"Yes.—I had heard you; but once, it is true, and this once was sufficient to confirm the opinion I had of your talents and your enlightenment. But it cut me to the heart, to hear such a discourse terminated by the eulogium, what do I call it! by the apotheosis of a man in whom your ministry commanded you to see only a man and a sinner. It was on this account that I took the liberty of writing to you. I described to you my astonishment, my grief. I implored you to renounce these court manners, more unworthy of you than of any other. I even ventured to quote to you some of your phrases, for they had too deeply distressed me, not to have impressed themselves on my memory; and without appeal to any other beside yourself, I strove to show you how strong was the contradiction between them and the very principles which you had so strongly and so wisely laid down in the body of the discourse. Did you heed what I said? I know not. I addressed myself to your conscience; it was not for me to inquire what the answer was

Bourdaloue's agitation had been still increasing. During these last words, he had sometimes bowed down his head, sometimes raised it again, with a strange expression of sadness and anguish. Yet he had not the air of being offended at the minister's words; his movements were not those of a man who is growing impatient and anxious to justify himself. There was evidently a great battle going on within him, not against Claude, but against himself. Without understanding how he could be the occasion of such extreme distress, Claude yet repented having yielded to the invitation of the marquis, and was about to stop, confused, when Bourdaloue, suddenly covering his face with both hands, threw himself back on his seat, crying, "My God! my God!"

The silence which followed was long; astonishment was at its height. It seemed as if none of the company dared to move. At length Claude rose, and going up to him said;

"Dear brother"

But Bourdaloue did not allow him time to continue.

He rose also, and snatching from a table, the sermon of which Claude's arrival had interrupted the reading, he violently tore out the last two leaves, and threw them, all crumpled, at the feet of the astonished minister.

Bossuet alone, of all those present, was aware of the contents of this manuscript; thus he alone could guess the reason of so sudden and brusque an action.

"What is this paper?" asked Claude.

"My sermon for to-morrow."

At these words Claude thought that he also had made a discovery. He was on the way to an understanding. He understood that there must be in this discourse some eulogies of the kind which he had condemned, and that the author, seized with a sudden remorse, had felt that he must do with them what it was his duty to do. But why only two leaves? Claude picked them up,-unfolded them, and let them fall at his feet again.

There were not only praises in them; but it was literally,— word for word, the scandalous panegyric about which he had written to Bourdaloue.

This requires explanation.

One day when the eloquent Jesuit had preached before the king, Louis XIV. thought that he recognized in his discourse some passages which he had heard before. Upon inquiring, he found that this was true; but he said, that after all, he would rather hear Father Bourdaloue's old sermons, than any body else's new ones.

Emboldened by this praise, Bourdaloue scrupled not to recur from time to time to sermons already preached, either to preach them over again, or to make use of some passages only. This year, his sermon for Good-Friday was a quite recent composition

but, whether he had wanted time, or whether he had not felt in the vein, he had decided to repeat an old peroration. And the more praises this should contain, the more certain it was that the king would not complain of having already heard it.

And now, how was this scene to terminate? It was no longer Bossuet only, who felt himself de-trop; the others also began earnestly to wish themselves away, and Bourdaloue, in the midst of his distress, was perhaps the least embarrassed of any. A happy accident relieved them all. A servant appeared; the king sent for Bossuet.

Bossuet rising, the others hastened to follow his example and take leave.

"Monsieur," said the marquis, "I am enchanted-"

66

Monsieur," said the father, "I am delighted—”

"To have had the honor to see you,” added one.

"To have had the honor to receive you," added the other. Alas! they were neither of them enchanted or delighted, save at one thing,—the one to go away, and the other to remain alone.

CHAPTER XII.

THE LIGHT IN WHICH PREACHERS WERE REGARDED.-CHARACTER OF LOUIS XIV.-INFLUENCE WITH THE POPE, AND WITH THE GALLICAN CHURCH.

A LITTLE fact in Tallemant's memoirs, appears to us to contain a curious enough revelation in regard to the manner in which preaching was generally regarded about the middle of the seventeenth century.

It is in the story of Le Maistre.* "He intended setting to work to preach," says the author, "but he became religious by the way, and gave it up."

Exactly as if it should be said, "He intended at first to become a comedian, but seeing that he could not do this without being lost, he changed his mind."

The preacher was at that time but a sort of comedian; let us however, observe, that this singular idea had not then exactly the same meaning which would be attached to it at the present day. In the first place, it was only applied to preachers by profession, those who are called at the present time in France, and improperly enough, missionaries; an ecclesiastic who had a stationary post, was not considered as belonging to the class of preachers, properly speaking. On the other hand, the word comedian, which we have used, does not imply that preachers were regarded in general as going against their conscience, and teaching things which they themselves did not believe; and yet

* Sacy, of Port-Royal, translator of the Bible. Sacy or Saci, is a pseudonym, anagram of Isaac, his first name.

they were very far from being regarded as actually following a vocation, and having sought above everything, the advantage of religion and of the church. Preaching was a trade; a trade, doubtless, from which honesty and zeal were no more excluded than from any other, but a trade, notwithstanding. The profession of preacher was not only distinct from that of priest, it was considered, in some degree, as without the pale of piety, as incompatible with piety, so to speak, as soon as the latter had acquired a certain depth "He became religious by the way, and" -went to preaching, probably? No; "he gave up preaching."

If then, it was not entirely a comedy, neither was it a perfectly serious thing. It was with preaching as with poetry; it was looked upon as an art, and an art only. It was the art of sermonizing, just as poetry was the art of versifying; it was not yet comprehended that it could be or ought to be otherwise. Hence the criticisms and even pleasantries which society permitted itself to put forth against preachers, without seeming to imagine that religion could suffer from it. In our day, the boldest infidelity would scarcely venture upon that which Boileau dared to say against Cotin, without ceasing to be a religious man, and to be regarded generally as such. It was considered no more harm to deride a bad preacher, than to laugh at a bad poet.

Poetry perfected itself, but without ceasing to be an art; it became more regular, without advancing in truth; more noble, without having more soul, more profound, without being more.

Now, in spite of appearances to the contrary, we do not hesitate to say that it was the same with preaching. The business was ennobled, but it remained a business; the sermons became more regular, as well as more Christian, but they did not cease to be composed, preached and criticised rather as literary pro ductions, than as discourses for edification.