secrets which he had but to use, and all our great scruples in regard to faults which were, after all, only the children of his genius! You gained the battle, oh Bourdaloue! yet here are those who will tell you what you ought to have done to gain it.

.*

But after all, this is not so absurd as one might think. In spoken eloquence, the end justifies the means; as soon as a preacher succeeds in drawing a crowd, his process is gained ;* but in written eloquence, far from all the sensations of time, place, voice, and gesture, far from all that strikes and affects, we are but critics. As soon as we have the time and the power to judge, we have from that very circumstance the right to do so, and whatever enthusiasm an orator may have excited, we are in nowise bound to take part in it, if we find no reason to do so.

Well, we must confess that we were a long time unable to explain to ourselves the popularity of Bourdaloue; and if our philological researches had not been the occasion of our reading all or nearly the whole collection of his discourses, we would in all probability still be searching for the key to his success, or ather we would have long given up the search as vain. But this key once found, hesitation is no longer possible; and instead of asking why Bourdaloue succeeded, it is a great deal more natural to inquire how it would have been possible for him not to succeed.

Bourdaloue, then, was popular from the very excess of that which is generally most destructive to a preacher's popularity. The greater part of those who fail, fail only because they reason too much; but the more he reasoned, the more he was admireɑ.

It is because there are various kinds of popularity, and various roads for reaching them. See, for instance, how it is with

* "The eloquence of Bourdaloue seems to have the impenetrable solidity and the irresistible impetus of a warlike column, which advances with slow tread, but whose order and momentum announce that all is going to give way before it."--MARMONTEL.

sovereigns. One becomes popular from his affability; the nation is accustomed to look upon him as a father; another from his pride; the nation associates itself with his pride; one in economizing; another in lavishing. It is the same with orators, -those sovereigns of the tribune or the pulpit. One succeeds because he comes down to the comprehension of every one; another because people love to see him soaring into the most elevated regions; this one because he can be listened to without effort, without trouble; that one, on the contrary, because he leaves you not a moment's repose. The latter is Bourdaloue. You like him because he presses you, fatigues you, conquers you, gives you scarce time to breathe. You follow him, in fine, as followed Napoleon those old soldiers who were always grumbling, and only marched the better for it.

Once having taken up this style, he could not follow it by halves; and just as a king, sometimes warlike and sometimes pacific, can be popular neither as pacific nor as warlike, so it is doubtful whether Bourdaloue would have been what he is, if he had believed himself occasionally obliged to change his style.

And since we have mentioned Napoleon, his assuredly is a popular name even in the countries which he crushed. And that one which he crushed the most completely, France, why is she so proud of having had him for a ruler? Because, while crushing her, he made her conscious of his power. The more of her blood he shed, the prouder was she when a new war came, of still having more to give him. Mutatis mutandis, we have Bourdaloue. The more he requires from us, the more, without explaining to ourselves the feeling, we thank him as it were, for having reckoned upon us; and if, on the one hand, he humbles us by the severity of his arguments, on the other he exalts us and flatters us, so to speak, by forcing us ourselves to use our reason to its utmost extent. The attention which he claims is

like a tax upon our reason; in vain we may find this tax a heavy one; it is impossible not to be gratified that the orator has thought us rich enough to be able to pay it.

It is true that he stops there. "Satisfied with exercising human reason to its utmost, he seems to fear to disturb the imagination and touch the heart," says Dussault. Did he really fear to do this? One is almost tempted to believe, that in this respect he had, if not an actual system, at least something more than a simple impulse of his character. Perhaps he thought it necessary to the dignity of the pulpit, that the preacher should never quit that reserve which in any other we should call coldness, but to describe which, we feel that we must find a word which seems less like a reproach. And what word shall it be? As we find none to satisfy us, we like better to leave to each one the task of expressing as he will, that which he may have felt upon reading Bourdaloue.

A man, who, without ever hastening his steps, or slackening them either, and who, his eye fixed upon his goal, passes through the midst of flowers without plucking them, without even looking at them, without appearing to be sensible of the perfume which they send forth,-certainly this man is not ardent in the same way as he who comes and goes, who runs, who flies, taking handsfull of flowers and showering them over those who follow him. And yet this man, apparently so cold, has a certain sort of ardor. He has his own peculiar energy; and if it is not that of activity, it is that of perseverance and strength. One draws you on by means of his rapidity, the other by never stopping; one takes possession of you by rendering all fatigue unnecessary, the other in forcing you to share his own.

And here is the secret of Bourdaloue's power. And are you the further advanced for knowing it? Alas! the secret of a great orator or a great poet, is like the armor of an ancient

any

warrior, which one finds in the depths of a tomb. Here is the sword,-naught is needed but an arm which can manage it. Here is the helmet,-but where is the head strong enough to wear, and large enough to fill it?

CHAPTER XXII.

SECOND COUNCIL OF THE PHILOSOPHERS.-CLAUDE ON THE STUXY OF THE SCRIPTURES, AND THE CHOICE OF TEXTS.-POETIC BEAUTY AND SIMPLICITY OF THE BIBLE.

THE next day, then, about ten o'clock, all our company of the evening before, were in the Avenue of the Philosophers; several other members of the Council had also just made their appearance; we may notice especially the Abbé de Vares* and the Abbé Fléchier. It was not the usual hour of meeting; but as the services of the day would detain everybody at chapel a great part of the afternoon, Bossuet had been begged to advance the time. He would have liked better to omit it; after such an agitated night, and with the prospect of the painful scenes which were perhaps about to take place, a morning of repose would have been agreeable.-But they depended on him and he would not have been able to decline without giving his reasons.

The hour, however, had passed, and he had not arrived. (We will see presently what was the cause of this delay.) In the absence of the principal, several groups had been formed. Some resumed the conversation of the preceding evening upon preachers and sermons; others already touched upon the subject for the day. This was, as may be remembered, the study of the fourteenth chapter of Isaiah.

Among the latter, was the Abbé de Fénélon. He did not ap

* A particular friend of Bossuet.