subjects that now give rise
to the greatest divisions, religion and politics. Not that all
were pious then, — far from it, — but almost all were believers,
and almost none contested the principle of royal authority.
To-day, religious belief and belief in monarchy are well-nigh
extinct; and there are hardly any left of those commonly received
opinions, escaped by none, impregnating all, breathed in like the
air, and always found at the bottom of the heart on occasions of
grave need, despite all the inward changes that experience has
wrought. Is this a good or an evil? Should we rejoice at it or
regret it?
Each one will answer according to his character and
inclinations. Daring minds that feel strong enough to form their
own convictions are glad to be delivered from prejudices inter-
fering with independence of opinion, glad to have free scope.
But the rest, who form the vast majority, who are without such
high aims, and whose life is moreover taken up with other cares,
troubled, uncertain, ill at ease, when they have to settle these
great problems independently. They regret that they can no
longer find the solutions all worked out, and sadly repeat with
Jocelyn:-
-
―
"Ah, why was I born in days stormy and dread,
When the pilgrim of life hath no rest for his head;
When the way disappears; when the spent human mind,
Groping, doubting, still strives some new pathway to find,
Unable to trust in the hopes of the Old
Or to strike out a New from its perishing mold! »
This sort of anguish of spirit was unknown in the seventeenth
century, as Madame de Sévigné's letters clearly show.
Copyrighted by A. C. McClurg & Co. , Chicago.


## p. 2157 (#355) ###########################################

GASTON BOISSIER
2157
HOW HORACE LIVED AT HIS COUNTRY HOUSE
From The Country of Horace and Virgil
I
T IS very annoying that Horace, who has described with so
many details the employment of his days while he remained
in Rome, should not have thought it necessary to tell us as
clearly how he spent his life in the country. The only thing we
know with certainty is that he was very happy there: he for the
first time tasted the pleasure of being a proprietor. "I take my
meals," said he, "before household gods that are mine own"
("ante larem proprium vescor"). To have a hearth and domes-
tic gods, to fix his life in a dwelling of which he was the master,
was the greatest happiness that could befall a Roman. To enjoy
it, Horace had waited until he was more than thirty years of
age. We have seen that his domain, when he took possession of
it, was very much neglected, and that the house was falling into
ruins. He first had to build and plant. Do not let us pity him;
these cares have their charms. One loves one's house when one
has built or repaired it, and the very trouble our land costs us
attaches us to it. He came to it as often as he could, and
always with pleasure. Everything served him as a pretext to
leave Rome. It was too hot there, or too cold; the Saturnalia
were approaching—an unbearable time of the year, when all the
town was out of doors; it was the moment to finish a work
which Maecenas had pressingly required. Well, how could any-
thing good be done at Rome, where the noises of the street, the
bustle of intercourse, the troublesome people one has to visit or
receive, the bad verses one has to listen to, take up the best part
of your time? So he put Plato with Menander into his portman-
teau, took with him the work he had begun, promising to do
wonders, and started for Tibur. But when he was at home, his
good resolutions did not hold out. He had something to do
quite different from shutting himself up in his study. He had
to chat with his farmer, and superintend his laborers. He went
to see them at work, and sometimes lent a hand himself. He
dug the spade into the field, took out the stones, etc. , to the
great amusement of the neighbors, who marveled both at his
ardor and his clumsiness:
"Rident vicini glebas et saxa moventem. "
―
>


## p. 2158 (#356) ###########################################

2158
GASTON BOISSIER
In the evening he received at his table a few of the neigh-
boring proprietors. They were honest folk, who did not speak
ill of their neighbors, and who, unlike the fops of Rome, had
not for sole topic of conversation the races or the theatre. They
handled most serious questions, and their rustic wisdom found
ready expression in proverbs and apologues. What pleased
Horace above all at these country dinners was that etiquette
was laughed at, that everything was simple and frugal, that one
did not feel constrained to obey those silly laws which Varro
had drawn up, and which had become the code of good com-
pany. Nobody thought of electing a king of the feast, to fix for
the guests the number of cups that must be drained. Every
one ate according to his hunger and drank according to his
thirst. "They were," said Horace, "divine repasts" ("O noctes
cenæque Deum ”).
Yet he did not always stay at home, however great the
pleasure he felt in being there. This steady-going, regular man
thought it right from time to time to put a little irregularity
into one's life.