Curiosities of Literature Volume I Part 57

Scarron addressed one of his dedications to his dog, to ridicule those writers who dedicate their works indiscriminately, though no author has been more liberal of dedications than himself; but, as he confessed, he made dedication a kind of business. When he was low in cash he always dedicated to some lord, whom he praised as warmly as his dog, but whom probably he did not esteem as much.

When Scarron was visited, previous to general conversation his friends were taxed with a perusal of what he had written since he saw them last.

Segrais and a friend calling on him, "Take a chair," said our author, "and let me _try on you_ my 'Roman Comique.'" He took his ma.n.u.script, read several pages, and when he observed that they laughed, he said, "Good, this goes well; my book can't fail of success, since it obliges such able persons as yourselves to laugh;" and then remained silent to receive their compliments. He used to call this _trying on his romance_, as a tailor _tries_ his _coat_. He was agreeable and diverting in all things, even in his complaints and pa.s.sions. Whatever he conceived he immediately too freely expressed; but his amiable lady corrected him of this in three months after marriage.

He pet.i.tioned the queen, in his droll manner, to be permitted the honour of being her _Sick-Man by right of office_. These verses form a part of his address to her majesty:

Scarron, par la grace de Dieu, Malade indigne de la reine, Homme n'ayant ni feu, ni lieu, Mais bien du mal et de la peine; Hopital allant et venant, Des jambes d'autrui cheminant, Des sieunes n'ayant plus l'usage, Souffrant beaucoup, dormant bien pen, Et pourtant faisant par courage Bonne mine et fort mauvais jeu.

"Scarron, by the grace of G.o.d, the unworthy Sick-Man of the Queen; a man without a house, though a moving hospital of disorders; walking only with other people's legs, with great sufferings, but little sleep; and yet, in spite of all, very courageously showing a hearty countenance, though indeed he plays a losing game."

She smiled, granted the t.i.tle, and, what was better, added a small pension, which losing, by lampooning the minister Mazarin, Fouquet generously granted him a more considerable one.

The termination of the miseries of this facetious genius was now approaching. To one of his friends, who was taking leave of him for some time, Scarron said, "I shall soon die; the only regret I have in dying is not to be enabled to leave some property to my wife, who is possessed of infinite merit, and whom I have every reason imaginable to admire and to praise."

One day he was seized with so violent a fit of the hiccough, that his friends now considered his prediction would soon be verified. When it was over, "If ever I recover," cried Scarron, "I will write a bitter satire against the hiccough." The satire, however, was never written, for he died soon after. A little before his death, when he observed his relations and domestics weeping and groaning, he was not much affected, but humorously told them, "My children, you will never weep for me so much as I have made you laugh." A few moments before he died, he said, that "he never thought that it was so easy a matter to laugh at the approach of death."

The burlesque compositions of Scarron are now neglected by the French.

This species of writing was much in vogue till attacked by the critical Boileau, who annihilated such puny writers as D'a.s.soucy and Dulot, with their stupid admirers. It is said he spared Scarron because his merit, though it appeared but at intervals, was uncommon. Yet so much were burlesque verses the fas.h.i.+on after Scarron's works, that the booksellers would not publish poems, but with the word "Burlesque" in the t.i.tle-page. In 1649 appeared a poem, which shocked the pious, ent.i.tled, "The Pa.s.sion of our Lord, in _burlesque Verses_."

Swift, in his dotage, appears to have been gratified by such puerilities as Scarron frequently wrote. An ode which Swift calls "A Lilliputian Ode," consisting of verses of three syllables, probably originated in a long epistle in verses of three syllables, which Scarron addressed to Sarrazin. It is pleasant, and the following lines will serve as a specimen:--

_Epitre a M. Sarrazin._

Sarrazin Mon voisin, Cher ami, Qu'a demi, Je ne voi, Dont ma foi J'ai depit Un pet.i.t.

N'es-tu pas Barrabas, Busiris, Phalaris, Ganelon, Le Felon?

He describes himself--

Un pauvret, Tres maigret; Au col tors, Dont le corps Tout tortu, Tout bossu, Suranne, Decharne, Est reduit, Jour et nuit, A souffrir Sans guerir Des tourmens Vehemens.

He complains of Sarrazin's not visiting him, threatens to reduce him into powder if he comes not quickly; and concludes,

Mais pourtant, Repentant Si tu viens Et tu tiens Settlement Un moment Avec nous, Mon courroux Finira, ET CaeTERA.

The Roman Comique of our author abounds with pleasantry, with wit and character. His "Virgile Travestie" it is impossible to read long: this we likewise feel in "Cotton's Virgil travestied," which has notwithstanding considerable merit. Buffoonery after a certain time exhausts our patience. It is the chaste actor only who can keep the attention awake for a length of time. It is said that Scarron intended to write a tragedy; this perhaps would not have been the least facetious of his burlesques.

PETER CORNEILLE.

Exact Racine and Corneille's n.o.ble fire Show'd us that France had something to admire.

POPE.

The great Corneille having finished his studies, devoted himself to the bar; but this was not the stage on which his abilities were to be displayed. He followed the occupation of a lawyer for some time, without taste and without success. A trifling circ.u.mstance discovered to the world and to himself a different genius. A young man who was in love with a girl of the same town, having solicited him to be his companion in one of those secret visits which he paid to the lady, it happened that the stranger pleased infinitely more than his introducer. The pleasure arising from this adventure excited in Corneille a talent which had hitherto been unknown to him, and he attempted, as if it were by inspiration, dramatic poetry. On this little subject he wrote his comedy of Melite, in 1625. At that moment the French drama was at a low ebb: the most favourable ideas were formed of our juvenile poet, and comedy, it was expected, would now reach its perfection. After the tumult of approbation had ceased, the critics thought that Melite was too simple and barren of incident. Roused by this criticism, our poet wrote his c.l.i.tandre, and in that piece has scattered incidents and adventures with such a licentious profusion, that the critics say he wrote it rather to expose the public taste than to accommodate himself to it. In this piece the persons combat on the theatre; there are murders and a.s.sa.s.sinations; heroines fight; officers appear in search of murderers, and women are disguised as men. There is matter sufficient for a romance of ten volumes; "And yet," says a French critic, "nothing can be more cold and tiresome." He afterwards indulged his natural genius in various other performances; but began to display more forcibly his tragic powers in Medea. A comedy which he afterwards wrote was a very indifferent composition. He regained his full l.u.s.tre in the famous Cid, a tragedy, of which he preserved in his closet translations in all the European languages, except the Sclavonian and the Turkish. He pursued his poetical career with uncommon splendour in the Horaces, Cinna, and at length in Polyeucte; which productions, the French critics say, can never be surpa.s.sed.

At length the tragedy of "Pertharite" appeared, and proved unsuccessful.

This so much disgusted our veteran bard, that, like Ben Jonson, he could not conceal his chagrin in the preface. There the poet tells us that he renounces the theatre for ever! and indeed this _eternity_ lasted for _several years_!

Disgusted by the fate of his unfortunate tragedy, he directed his poetical pursuits to a different species of composition. He now finished his translation in verse, of the "Imitation of Jesus Christ," by Thomas a Kempis. This work, perhaps from the singularity of its dramatic author becoming a religious writer, was attended with astonis.h.i.+ng success. Yet Fontenelle did not find in this translation the prevailing charm of the original, which consists in that simplicity and _navete_ which are lost in the pomp of versification so natural to Corneille. "This book," he continues, "the finest that ever proceeded from the hand of man (since the gospel does not come from man) would not go so direct to the heart, and would not seize on it with such force, if it had not a natural and tender air, to which even that negligence which prevails in the style greatly contributes." Voltaire appears to confirm the opinion of our critic, in respect to the translation: "It is reported that Corneille's translation of the Imitation of Jesus Christ has been printed thirty-two times; it is as difficult to believe this as it is to _read the book once_!"

Corneille seems not to have been ignorant of the truth of this criticism. In his dedication to the Pope, he says, "The translation which I have chosen, by the simplicity of its style, precludes all the rich ornaments of poetry, and far from increasing my reputation, must be considered rather as a sacrifice made to the glory of the Sovereign Author of all, which I may have acquired by my poetical productions."

This is an excellent elucidation of the truth of that precept of Johnson which respects religious poetry; but of which the author of "Calvary"

seemed not to have been sensible. The merit of religious compositions appears, like this "Imitation of Jesus Christ," to consist in a simplicity inimical to the higher poetical embellishments; these are too human!

When Racine, the son, published a long poem on "Grace," taken in its holy sense, a most unhappy subject at least for poetry; it was said that he had written on _Grace_ without _grace_.

During the s.p.a.ce of six years Corneille rigorously kept his promise of not writing for the theatre. At length, overpowered by the persuasions of his friends, and probably by his own inclinations, he once more directed his studies to the drama. He recommenced in 1659, and finished in 1675. During this time he wrote ten new pieces, and published a variety of little religious poems, which, although they do not attract the attention of posterity, were then read with delight, and probably preferred to the finest tragedies by the good catholics of the day.

In 1675 he terminated his career. In the last year of his life his mind became so enfeebled as to be incapable of thinking, and he died in extreme poverty. It is true that his uncommon genius had been amply rewarded; but amongst his talents that of preserving the favours of fortune he had not acquired.

Fontenelle, his nephew, presents a minute and interesting description of this great man. Vigneul Marville says, that when he saw Corneille he had the appearance of a country tradesman, and he could not conceive how a man of so rustic an appearance could put into the mouths of his Romans such heroic sentiments. Corneille was sufficiently large and full in his person; his air simple and vulgar; always negligent; and very little solicitous of pleasing by his exterior. His face had something agreeable, his nose large, his mouth not unhandsome, his eyes full of fire, his physiognomy lively, with strong features, well adapted to be transmitted to posterity on a medal or bust. His p.r.o.nunciation was not very distinct: and he read his verses with force, but without grace.

He was acquainted with polite literature, with history, and politics; but he generally knew them best as they related to the stage. For other knowledge he had neither leisure, curiosity, nor much esteem. He spoke little, even on subjects which he perfectly understood. He did not embellish what he said, and to discover the great Corneille it became necessary to read him.

He was of a melancholy disposition, had something blunt in his manner, and sometimes he appeared rude; but in fact he was no disagreeable companion, and made a good father and husband. He was tender, and his soul was very susceptible of friends.h.i.+p. His const.i.tution was very favourable to love, but never to debauchery, and rarely to violent attachment. His soul was fierce and independent: it could never be managed, for it would never bend. This, indeed, rendered him very capable of portraying Roman virtue, but incapable of improving his fortune. Nothing equalled his incapacity for business but his aversion: the slightest troubles of this kind occasioned him alarm and terror. He was never satiated with praise, although he was continually receiving it; but if he was sensible to fame, he was far removed from vanity.

What Fontenelle observes of Corneille's love of fame is strongly proved by our great poet himself, in an epistle to a friend, in which we find the following remarkable description of himself; an instance that what the world calls vanity, at least interests in a great genius.

Nous nous aimons un peu, c'est notre foible a tous; Le prix que nous valons que le scait mieux que nous?

Et puis la mode en est, et la cour l'autorise, Nous parlons de nous-memes avec toute franchise, La fausse humilite ne met plus en credit.

Je scais ce que je vaux, et crois ce qu'on m'en dit, Pour me faire admirer je ne fais point de ligue; J'ai peu de voix pour moi, mais je les ai sans brigue; Et mon ambition, pour faire plus de bruit Ne les va point queter de reduit en reduit.

Mon travail sans appui monte sur le theatre, Chacun en liberte l'y blame ou idolatre; La, sans que mes amis prechent leurs sentimens, J'arrache quelquefois leurs applaudiss.e.m.e.ns; La, content da succes que le merite donne, Par d'ill.u.s.tres avis je n'eblouis personne; Je satisfais ensemble et peuple et courtisans; Et mes vers en tous lieux sent mes seuls partisans; Par leur seule beaute ma plume est estimee; Je ne dois qu'a moi seul toute ma renommee; Et pense toutefois n'avoir point de rival, A qui je fa.s.se tort, en le traitant d'egal.

I give his sentiments in English verse.

Self-love prevails too much in every state; Who, like ourselves, our secret worth can rate?

Since 'tis a fas.h.i.+on authorised at court, Frankly our merits we ourselves report.

A proud humility will not deceive; I know my worth; what others say, believe.

To be admired I form no petty league; Few are my friends, but gain'd without intrigue.

My bold ambition, dest.i.tute of grace, Scorns still to beg their votes from place to place.

On the fair stage my scenic toils I raise, While each is free to censure or to praise; And there, unaided by inferior arts, I s.n.a.t.c.h the applause that rushes from their hearts.

Content by Merit still to win the crown, With no ill.u.s.trious names I cheat the town.

The galleries thunder, and the pit commends; My verses, everywhere, my only friends!

'Tis from their charms alone my praise I claim; 'Tis to myself alone, I owe my fame; And know no rival whom I fear to meet, Or injure, when I grant an equal seat.

Voltaire censures Corneille for making his heroes say continually they are great men. But in drawing the character of a hero he draws his own.

All his heroes are only so many Corneilles in different situations.

Thomas Corneille attempted the same career as his brother; perhaps his name was unfortunate, for it naturally excited a comparison which could not be favourable to him. Gacon, the Dennis of his day, wrote the following smart impromptu under his portrait:--

Voyant le portrait de Corneille, Gardez-vous de crier merveille; Et dans vos transports n'allez pas Prendre ici _Pierre_ pour _Thomas_.

POETS.