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palities, the corporations, the constituencies, and the legislatures of the English race-that springing from the people give majesty and permanency to public thought, and wherever they exist, make up a truly national history of more dignity than the record of individuals. M. Houssaye has clearly seen the personal and biographical character of the century-for with equal acuteness and truth, he calls it "the age of Voltaire and of Madame de Pompadour," at once embodying a subtle, profound artistic scepticism, and a voluptuous and sentimental immorality -the age of an intellectual Mephistopheles, and a wanton Astarte. Though the biographer of the century knows too much to worship at these shrines, he has enough sympathy to weave garlands for the statues of the sage of Ferney, and the Venus of the "Parc aux Cerfs."

In the introduction to the work, the writer briefly calls our attention to the list of his gallery of portraits, through which he is about to conduct us, and tells us the story of their lives, their gay adventures, their triumphs, their sorrows, and their deaths. With equal brevity and force our cicerone introduces us to the scene of his artistic and successful labours.

"It is the contrast which strikes us most in the eighteenth century: the gay rays which lighted a court of thorough voluptuaries, regarding neither law nor gospel, soon lighted a people armed with antique virtues, combating an entire world more by their audacity than their arms. Strange age!-each year surprises you by its grandeur and its meanness, by its strength and its cowardice, by its philosophy and its fanaticism. Yonder is a rustic masquerade of Versailles, or a masked ball of the Palais-Royal. Here, Louis the Fourteenth and Fifteenth on their sad death-beds, Marat at the tribune, Marie Antoinette at the guillotine, Dufresny spending millions to cause roses to bloom, at the side of Fontenelle, who hoards his wit and his money; Piron, whom Rembrandt would have loved to paint, looking through the windows of a pothouse at Marivaux in a carriage going to have his portrait taken by La Tour. The Abbé Prévost passes with his dear Manon—the truest passion of the age -before Gentil-Bernard, who flutters from one passion to another. Voltaire laughs at everything, while Jean Jacques weeps over everything. Diderot builds his temple with herculean arms; Boufflers, with his "Queen of Golconda," mocks the architect. Boucher divests painting of feeling, and Grétry finds it again in music. The King Louis XV. making pretty verses, in juxtaposition with the NEW SERIES, VOL. VI.-NO. 11.

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poet Bernis who governs France. Marie Antoinette acts comedy at the Trianon, while Mademoiselle Clairon plays royalty at Paris."

In the midst of all the falseness and frivolity of this age, we shall find enough reality in the people of M. Houssaye's pictures. Though the fashion was to be sentimental, that cannot prevent the genuine sparks of feeling from showing themselves, and the contrasts are thus rendered the more vivid. We believe that all the facts and anecdotes related in these lives of the men and women of the eighteenth century, are true; they may receive a colouring from the mode of telling them, but the outlines are all taken from the life. The brilliant wit, the subtle refinement, and the restlessness of the period, are just as attractive to the readers as they were to the author of the book. A happy repartee, or strange freak of humour, has more attractive power and secret magic for the mind, than a proposition in science, and the reason is, that it belongs to the philosophy of human nature; though trifling in itself, it has high affinities. The object has been to reflect the true character of the century-the selection of individuals to typify it, must, therefore, be chosen to bring out these shades and contrasts, most effectively. We do not find them taken out in the order of their political prominence, or even their reputation in literature or in art. În revivifying the society of a past epoch, it is necessary to have representatives of every class brought forward in succession, so that the principal figure of the group may often be a poor poet, musician, or painter, while in the back ground may be marshals of France, grandees, royal mistresses, or the monarch himself.

A similar plan has been adopted in the elaboration of each life-a few characteristic scenes, the fatal points in life-a brilliant bon mot-anything which will introduce us to the man, or unfold his genius, is given-but nothing more. This is the picturesque method of M. Houssaye. Let us take a rapid glance at his gallery. It begins with the gay favourite of Louis the Magnificent-Dufresnythe court poet, who united to the most careless disposition a taste for the expensive art of landscape gardening.. Dufresny was introduced to the king as a cousin, and the result was his installation at court.

"What was to become of the vagabond poet, who had no hotel

to go to? The Marquis of Nangis took pity upon him, conducted him straight to the court, and requested an audience of the young king. Sire, you behold at your feet an illustrious scion of the pretty flower-girl of Anet.' I understand,' said Louis XIV., ‘if our sacred religion has given us innumerable brothers, our grandsire Henry IV. has left us plenty of little cousins. This one seems to me to have a genteel, lively air, he is welcome; does he know anything?' 'How, sire! he is a youth of genius, sings like a bird, writes like a notary, has the best of ideas about gardens, without saying anything about Greek and Latin, which he has gone at tooth and nail. But these matters I no longer care for.' "If he sings so well,' said the king, 'I will make him one of the valets of my wardrobe. He will amuse me better than that imbecile old Desnoyers, who can now scarcely tell one note from another.' And have all the gracefulness of a tiring-woman,' added the marquis.

"Till now Dufresny had kept somewhat in the background. Louis XIV. beckoned him to advance in front of his arm-chair. 'Your name?' demanded he. 'Some say Charles Rivière, others, Charles Dufresny; for my part, to accommodate both parties, I call myself Revière or Dufresny, if it please your majesty.' 'What is the name of your family?" 'One or the other, sire, but what difference does it make? Who in this world would dare to say with assurance, I know whence I came, I know whither I am going? Human vanity has worked away for a long time at genealogies; they are a kind of perspectives, whose beauty consists in displaying a long gallery of portraits, feebler in colour, and more vague in design, the more distant they are placed. Besides, the point of observation being almost always vague and undetermined, allows us to imagine that we see faces in the distance which not even the eye of a lynx could discover. Those who wish to stretch beyond their eyesight, in their search after family, think they discover in the fogs of antiquity the figures of ancestors, of forms as symmetrical as if Michael Angelo himself had moulded them; but they see them only as the forms of men, horses, or spectres, are sometimes seen in the clouds.' 6 Marvellous well!" said Louis XIV., 'a capital lecture on blazonry, which would drive to despair many a one who pesters me with his vain titles.' 6 Thus,' continued Dufresny, 'it only depends upon myself to discover crowned heads in the distant fogs, but there is no trouble in that. What is more certain is, that I come in a straight line from God. I have that in common with plenty of others, who may seek something better if it amuses them.' Louis XIV. slightly bit his lip; he had really laid aside his majesty and pride for an instant, but these two pearls of the crown, as Benserade calls them, suddenly re-appeared in spite of himself. How could he, who called himself Louis XIV., not be irritated at such audacious words from a beggarly poet of some sixteen years? When

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one is king of France by the grace of God, how could the utterance of this bold truth be passed over without anger. Louis XIV. did not explode; he contented himself with a slight remonstrance, and installed the poet in his palace. 'I'm a made man,' said Dufresny; 'here is plenty of sunlight, a garden, fine clothes, good suppers, and nothing to do-God be praised, and long live the king!'

Fontenelle, taken as the type of the French Academy, is introduced at a ball given by the wife of Helvetius, the philosopher-the poet was almost a centenarian-his partner, Mademoiselle Helvetius, was but a year and a half younger.

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"As Montcrif was interrupted by Madame de la Rochefoucault, the doors of the great saloon were thrown open. 'There he is! it is M. Fontenelle ! was exclaimed on all sides. Madame Helvetius rushed forward to meet him. He bowed, still gracefully, seized her hand, and raised it gallantly to his centenary lips. 'Monsieur de Fontenelle, do you know that we were waiting for you to open the dance ?' 'It was because I knew it that I came late; overlook this little bit of coquetry: poets are women, for which I have no cause of complaint. And besides, if I must tell everything, I have a domestic who serves me as badly as if I had twenty.' Fontenelle was placed alongside of Madame de Froidmont, who was ninety-five. Ah, my poor old shepherd!' said she to him, tossing her head, and lisping a little, how old we are getting! Hush! Death forgets us,' said Fontenelle, putting his finger on his lips, and assuring himself that all eyes were upon him. This joke had still great success; everybody applauded. I have cheated Nature; I have somewhat of a Norman's cunning in that respect.' When Fontenelle had collected all the beautiful smiles which were directed on his locks, whitened by so many winters, he asked his neighbour what was under discussion when he entered. I am a little deaf, and I do not see very well; my heavy baggage has been sent on in advance; but it is only necessary for me to know the title of the chapter to understand the conversation.' Helvetius answered him that the poets on one side, and the philosophers on the other, had been agitating the question for an hour, whether science was necessary for the happiness of mankind. 'Ah, my philosopher, you have preached up science, but be not angry, you are mistaken. What need have we of the light of the lanterns of science to lead us to everlasting darkness?'

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"Mademoiselle Helvetius, who was scarcely able to walk yet, was led in at this moment. 'See,' said he, 'my partner is weary of waiting; come, my legs, be a little lively, if you please-come on!' He rose and conducted the young dancer by the hand to the middle

of the room. Then, as if by enchantment, graceful groups formed around him. He was at first dazzled by the dresses, the looks, the flowers, the smiles, the entire pomp of luxury and beauty-he felt his legs shake, he thought for a moment that his soul was about to depart from his body in the dance; but he soon rallied, and as soon as the musicians had commenced with an air from Rousseau, he advanced at his own risk and peril, keeping continually hold of his partner's hand. Every one closely observed this singular spectacle of age and infirmity, carried around in the same whirl. After the first figure it was necessary to force Fontenelle to rest himself. 'Come,' said Madame d'Epinay, 'God be praised, you have got through with a difficult step.' It is the one before the last,' said Fontenelle, reseating himself. When the last comes, I may make a wry face, but at least after that I shall have a long rest.' There is,' said Madame d'Epinay, ' an old proverb which says: 'It is only the first step that costs anything." That proverb is not common sense; the step which costs the most is the last. The first step! ah, madame, why could we not have made it together? Ah, if I was only eighty!'"

Piron is a name suggestive of wit and satire—and we are not disappointed in what we find in M. Houssaye of the Burgundian poet. The following passage of arms between him and Voltaire, sounds like the ready and practical turn of Dean Swift in such contests, or the extravagances of Rabelais' heroes.

"I shall pass over the epigrams of Piron on Voltaire in silence; Piron had the best of it; but I would not willingly forget this little scene at the chateau of the Marquis of Mimeure. The marquis liked Piron, the marchioness Voltaire; hence they sometimes met at the same door. One morning, Piron found Voltaire alone at the fire-place of the saloon, stretched at his ease in a great arm-chair, with legs extended on each side, and feet resting on the andirons. Piron bowed five or six times, to indicate that he wanted his place by the fire; Voltaire answered by a slight nod; Piron bravely seized an arm-chair, and rolled it beside the hearth; Voltaire took out his watch, Piron his snuff-box; the one took the tongs, the other snuff; the one blew his nose, the other sneezed; Voltaire, getting tired, began to gape with all his might; Piron, elated, began to laugh; Voltaire drew a crust from his coat pocket, and crunched it between his teeth with an incredible noise; Piron, without losing time, returned to the attack: he found a flask of wine in his pocket, and drank it slowly with a most bacchanalian smack. At this M. de Voltaire took offence. 'Monsieur,' said he to Piron, in a dry tone, and with the air of a grand signor, 'I understand raillery as

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