The Augustan Ages (Barnes & Noble Digital Library)

THE AUGUSTAN AGES

OLIVER ELTON

This 2012 edition published by Barnes & Noble, Inc.

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PREFACE

THE disabilities of a short essay like this are confessed in its aim, which is to review more than one literature of Western Europe during a period that opens in the third quarter of the seventeenth century. The later limit varies in different cases. In France it is the death of Louis XIV.; in England the story goes further with Pope and Swift, but is guided rather by schools and fashions than by strict chronology, which may be misleading. As for some other countries, which fought the same battles as France and England, only many years in their wake, I have tried to pack, into what must be regarded as an appendix, the beginnings of the great change, mental and formal, that overtook them also. This latter part has been purposely written on a rather more compressed scale. It was impracticable to go too far into the eighteenth century; and it may be added, with no wish to put off criticism, that the fitting of the countries, groups, and authors into this part of the series has been, as usual, carefully considered, and can be judged fairly when the companion volumes appear.

The literature of prose and thought has preceded in each case, without any ambition to outline the course of pure philosophy. For in this period, while poetry declined, nothing less than criticism began to be organised, as well as prose in its newer cast. The history of style by itself would have no sense, without some remark on the shapes that the intellectual and rational movement took in letters. Les idées seules, says Buffon, forment le fond du style. France formed her prose soonest; her writing was on the whole more noble and influential than that of any other land at the time; and therefore France has been put first, although England did more for science, and perhaps ultimately more for thought. The two great countries fill three-quarters of this volume, and the sway of the French and English models upon other nations occupies much of the sequel. Hence it is hoped that, however the workmanship comes short, the general design may be right, and the emphasis.

Everyone who would labour honestly over such a span of history must compromise in some clear way with his own ignorance, or the apologies for the task become too difficult. The bibliography of a few decades—such as Clavell's list, in 500 folio pages, of the English books printed between 1660 and 1693—is enough to damp the freshest vanity. Much of the work cannot be done minutely, and many a portion has been better summed already. But the errors of an Englishman judging Racine or Bossuet, like the felicities of a Frenchman judging Milton or Wordsworth, are instructive, and in any case will not show mere submission to the native estimates, however brilliant. Yet the real justification is rather that the grand siècle, though much spoken of, is not too well known in England even to well-equipped readers, and that a sweeping view may still be of use. The same warrant holds yet more fully for the experiment in the seventh and eighth chapters. Holberg, and Filicaia, and Simplicissimus are apt to be shadows of names to us, and the question is only, What is the fairest method of presenting them? Often have I wished for better store of the literary or reading knowledge which has had to serve, especially in the outlying tongues.

It may not be intrusive to say that, apart from French and English, the chief work has been done at the section on the Germanic literatures, with the exception of the Dutch—a language which has only been used with difficulty and labour. For that, as for the Spanish, the historians have been much relied on, and the story has also been cut short; which may be excused, as these literatures enter least of any into the present period. I have not been able to read any of the Portuguese writing of the time, which is also admittedly of lesser rank; and, but for being indebted to a skilled Portuguese scholar, Mr Edgar Prestage, M.A., for a revision, should hardly have inserted the few lines on the subject. Eastern Europe has not been touched. In general, wherever the originals have not been available, the rule has been kept of going back to the better native histories of literature; and indeed the obligation to these is throughout too large and indefinite to acknowledge from point to point. But where they are not cited, in most cases all specific description, praise, or dispraise has to be taken as at first-hand. In this measure the survey is put forward as original. Nor has the period yet been described with just the same scope and purposes. Partly to mark the trail for any curious reader, a fair allowance of bibliography has been given in the notes, and very little of it on hearsay. Much has been taken out unwillingly that it would have been a pleasure to set forth; and, on the other hand, everything, in so wide a map, is very liable to expert amendment. For, apart from the ordinary certainty of errors, all has been done in England, and in great part away from the national library. But the book is much in debt to the acquisitions of the Owens College Library and the London Library: the authorities in either case have not spared their aid. Thanks are also offered to various friends and colleagues; and not least to Professor Robert Adamson, LL.D., of Glasgow University, who has seen part of the sheets and has given encouragement to the venture. The helpers have in no way to answer for the flaws. Lastly, whatever worth there may be in this brief chronicle of a great literary age, I would like to dedicate, though time has run by, to those teachers who gave the author inspiration of old in the Oxford courses of classics and philosophy.

MANCHESTER, June 1899.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

PROSE OF THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIV.: THOUGHT, LEARNING, AND ELOQUENCE

CHAPTER II

FRENCH CHRONICLE, FICTION, AND POETRY

CHAPTER III

FRENCH DRAMA: BOILEAU AND CRITICISM

CHAPTER IV

ENGLISH PROSE, 1660–1700

CHAPTER V

ENGLISH VERSE FROM 1660 TO 1700, AND ENGLISH DRAMA

CHAPTER VI

THE ENGLISH AUGUSTAN WRITERS

CHAPTER VII

THE DECAY OF LATIN: GERMANIA

CHAPTER VIII

ITALY AND THE PENINSULA

CHAPTER IX

CONCLUSION

CHAPTER I

PROSE OF THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIV.: THOUGHT, LEARNING, AND ELOQUENCE

UNITY OF FRENCH CLASSICISM—CLASSICISM AS A TOUCHSTONE—ANTIQUITY: GREEK AND LATIN—THE KINGS AND LITERATURE—CARTESIANISM AND LITERATURE—DEFINITION—THE ABSTRACT AND UNIVERSAL—THE PROPER STUDY—RATIONALISM IS STAYED—MALEBRANCHE—HIS FRENCH—CROSS-FIRING IN DIVINITY—NICOLE—BAYLE—FIRST WORKS; LEARNED REVIEWS—THE DICTIONARY—ROUGH SUMMARY OF HIS THOUGHT—LATER WORKS AND POSITION—CLASSICISM AND THE PAST—SOME FEW SCHOLARS—BOSSUET; HIS CAREER—THE GREATEST OF PREACHERS—OBITUARIES—THE DISCOURS—HISTOIRE DES VARIATIONS—BOURDALOUE; LOGIC AND OBSERVATION—DECADENCE; FLÉCHIER AND MASSILLON—FRENCH AND ENGLISH PREACHING COMPARED—THE CAREER OF FÉNELON—EDUCATION OF YOUNG WOMEN, AND OF THE PETIT DAUPHIN—HIS POLITICS—HOW FAR A GRECIAN? OR A RELIGIOUS METAPHYSICIAN?—PROTESTANTS: SAURIN.

THE show of unity and concert, if one may use the word, that the classical French literature presents, is greater than in the literature of Augustan Rome, or the precursors of Dante, or the Elizabethan poets, or the English romantics. It is not an illusion due to the line of skilful and distinguished chroniclers from Voltaire onwards.¹ Neither is it prejudiced by the inward oppositions of which the record is full. The Cartesian and Jansenist disputes, the Quietist dispute, Bossuet pitted against Molière on one side and Fénelon on the other, Malebranche against Arnauld, Bayle and Boileau against different multitudes, the ancients against the moderns,—none of these schisms prevent that great generation, when viewed afar off, from seeming to sink its differences and to march like a conquering army, in the pride of its discipline, covering Europe with its colonies. Our age of Dryden is full of confusion and transitions, and has no concert. Our age of Pope, besides being so brief, is lacking in dignity of posture; it is soon re-invaded with confusions, and its best literature does not express the essence, but only an incident, of the English mind. French classicism expresses qualities that are not the very highest, but are primary and indestructible, in the French mind. So that there is no sign of Frenchmen ever ceasing to arise who will go back to their classical age and repose upon it. For the same reason, though its European primacy is long over, it can never fail to hold out for achievement certain literary ideals that are next to supreme.

Form is the achievement of this literature; form, of structure and of style, that is perfect under the lesser law of definition before the intelligence, if not often under the higher law of free genius and beauty. The Greeks and Dante go beyond classicism on its own lines, by virtue of a greater and more organic power of construction, a style profounder and equally infallible, and a weightier body of thought. But there are other literatures which cannot well be said to triumph through obedience to any law, whether higher or lower, at all. The romantic poetry of Shelley, or of Victor Hugo, moves in a world of expression as well as feeling to which classicism is deaf, and which arose out of its ashes. Our Elizabethan poets moved in a like world, out of whose ashes arose classicism in England. But classicism can be confronted, not only without shame, but to its eternal honour, with even these literatures, which are so much greater than classicism in their message to the world. Shelley and Victor Hugo—nay, Spenser and Shakespeare—are not surer masters of artistic construction than Bossuet and Racine; they are often less sure; and they often master their style less steadily and completely. They often subsist, in spite of scheme or style, by their volume of poetic energy. It is not that they fall short because they covet something higher than classicism covets; it is that their shaping instinct often fails them altogether. And if, when we are under the spell of poetic energy, and are being swept away by it, the Greeks and Dante are the highest correctives to our judgment, French classicism is only less of a corrective to it.

Classicism is and always must be a beacon of this kind, because, as its name implies, it drew inspiration, powerful if limited, from the ancient writings. Antiquity thus fertilised modern letters for the third time. The first time was in the twelfth century, when the romantic matter and its literary moulds were forming and were strongly affected by the antique so far as it was known to the middle ages. The second time was after the revival of learning. Next, in the later seventeenth century, the French genius set the example of rejecting the indiscriminate snatch at antiquity that had marked the revival of learning, and took to itself as much of the ancient art and style as it could at the moment truly absorb. By this restriction it escaped the failure that had attended, in the day of Ronsard, a wilder ambition. It is often said that French classicism means Latinism; but the slackening, during the grand siècle, of Hellenism as a literary influence, though undeniable, must never be overstated. Greek learning and taste told deeply on Huet; Richard Simon, one of the fathers of rational scholarship, was erudite in Greek; the work of the Daciers at Homer and the Stoics had its effect on educated taste. Aristotle supplied more than a convention to the literary critics, and Longinus an inspiration through Boileau's rendering. By no far circuit Plato offered a literary form and many delicate graces to Malebranche and Fénelon, and Sophocles and Euripides (not Æschylus) must count for something durable in the plays of Racine. La Bruyère went back to the original form of Theophrastian character, and re-created it in his own way.² The truth was that classicism became so perfect on its own lines that it instinctively reached out to something higher. But the check of the operation of the Hellenic spirit is seen in what may be strictly called the conceit of classicism, its pride in its own perfections, which it shows when it cannot see that it falls short of the ancients. In the dispute between the ancients and moderns, to be sketched on a later page, the whole of this issue is involved. Still, in the main, classicism, in its relation with the antique, does mean Latinism; it means Cicero working on the preachers, Plautus and Terence on the comedians, Horace on Boileau, Virgil on Fénelon, Tacitus on the makers of memoirs. These authors play on the French genius and help to call out its constructive powers and its style. It is true that similar influences were active in England about the same time. But our greatest writers, like Dryden and Swift, are ever ill at ease in the confines of Latinism, and full of some poetical or imaginative matter that it does not fully help them to express. French classicism, partly through finding a natural affinity in the Latin mind, was more thoroughgoing, and spread farther than English, and lasted longer. And, as will be seen, Latin itself paid for this power that it exerted upon French, by giving gradual way before it from the place of the universal language.

It will be seen in later chapters how the prestige and conquests of the great reign, as well as its achievements in art, began to spread the empire of French over the map. But classicism itself was deeply shapen by the social rule under which it grew. The literary influence of the French king has never been ignored. Charles II. also had a taste for lucidity and good reasoning and sermons, for wit and epigram and theatrical shows, and he was the fountain, if a fitful and unwholesome one, of patronage. But Louis XIV. had his weight of will, he had his dignity of style—latterly a little ossified, but undeniable in his prime—and he was the embodiment of the most despotic of all social governments working directly upon letters. There was really something universal and classic about his expression of his orders; neither his selfish licence nor his pietistic reaction ever really went to his brain or prejudiced his sound if somewhat oppressive taste. The authors treated in this chapter are chosen much more by types than by strict dates, and consist mainly of those who fell more or less fully under the social rule inaugurated by Louis's assumption of power in 1661. That assumption coincides broadly with the departure of the larger, bitterer, and more virile stamp of writer formed during the day of Richelieu or the Fronde or in the first freshness of the great theological feuds. Thus the Memoirs of Retz, put together after 1671, like the Maximes of La Rochefoucauld (1665), and like the plays of Corneille (though he is found writing as late as 1674), are not really of the reign. Pascal died in 1662, though his Pensées did not come out till 1670, and his Lettres Provinciales (1656–57) close a long battle. Molière himself, who died in 1673, and inhaled so much of the air of the siècle, was half formed before it, and is too free of spirit and too buoyant to be in affinity to its deepest traits. On the other hand, Saint-Simon, the commentator on the whole pageant after it was over, is a late reversion to the earlier and more audacious types of mind and style. Those qualities of classicism, its exquisite tempered elegance and rightness (justesse), its breeding and finish, which the king and court were so powerful to evoke, one must doubtless be a Frenchman to taste completely. One need only be an Englishman to go backwards or onwards, not without relief, to the greater magnificence and initiative of Corneille or of Saint-Simon, or to fix at once on the survival of those qualities, through the heart of the reign, in Bossuet.

But the subtlest leaven of classicism was neither Latin letters nor the social atmosphere; it was the rational spirit in the shape inherited from Descartes, who died in 1650, and whose Discours de la Méthode (1637) is in so many ways prophetic. It will be seen how this spirit was arrested in its workings on the higher philosophy; but its colouring of society and literature, or the correspondences that it finds already present in them, are nonetheless distinct for being, as M. Brunetière has shown, somewhat delayed.³ It is only what we should surmise, that in England the pressure upon letters should come from the side of physical science, with its needs of accumulation and induction, and its Royal Society;⁴ while in France there should be much more play of abstract principle, and much more formulation. This contrast need not be embarrassed by the interchange of mental influences between the two lands. Certainly Dryden and his countrymen have some of the Cartesian traits, such as the spirit of logic and order; but that spirit had long been everywhere, and the immediate influence of its formulator Descartes upon English thought was scanty. The Cartesian philosophy, as distinct from its method, does not work upon the Cambridge divines or even Locke in such a way as to affect letters generally. In France, there are three main correspondences (besides one which we reserve, see here) between the tone of literature and the Cartesian principles, and it is unsafe to define where correspondence implies direct influence.

1. Every proposition must satisfy the rigours of the intelligence: it is also enough that it should do so. Truth is reached by clearing the mind of presumptions, and advancing through a chain of ideas that approve themselves as clear, distinct, and valid. This programme, which summarises part of the Discours, makes readily for logic in composition and lucidity in detail; which are ruling traits of classicism. For these rigours come to press their claim not only on the matters that are the monopoly of the intelligence, but on poetry and eloquence; and here too must be satisfied, whatever be the pitch of feeling, whatever the desire for inwardness and for escape from the rule of logic. Bourdaloue evolving a sermon, Malebranche a chapter, La Fontaine a fable, or Bussy the relation of an intrigue, all look to firmness in the ligaments, wholeness of the impression, and clearness in the items: they look, in a word, if one word there be, to definition. Definition—which is something between beauty and mere geometrical or mechanical arrangement—is the summum bonum; and the tribunal is the pure intelligence, not the imagination and its shaping spirit, not the higher law. Malebranche, the French Plato, has a passage odder than anything that Plato himself says about poetry. He not only forbids reason ever to be perturbed by the fancy (Recherche de la Vérité, bk. ii. pt. iii.), but he expressly reduces beauty to a kind of geometrical order. His own illustration is the ugliness of the tortuous streets of old cities, compared with the charm of a neat geometrical pattern; he would have preferred New York to Nuremberg. All this answers to the Cartesian love of the deductive or geometrical method, and of a rigid orderly development. No great French writer of the time is without these instincts.

2. Logic, lucidity, and definition all make for the type of expression that is universally valid and understood. Truth, it would appear, is a thing that the average mind can reach, or at least receive, if only it is sufficiently rational. There is no preserve-ground in truth; nothing depends on temperament, prejudice, passion, or personal bent. And the style which answers to this conception is such as to be current coin for all the great king's subjects, with no mysteries or ciphers in the inscription. All this is essentially the Cartesian attitude, and something like it is actually the character of the classical writers, who circulate far and wide in translation or in their originals. It is easy to see the gain and the sacrifice; the gain of scope and the sure acceptance by the vast public, as well as the sacrifice of the personal, autobiographical tone, whether it be in lyric or in prose like that of Montaigne.

3. Lastly, Cartesian theory tallies with the inclination of classicism to thrust the whole natural, non-human world, out of art. Man, or the soul that thinks, is on the right side of a great gulf, over which there is no bridge. On the other side is the whole kingdom of matter, which can be analysed into modifications of space, and which includes everything that is not man. We are severed from the earth and the brutes out of which we spring, from our brother the ass. The famous Cartesian theorem that animals are machines without feeling—nearer to dead matter than to men—has a literature of its own. But the view, if not dogmatically held, is in consonance with the whole classical position that the proper study of mankind is man. La Fontaine, who has more direct vision of the earth and of living creatures than any one of his time, again and again repudiates the fantasy of automatism. Like our naturalist Ray, he knew the truth too well; and in a charming and well-known sally, he proposes for the beasts a kind of imperfect soul, not equal to ours, not capable of chains of reasoning, but able to feel and in a measure to judge; a soul drawn from a very subtilised matter, a distilment of light, livelier and quicker than flame. Many other writers resent the mechanical theory of animals. But La Fontaine, as will be seen, is the greatest exception to that divorce of the literary class from outward nature, which meets us on either side of the Channel. This divorce is much less evident in France, where the preceding age was not highly poetical, than in England, where it was. But in both lands, though in France chiefly, the Cartesian formulæ loosely fit and illuminate the mundane, urban, gregarious character imprinted upon literature. The assemblage of the writing class in London or Paris made for the same restrictions; for man must be alone with Nature if he is not to lose her. And, in another less definable way, the Cartesian attitude extends to the manner in which man himself is judged; judged, that is, by analysis, method, lucid decomposition of character into its elements. The rule of clearness and distinctness, says La Bruyère, is assez belle et assez juste pour devoir s'étendre au jugement que l'on fait des personnes. This answers to that lucid lack of mystery in presenting character, even complex character, which was to be a bequest of classicism to Voltaire and the philosophes.⁵

French classicism, therefore, much more than English, has its roots—or at least its formulation—in philosophy laid bare. And still it remains no paradox that the movement of classicism in France is chiefly literary, while in England it is chiefly intellectual. In England, after all, the main affair was to advance the rational spirit; in the doing of this a literature of power and interest sprang up; the progress from Hobbes through Locke is on the great lines of speculation; nay, the centre of European thought is more steadily fixed in England than elsewhere, though it may pause now in Holland with Spinoza, or in Germany with Leibniz. But between Descartes and Bayle the philosophical centre is not in France. For Cartesianism was arrested in France as a philosophy, while it struck wider and deeper into society and letters than elsewhere. Rationalism and philosophy at large stand marking time in France for half a century, though they beat up much dust in doing so.

The more direct of the decocters and opponents of Descartes, whether in France or in Holland (where the battle was fought earlier), are numerous, but do not much concern us; their thought is not original, and their form is seldom notable.⁶ They act as middlemen between philosophy and lettered society. Such are the Cartesians Géraud de Cordemoy (1662), and Sylvain Régis, whose Système de Philosophie (1690) is a complete course of logic, metaphysics, physics, and morals, ostensibly starting from philosophic doubt, and built up by clear and distinct stages. Such, on the opposition side, is Bishop Huet, who will be noticed below. His Censura, however, appeared when the issue was no longer between the pure Cartesians and their scholastic opponents. Very soon the debate had become embarrassed in the great quarrel between the Jesuits, who held to the official creed of Aquinas, and the Jansenists, whose headquarters, the cloistered retreat of Port-Royal, so deeply coloured and ennobled all French thought.⁷ The earlier phases of this debate, turning partly on the question of nature and grace, and partly on the ethical finesse of the Jesuits, had been closed by the decisive Provinciales of Pascal (1656–57). The attendant literature falls before our scope, and the next entrance of philosophy into the higher walks of letters may be dated 1674–75, when the treatise of Nicolas Malebranche, De la Recherche de la Vérité, was published. This great effort to edit Descartes in the service of faith through the mediation of Platonic conceptions, and the resistance that it met with from other theologians, fill the remainder of the century, and lead up directly to the sceptical solvent administered by Bayle.

Malebranche (1638–1715), a priest of the Oratory, with its traditions at once humanist and austere, is the French analogue to our Cambridge divines; but he is a greater writer than any of them, and he is more significant in his thought than them all. The French still call him their Plato, and he has, besides his gracious and sinuous style, some of that insuppressible subtlety of intellect that goes with the true Platonist in his farthest excursions of fancy. Also, in the Méditations chrétiennes (1683) and in the Entretiens sur la Métaphysique (1688) he has the mystical unction, if not of Plato, at least of his English Christianisers like John Smith and Henry More. But Malebranche accepts the modern spirit far more frankly than they do: it is the very frankness with which he accepts it, and lets it play upon his theology and his Platonism, that makes his thought so significant. It was his convinced, thorough-going enthusiasm that awakened the prescient, scared the official orthodox, and advanced philosophy far more by the clear revelation of what was impossible than by any success in the attempt itself. Malebranche hovers between two poles of thought, which he is ever trying, for as much as his life is worth, to bring closer. By temperament and meditation he starts from a vision, from something that is poetry, that can only be expressed in emotional or figured terms, but which he insists on stating philosophically: the vision of all things in God. God is not merely a maker of a world naïvely taken to exist by itself, nor yet the detached watcher of the human struggle, nor again a Mind that serves to give permanence to phenomena in the gaps of human consciousness. The God of Malebranche is the actual and ever-operant mode of communication between mind and matter (or thought and space) which Descartes had left practically severed by a gulf. God is the source, almost the sphere, certainly the condition, of all the ideas which the thinking subject has of matter. The exposition of this theory (Recherche, book iii. pt. ii. ch. vi., vii.) is as subtle a piece of dialectic as the Latin genius has achieved after Pascal. Yet the piquancy lies in the contrast between this conclusion and the starting-point. Malebranche accepts implicitly the rational method of Descartes: indeed he applies the acid of doubt much more fully in many ways than his master. He forges a chain joining the extremes of universal doubt and the vision in God. This he does by a series of very subtle shiftings between poetical and logical transitions. The great work, De la Recherche de la Vérité, which attempts this reasoning, is in plan an exhaustive psychology of error, leading up to counsels for the conduct of the understanding in its mission after truth. The senses, the imagination, the intelligence, the inclinations, the passions—each is defined by Malebranche with strange shades of his own—are analysed from the side of their fallibility. There is everything in the book, geometry, science, metaphysic, eloquence; and there are a mundane observant wit and sudden torpedo-like irony that remind us of Bossuet. Malebranche extends the form of the character, which La Bruyère pinned on to special names, to mental types,—the false savant, the vain man, the effeminate man; and he gives a whole chapter of dissection to Montaigne, the general enemy of the religious. The chief supplements to this great treatise are the curious Traité de Morale (1684) (which should be compared with Descartes' Traité des Passions) and the Traité de la Nature et de la Grâce (1680), where the same kind of method is applied, though with less real brilliance, to the central matters of theology. Malebranche's other works are mostly defences or expansions, sometimes in devotional form, sometimes in dialogue, of his radical ideas.

The form of Malebranche, which gives him his primacy amongst philosophical French writers, is a perfect harmony of opposites, which on their intellectual side are really past reconciling. His vision and his tide of rapt devotion, his reference of all things and thoughts to a central fountain of light and warmth that bathes them, give him his glow and ease, and wing his ample and beautiful rhythms,—perhaps the most poetical in French before Rousseau, yet never, like those of another prose Platonist, Giordano Bruno, foaming over with a tide of unmastered emotion. New and unsurmised powers are shapen for philosophical French. At the same time, he is a Cartesian in his spirit of orderly and almost geometrical conduct, in his logic and clearness and incessant appeal to the intellect. Hence his style, though not pronounced ideally correct, is intensely luminous, and by its beauty carries off much dubious matter. The general effect of Malebranche⁸ was to provoke philosophical thought forward in a direction counter to his wish. He had scholars in France, decocters (like Norris) and early translators in England; but his style and skill only served at last to widen the fissure between his conclusions and his method. He had tried to show that faith, interpreted in his Platonising way, not only could sustain the Cartesian dialectic, but grew out of it. But the first result of his effort was the keen-scented protest of fellow-theologians, while the second was the scepticism of Bayle. The heat of opposition came not so much from the old-fashioned scholastics as from the orthodox Cartesians themselves, who by now included most of the more powerful divines. Bossuet parted company with Malebranche, fulminated against him, and inspired Fénelon to write a refutation of his Traité de la Nature et de la Grâce. This skirmish was only shelved by the Quietist debate and Bossuet's own rupture with Fénelon. But from Port-Royal, the fortress of the Cartesian Jansenists, the assault was sounded.

The debate that now arose wavers on strange frontier-lands between psychology and theology, and engendered many tomes that are not unduly forgotten. The weightiest of the stricter Cartesians was the great Arnauld, Antoine Arnauld⁹ (1612–1694), the incarnation of a rational, serried, noble-spirited theologian, who can reason much better than he can write, but who writes enormously; the last and most powerful voice of a great family of founders and combatants. Arnauld, long since scored with his wars against Jesuits and Protestants, would have none of the new perilous concordat between faith and reason. A formidable fray was opened in 1683 with his treatise Des vraies et des fausses Idées, and drifted into an endless exchange of letters and replications. The vision in God was misprized as a reflection on the detachment and majesty of God himself, and as leading to pantheism. The assumption that God wrought only by general ways (voies générales), which to Malebranche absolved God from the irregularities and thwart courses of the world, was scented with suspicion as telling against miracle and special providence. Intelligible space and other abstruse assumptions were stamped as figments. The Jansenists suspected Malebranche of tampering with their central theorems, in which they would not allow that they came too near the Calvinists, namely, that man is impotent to have a voice in his own salvation, and that the sin of Adam was necessary. In short, almost every speculative issue of the time was raised. The Platonist of the Oratory, the greatest philosophical pen of France, had endangered faith by trying to extend to it the calculus of reason. This schism among the Cartesians only added to the perplexity and cross-firing, a precise account of which must be left to those competent to write the history of theology. But a literary chronicle may pass from artist to artist, noting perhaps how thought has shifted in the interval.

Amongst the subaltern moralists and disputants Pierre Nicole (1625–1695) was ranked very high; this was one of the indulgences of classicism to the