of Sophroniscus to the Son of Mary! What an infinite disproportion
there is between them! Socrates, dying without pain or ignominy,
easily supported his character to the last; and if his death,
however easy, had not crowned his life, it might have been doubted
whether Socrates, with all his wisdom, was any thing more than a
vain sophist. He invented, it is said, the theory of morals.
Others, however, had before put them in practice; he had only to
say what they had done, and reduce their examples to precepts.
Aristides had been _just_ before Socrates defined justice; Leonidas
gave up his life for his country before Socrates declared
patriotism to be a duty; the Spartans were a sober people before
Socrates recommended sobriety; before he had even defined virtue,
Greece abounded in virtuous men. But where could Jesus learn, among
his compatriots, that pure and sublime morality of which he only
has given us both precept and example? The greatest wisdom was made
known amidst the most bigoted fanaticism, and the simplicity of the
most heroic virtues did honor to the vilest people on the earth.
The death of Socrates, peaceably philosophizing with his friends,
appears the most agreeable that could be wished for; that of Jesus,
expiring in the midst of agonizing pains, abused, insulted, cursed
by a whole nation, is the most horrible that could be feared.
Socrates, in receiving the cup of poison, blessed indeed the
weeping executioner who administered it; but Jesus, in the midst of
excruciating tortures, prayed for his merciless tormentors. Yes, if
the life and death of Socrates are those of a sage, the life and
death of Jesus are those of a God. Shall we suppose the evangelic
history a mere fiction? Indeed, my friend, it bears not the marks
of fiction; on the contrary, the history of Socrates, which nobody
presumes to doubt, is not so well attested as that of Jesus Christ.
Such a supposition, in fact, only shifts the difficulty without
removing it; it is more inconceivable that a number of persons
should agree to write such a history, than that one only should
furnish the subject of it. The Jewish authors were incapable of the
diction, and strangers to the morality contained in the gospel, the
marks of whose truth are so striking and inimitable that the
inventor would be a more astonishing character than the hero.
So far in eloquent ascription of incomparable excellence to the Bible
and to the Founder of Christianity. But then immediately Rousseau's
Curate proceeds:--
And yet, with all this, the same gospel abounds with incredible
relations, with circumstances repugnant to reason, and which it is
impossible for a man of sense either to conceive or admit.
The compliment to Christianity almost convinces you,--until suddenly you
are apprised that the author of the compliment was not convinced
himself!
Jean Jacques Rousseau, in the preface to his "Confessions," appealed
from the judgment of men to the judgment of God. This judgment it was
his habit, to the end of his days, thanks to the effect of his early
Genevan education, always to think of as certainly impending. Let us
adjourn our final sentence upon him, until we hear that Omniscient
award.
XVII.
THE ENCYCLOPAEDISTS.
A cenotaph is a monument erected to the memory of one dead, but not
marking the spot in which his remains rest. The present chapter is a
cenotaph to the French Encyclopaedists. It is in the nature of a memorial
of their literary work, but it will be found to contain no specimen
extracts from their writings.
Everybody has heard of the Encyclopaedists of France. Who are they? They
are a group of men who, during the eighteenth century, associated
themselves together for the production of a great work to be the
repository of all human knowledge,--in one word, of an encyclopaedia. The
project was a laudable one; and the motive to it was laudable--in part.
For there was mixture of motive in the case. In part, the motive was
simple desire to advance the cause of human enlightenment; in part,
however, the motive was desire to undermine Christianity. This latter
end the encyclopaedist collaborators may have thought to be an
indispensable means subsidiary to the former end. They probably did
think so--with such imperfect sincerity as is possible to those who set
themselves, consciously or unconsciously, against God. The fact is,
that the Encyclopaedists came at length to be nearly as much occupied in
extinguishing Christianity, as in promoting public enlightenment. They
went about this their task of destroying, in a way as effective as has
ever been devised for accomplishing a similar work. They gave a vicious
turn of insinuation against Christianity to as many articles as
possible. In the most unexpected places, throughout the entire work,
pitfalls were laid of anti-Christian implication, awaiting the unwary
feet of the reader. You were nowhere sure of your ground. The world has
never before seen, it has never seen since, an example of propagandism
altogether so adroit and so alert. It is not too much to say further,
that history can supply few instances of propagandism so successful. The
Encyclopaedists might almost be said to have given the human mind a fresh
start and a new orbit. The fresh start is, perhaps, spent; the new orbit
has at length, to a great extent, returned upon the old; but it holds
true, nevertheless, that the Encyclopaedists of France were for a time,
and that not a short time, a prodigious force of impulsion and direction
to the Occidental mind. It ought to be added that the aim of the
Encyclopaedists was political also, not less than religious. In truth,
religion and politics, Church and State, in their day, and in France,
were much the same thing. The "Encyclopaedia" was as revolutionary in
politics as it was atheistic in religion.
The leader in this movement of insurrectionary thought was Denis
Diderot. Diderot (1713-1784) was born to be an encyclopaedist, and a
captain of encyclopaedists. Force inexhaustible, and inexhaustible
willingness to give out force; unappeasable curiosity to know;
irresistible impulse to impart knowledge; versatile capacity to do every
thing, carried to the verge, if not carried beyond the verge, of
incapacity to do any thing thoroughly well; quenchless zeal and
quenchless hope; levity enough of temper to keep its subject free from
those depressions of spirit and those cares of conscience which weigh
and wear on the over-earnest man; abundant physical health,--gifts such
as these made up the manifold equipment of Diderot for rowing and
steering the gigantic enterprise of the "Encyclopaedia" triumphantly to
the port of final completion, through many and many a zone of stormy
adverse wind and sea, traversed on the way. Diderot produced no signal
independent and original work of his own; probably he could not have
produced such a work. On the other hand, it is simply just to say that
hardly anybody but Diderot could have achieved the "Encyclopaedia." That,
indeed, may be considered an achievement not more to the glory, than to
the shame, of its author; but whatever its true moral character, in
whatever proportion shameful or glorious, it is inalienably and
peculiarly Diderot's achievement; at least in this sense, that without
Diderot the "Encyclopaedia" would never have been achieved.
We have already, in discussing Voltaire, adverted sufficiently to Mr.
John Morley's volumes in honor of Diderot and his compeers. Diderot is
therein ably presented in the best possible light to the reader; and we
are bound to say, that, despite Mr. Morley's friendly endeavors, Diderot
therein appears very ill. He married a young woman, whose simple and
touching self-sacrifice on her husband's behalf, he presently requited
by giving himself away, body and soul, to a rival. In his writings, he
is so easily insincere, that not unfrequently it is a problem, even for
his biographer, to decide when he is expressing his sentiments truly and
when not; insomuch that, once and again, Mr. Morley himself is obliged
to say, "This is probably hypocritical on Diderot's part," or something
to that effect. As for filthy communication out of his mouth and from
his pen,--not, of course, habitual, but occasional,--the subject will
not bear more than this mention. These be thy gods, O Atheism! one, in
reading Mr. Morley on Diderot, is tempted again and again to exclaim. To
offset such lowness of character in the man, it must in justice be added
that Diderot was, notwithstanding, of a generous, uncalculating turn of
mind, not grudging, especially in intellectual relations, to give of his
best to others, expecting nothing again. Diderot, too, as well as
Voltaire, had his royal or imperial friends, in the notorious Empress
Catherine of Russia, and in King Stanislaus of Poland. He visited
Catherine once in her capital, and was there munificently entertained
by her. She was regally pleased to humor this gentleman of France,
permitting him to bring down his fist in gesture violently on the
redoubtable royal knee, according to a pleasant way Diderot had of
emphasizing a point in familiar conversation. His truest claim to praise
for intellectual superiority is, perhaps, that he was a prolific
begetter of wit in other men.
D'Alembert (Jean le Rond, 1717-1783) was an eminent mathematician. He
wrote especially, though not at first exclusively, on mathematical
subjects, for the "Encyclopaedia." He was, indeed, at the outset,
published as mathematical editor of the work. His European reputation in
science made his name a tower of strength to the "Encyclopaedia,"--even
after he ceased to be an editorial coadjutor in the enterprise. For
there came a time when D'Alembert abdicated responsibility as editor,
and left the undertaking to fall heavily on the single shoulder,
Atlantean shoulder it proved to be, of Diderot. The celebrated
"Preliminary Discourse," prefixed to the "Encyclopaedia," proceeded from
the hand of D'Alembert. This has always been esteemed a masterpiece of
comprehensive grasp and lucid exposition. A less creditable contribution
of D'Alembert's to the "Encyclopaedia" was his article on "Geneva," in
the course of which, at the instance of Voltaire, who wanted a chance to
have his plays represented in that city, he went out of his way to
recommend to the Genevans that they establish for themselves a theatre.
This brought out Rousseau in an eloquent harangue against the theatre as
exerting influence to debauch public morals. D'Alembert, in the contest,
did not carry off the honors of the day. D'Alembert's "Eloges," so
called, a series of characterizations and appreciations written by the
author in his old age, of members of the French Academy, enjoy deserved
reputation for sagacious intellectual estimate, and for clear, though
not supremely elegant, style of composition.
Diderot and D'Alembert are the only men whose names appear on the
title-page of the "Encyclopaedia;" but Voltaire, Rousseau, Turgot,
Helvetius, Duclos, Condillac, Buffon, Grimm, D'Holbach, with many others
whom we must not stay even to mention, contributed to the work.
The influence of the "Encyclopaedia," great during its day, is by no
means yet exhausted. But it is an influence indirectly exerted, for the
"Encyclopaedia" itself has long been an obsolete work.
There is a legal maxim that the laws are silent, when a state of war
exists. Certainly, amid the madness of a Revolution such as, during the
closing years of the eighteenth century, the influence of Voltaire,
Rousseau, and the Encyclopaedists, with Beaumarchais, reacting against
the accumulated political and ecclesiastical oppressions of ages,
precipitated upon France, it might safely be assumed that letters would
be silent. But the nation meantime was portentously preparing material
for a literature which many wondering centuries to follow would occupy
themselves with writing.
XVIII.
EPILOGUE.
In looking backward over the preceding pages, we think of many things
which we should like still to say. Of these many things, we limit
ourselves to saying here, as briefly as we can, some four or five only.
To begin with, in nearly every successive case, we have found ourselves
lamenting afresh that, from the authors to be represented, the
representative extracts must needs be so few and so short. We have,
therefore, sincerely begrudged to ourselves every line of room that we
felt obliged to occupy with matter, preparatory, explanatory, or
critical, of our own. Whatever success we may have achieved in
fulfilling our purpose, our purpose has been to say ourselves barely so
much as was indispensable in order finally to convey, upon the whole, to
our readers, within the allotted space, the justest and the fullest
impression of the selected authors, through the medium of their own
quoted words.
In the second place, it was with great regret that we yielded to the
necessity of omitting entirely, or dismissing with scant mention, such
literary names, for example, as Boileau, of the age of Louis Quatorze,
and, a little later than he, Fontenelle, spanning with his century of
years the space from 1657 to 1757,--these, and, belonging to the period
that ushered in the Revolution, Bernardin St. Pierre, the teller of the
tale of "Paul and Virginia," with also that hero of a hundred romantic
adventures, Beaumarchais, half Themistocles, half Alcibiades, the author
of "The Barber of Seville." The line had to be drawn somewhere; and,
whether wisely or not, at least thoughtfully, we drew it to run as it
does.
A third, and a yet graver, occasion of regret was that we must stop
short on the threshold, without crossing it, of the nineteenth-century
literature of France. With so many shining names seen just ahead of us,
beacon-like, to invite our advance, we felt it as a real self-denial to
stay our steps at that point. We hope still to deal with Chateaubriand,
Madame de Stael, Lamartine, Alfred de Musset, Sainte-Beuve, Victor Hugo,
and perhaps others, in a future volume.
Our eye is caught with the antithetical terms, "classicism" and
"romanticism," occurring here and there; and the observation is forced
upon us, that these terms, in their mutual relation, are nowhere by us
defined. The truth is, they scarcely, as thus used, admit of hard and
fast definition. It is in a somewhat loose conventional sense of each
term, that, in late literary language, they are set off, one over
against the other. They name two different, but by no means necessarily
antagonistic, forces or tendencies in literature. Classicism stands for
what you might call the established order, against which romanticism is
a revolt. Paradoxical though it be to say so, both the established
order, and the revolt against it, are good things. The established
order, which was never really any thing more or less than the dominance
in literature of rules and standards derived through criticism from the
acknowledged best models, especially the ancient, tended at last to
cramp and stifle the life which it should, of course, only serve to
shape and conform. The mould, always too narrow perhaps, but at any rate
grown too rigid, needed itself to be fashioned anew. Fresh life, a full
measure, would do this. Such is the true mission of romanticism,--not to
break the mould that classicism sought to impose on literary production,
but to expand that mould, make it more pliant, more free. A mould, for
things living and growing, should be plastic in the passive, as well as
in the active, sense of that word,--should accept form, as well as give
form. Romanticism will accordingly have won its legitimate victory, not
when it shall have destroyed classicism and replaced it, but when it
shall have made classicism over, after the law of a larger life. To risk
a concrete illustration--among our American poets, Bryant, in the
perfectly self-consistent unity of his whole intellectual development,
may be said to represent classicism; while in Lowell, as Lowell appears
in the later, more protracted, phase of his genius, romanticism is
represented. The "Thanatopsis" of Bryant and the "Cathedral" of Lowell
may stand for individual examples respectively of the classic and the
romantic styles in poetry. Compare these two productions, and in the
difference between the chaste, well-pruned severity of the one, and the
indulged, perhaps stimulated, luxuriance of the other, you will feel the
difference between classicism and romanticism. But Victor Hugo is the
great recent romanticist; and when, hereafter, we come to speak somewhat
at large of him, it will be seasonable to enter more fully into the
question of these two tendencies in literature.
We cannot consent to have said here our very last word, without
emphasizing once again our sense of the really extraordinary
pervasiveness in French literature of that element in it which one does
not like to name, even to condemn it,--we mean its impurity. The
influence of French literary models, very strong among us just now, must
not be permitted insensibly to pervert our own cleaner and sweeter
national habit and taste in this matter. But we, all of us together,
need to be both vigilant and firm; for the beginnings of corruption here
are very insidious. Let us never grow ashamed of our saving Saxon
shamefacedness. They may nickname it prudery, if they will; but let us,
American and English, for our part, always take pride in such prudery.
INDEX.
[The merest approximation only can be attempted, in hinting here the
pronunciation of French names. In general, the French distribute the
accent pretty evenly among all the syllables of their words. We mark an
accent on the final syllable, chiefly in order to correct a natural
English tendency to slight that syllable in pronunciation. In a few
cases, we let a well-established English pronunciation stand. N notes a
peculiar nasal sound, ue, a peculiar vowel sound, having no equivalent
in English.]
[Transcriber's note on diacritical marks used:
[)] indicates that a concave line appears over the letter in the original.
[=] indicates that a straight line appears over the letter in the original.
[^] indicates that a caret appears over the letter in the original.
A word surrounded with equal signs (=) indicates that the word was
in bold-type in the original.]
Ab'e-lard (1079-1142), 6.
Academy, French, 10, 12, 75, 156, 287.
AEs'chy-lus, 94, 152, 166, 168.
AE'sop, 85.
Al-ci-bi'a-des, 289.
Alembert. _See_ D'Alembert.
Al-ex-an'der (the Great), 5, 131.
Al-ex-an'drine, 5, 86, 153.
Am-y-ot' (ae-me-o'), Jacques (1513-1593), 8.
An'ge-lo, Michel, 156.
Ariosto, 245, 247.
Ar'is-tot-le, 50.
Ar-nauld' (ar-n[=o]'), Antoine (1612-1694), 119.
Ar'thur (King), 5.
Au'gus-t[=i]ne, St., Latin Christian Father, 83.
Au'gus'tus (the Emperor), 131.
Ba'con, Francis, 48, 63.
Ba'ker, Jehu, 226.
B[=a]'laam, 154.
B[)a]l'zac, Jean Louis Guez de (1594-1654), 10, 11.
Beau-mar-chais', de (b[=o]-mar-sh[=a]'), Pierre Augustin Caron
(1732-1799), 287, 289.
Benedictines, 29.
Boi-leau'-Des-pre-aux' (bwae-l[=o]'-d[=a]-pr[=a]-o'), Nicolas
(1636-1711), 9, 12, 14, 83, 84, 167, 168, 171, 289.
Bolton, A. S., 69.
=BOS-SU-ET='(bo-sue-[=a]'), Jacques Benigne (1627-1704), 11, 12, 77, 127,
166, 170, 182-188, 205, 206, 224, 225.
=BOUR-DA-LOUE=', Louis (1632-1704), 3, 12, 77, 143, 148, 182, 185, 188,
189-197, 198, 201, 202.
Brook Farm, 38.
Bry'ant, William Cullen, 290, 291.
Buckle, Henry Thomas, 234.
Buffon (buef-foN'), Georges Louis Leclerc de (1707-1788), 287.
Bur'gun-dy, Duke of (1682-1712), 177, 207, 208, 209, 214, 216.
Burke, Edmund, 48, 75.
Bussy (bues-se'), Count, 135.
By'ron, Lord, 48.
Caesar, Julius, 56, 131.
Calas (cae-lae'), Jean, 253.
Calvin, John (1509-1564), 7.
Carlyle, Thomas, 251, 255.
Catherine (Empress of Russia), 285.
Cham-fort' (shaeN-for'), Sebastien Roch Nicolas (1741-1794), 85.
_Chanson _(shaeN-soN'), 5.
Char-le-magne' (shar-le-m[=a]n'), 5.
Charles I. (of England), 170, 185.
Charles IX. (of France), 63.
Cha-teau-bri-and' (shae-t[=o]-bre-aeN'), Francois Auguste de (1768-1848),
3, 13, 14, 206, 277, 289.
Chaucer, Geoffrey, 5, 20.
"Classicism," 10, 14, 224, 289, 290.
Claude, Jean (1619-1687), 182.
Coleridge, S. T., 7, 34, 43.
Comines (k[=o]-meen'), Philippe de (1445-1509), 7, 25, 28.
Conde (koN-d[=a]'), Prince of, "The Great Conde" (1621-1686), 144.
Condillac (koNde-yaek'), Etienne Bonnot de (1715-1780), 287.
Condorcet (koN-dor-s[=a]'), Marie Jean Antoine Nicolas Caritat de
(1743-1794), 128.
=CORNEILLE= (kor-n[=a]l'), Pierre (1606-1684), 2, 11, 12, 16, 78, 79, 80,
151-166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 182, 183, 239.
Cotin (ko-t[)a]N'), Abbe, 100.
Cotton, Charles (1630-1687), 44, 48.
Cousin (koo-z[)a]N'), Victor (1792-1867), 128.
D'Alembert (dae-laeN-ber'), Jean le Rond (1717-1783), 13, 251, 286, 287.
Dante, 50, 93, 94, 114.
David (King), 198.
Descartes (d[=a]-kaert'), Rene (1596-1650), 11, 12, 104, 115.
D'Holbach (d[=o]l-baek'), Paul Henri Thyry (1723-1789), 287.
Dickens, Charles, 35, 149.
Diderot (de-dr[=o]'), Denis (1713-1784), 13, 237, 250, 284, 285, 286,
287.
Dryden, John, 48, 166.
Duclos (due-kl[=o]'), Charles Pineau (1704-1772), 287.
"_Ecrasez l'Infame_," 252.
Edinburgh Review, 140.
Edward (the Black Prince), 21-25.
Edwards, President, 194.
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 49, 51, 52, 61.
Encyclopaedia Britannica, 18.
=ENCYCLOPAEDISTS=, 13, 218, 249, 250, 282-288.
Epictetus, 65.
Epicurus, 50.
Erasmus, 43, 126.
Euripides, 153, 166, 171.
_Fabliaux_ (fab'le-[=o]'), 6.
Faugere (f[=o]-zher'), Arnaud Prosper (1810- ), 128.
=FENELON= (f[=a]n-loN'), Francois de Salignac de la Mothe (1651-1715), 12,
85, 177, 178, 181, 205-224.
Flechier (fl[=a]-she-[=a]'), Esprit (1632-1710), 182.
Foix (fwae), Count de, 26, 27.
Fontenelle (foNt-n[)e]l'), Bernard le Bovier (1657-1757), 289.
Franciscans, 29.
Frederick (the Great), 254.
Friar John, 40.
=FROISSART= (frwae-sar'), Jean (1337-1410?), 7, 18-28.
Gaillard (g[)a]-yar'), Gabriel Henri (1726-1806), 155.
Gar-gant'ua, 29, 36, 37, 39.
Gibbon, Edward, 153.
Goldsmith, Oliver, 83, 225.
Grignan (green-yaeN'), Madame de, 138.
Grimm, Friedrich Melchior (1723-1807), 287.
Gulliver's Travels, 37.
Guyon ([=g]e-yoN'), Madame (1648-1717), 210.
Hallam, Henry, 18, 34.
Havet (ae-va') (editor of Pascal's works), 128, 129.
Hawkesworth, Dr., 222.
Hazlitt, W. Carew, 48.
Helvetius ([=e]l-v[=a]-se-uess'), Claude Adrien (1715-1771), 287.
Henriette, Princess, 170.
Henry of Navarre, 63.
Herod (King), 198.
Herodotus, 7, 18.
Holbach. _See_ D'Holbach.
Homer, 244.
Hooker ("The judicious"), 205.
Horace, 245.
Hugo (ue-go'), Victor. _See_ Victor Hugo.
Hume, David, 48, 276.
Isaiah (the prophet), 94.
Israel, 154.
James (King), 210.
Job, 94, 210.
John (the Baptist), 198.
John (King), 21, 22.
Johnes, Thomas, 19.
Johnson, Samuel, 160, 249.
Joinville (zhw[)a]N-vel'), Jean de (1224?-1319?), 7.
Julian (the Apostate), 178.
Kant, Emmanuel, 42.
Knox, John, 198.
La Boetie (lae b[=o]-[)a]-t[=e]'), Etienne (1530-1563), 58, 59.
=LA BRUYERE= (lae brue-e-y [^e]r'), Jean (1646?-1696), 12, 75-81, 153.
=LA FONTAINE= (lae foN-t[=a]n'), Jean de (1621-1695), 12, 81-92.
Lamartine (lae-mar-t[=e]n'), Alphonse Marie Louis de (1780-1869), 14, 206, 289.
_Langue d'oc_, 4.
_Langue d'oil_, 4.
Lanier, Sidney (1842-1881), 25.
=LA ROCHEFOUCAULD= (lae r[=o]sh-foo-k[=o]'), Francois, Duc de (1613-1680),
12, 48, 66-75, 131, 147, 148.
Longfellow, Henry W., 50.
Louis IX. (1215-1270) (St. Louis), 6, 7.
Louis XI. (1423-1483), 7.
Louis XIII. (1601-1643), 10, 95.
Louis XIV. (1638-1715) (Quatorze), 10, 12, 113, 135, 136, 169, 172, 176,
181, 184, 189, 190, 198, 199, 200, 207, 208, 213, 217-219, 223, 255.
Louis XV. (1710-1774), 199, 214, 254.
Louvois (loo-vwae'), Marquis de, 142.
Lowell, James Russell, 291.
Lucan, 151, 153, 240.
Lucretius, 94, 166.
Luther, Martin, 7, 40.
Maintenon (m[)a]N-teh-noN'), Madame de (1635-1719), 172, 181, 210, 211.
Malherbe (mael-[^e]rb'), Francois (1555-1628), 9, 10, 14.
Martin (mar-t[)a]N'), Henri (1810- ), 183.
Mary, Queen of Scots, 8, 198.
=MASSILLON= (maes-se-yoN'), Jean Baptiste (1663-1742), 3, 12, 148, 182,
185, 188, 197-205.
M'Crie, Thomas, 119.
Michael (the Archangel), 205.
Milton, John, 92, 182, 206, 247.
=MOLIERE= (mo-le-er') (real name, Jean Baptiste Poquelin, 1622-1673), 12,
16, 83, 92-114, 127, 154, 165, 167, 169, 240.
Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley, 151.
=MONTAIGNE= (mon-t[=a]n'), Michel Eyquem de (1533-1592), 2, 7, 8, 44-65,
67, 75, 131, 230, 234, 257, 268.
Montespan (moN-t[)e]ss-paeN'), Madame de (1641-1707), 138, 139, 140.
=MONTESQUIEU=, de (moN-t[)e]s-k[^e]-uh'), Charles de Secondat (1689-1755),
13, 218, 225-237.
Morley, Henry, 249.
Morley, John, 249, 251, 285.
Motteux, Peter Anthony (1660-1718), 30.
Musset (mue-s[=a]') (1810-1857), Alfred de, 289.
Napoleon Bonaparte, 13, 166.
Nathan (the prophet), 198.
Newton, Sir Isaac, 115.
Nicole (ne-k[)o]l'), Pierre (1625-1695), 3, 143, 147, 168.
"Obscurantism" (disposition, in the sphere of the intellect, to love
darkness rather than light), 252.
Pan-tag'-ru-el, 29, 40, 41, 42.
Panurge (pae-nuerzh'), 40, 41, 42.
=PASCAL=, Blaise (1623-1662), 3, 12, 48, 62, 65, 80, 115-133, 193.
Pascal, Jacqueline, 116.
Pelisson (p[)e]l-[=e]-soN'), 149.
Petrarch, Francesco, 20.
Phaedrus, 85.
Plato, 50, 51, 59.
Pleiades (pl[=e]'ya-d[=e]z), 8, 10, 13.
Plutarch, 8, 48, 56.
Po-co-cu'rant-ism, 248.
Pompadour, Madame de, 254.
Pompey, 56.
Pope, Alexander, 48, 166.
Poquelin (po-ke-l[)a]N'). _See_ Moliere, 94, 95.
Port Royal, 119, 127, 128, 147, 168.
Pradon (prae-doN'), 171.
_Provencal_ (pro-vaeN-sal), 4.
Ptolemy Philadelphus, 8.
Quentin Durward, 7.
=RABELAIS= (r[)a]-bl[=a]'), Francois (1495?-1553?), 3, 7, 28-43, 60, 65,
83, 146.
=RACINE= (rae-seen'), Jean (1639-1699), 12, 78, 79, 80, 83, 151, 152, 153,
166-181, 205.
Rambouillet (raeN-boo-y[=a]'), Hotel de, 10, 11, 12, 100, 105, 155, 156,
183.
Raphael (archangel), 205.