grew distracted; he thought there was no more fish to be had; he flew to Gourville; "Sir," said he, "I cannot outlive this disgrace." Gourville laughed at him. Vatel went up to his room, set the hilt of his sword against the door, and, after two ineffectual attempts, succeeded in the third in forcing the sword through his heart: he fell dead. At that instant the carriers arrived with the fish; Vatel was inquired after to distribute it. People went to his room, knocked at the door, broke it open, and found him weltering in his blood. They ran to acquaint the prince, who was in despair. The duke wept, for his Burgundy journey depended upon Vatel. The prince related the whole affair to his Majesty with an expression of great concern. It was considered as the consequence of too nice a sense of honor; some blamed, others praised him for his courage. The king said he had put off this excursion for more than five years, because he was aware that it would be attended with infinite trouble, and told the prince that he ought to have had but two tables, and not have been at the expense of so many, and declared he would never suffer him to do so again; but all this was too late for poor Vatel. However, Gourville endeavored to supply the loss of Vatel, which he did in great measure. The dinner was elegant, the collation was the same. They supped, they walked, they hunted; all was perfumed with jonquilles, all was enchant ment. Yesterday, which was Saturday, the entertainments were renewed, and in the evening the king set out for Liancourt, where he had ordered a media-noche [a hearty meal of meat, eaten just after the stroke of midnight, when a feast day succeeds a fast day]; he is to stay there three days. This is what Moreuil has told me, hoping I should acquaint you with it. I wash my hands of the rest, for I know nothing about it. d'Hacqueville, who was present at the scene, will no doubt give you a faithful account of all that passed; but because his handwriting is not quite so legible as mine, I write too. If I am circumstantial, it is because on such an occasion I should like circumstantiality myself. M. THE ART OF POETRY. BY BOILEAU. [NICHOLAS BOILEAU-DESPRÉAUX, French critic and poet, was born at Paris, November 1, 1636. He studied law and theology at Beauvais, but appears to have devoted himself entirely to authorship, among his friends being Racine, Molière, and La Fontaine. His first works were a series of seven satires (16601665, collected 1666); some twenty editions were issued in two years, and revolutionized French canons of literary art. To the attack on them he replied in two others (1669). In 1674 he published a volume containing "The Art of Poetry (L'Art Poétique), "The Lectern" (Le Lutrin), a mock-heroic poem, and "Epistles," which placed him in the foremost rank of French writers. In 1677 he received a pension of two thousand livres and an appointment as joint historiographer, with Racine, to Louis XIV.; and in 1684 entered the French Academy at the expressed desire of the king. He published also a collection of epigrams. His last years were passed in retirement at Auteuil, where he died March 13, 1711.] CANTO I. RASH author, 'tis a vain presumptuous crime If at thy birth the stars that ruled thy sense In thy strait genius thou wilt still be bound, And for each author can a talent find; But authors, that themselves too much esteem, Most writers mounted on a resty muse, Extravagant and senseless objects choose; They think they err, if in their verse they fall On any thought that's plain or natural. Fly this excess; and let Italians be Vain authors of false glittering poetry. All ought to aim at sense: but most in vain Strive the hard pass and slippery path to gain; You drown, if to the right or left you stray; Reason to go has often but one way. Sometimes an author, fond of his own thought, Pursues its object till it's overwrought: If he describes a house, he shows the face, And after walks you round from place to place; Here is a vista, there the doors unfold, Balconies here are balustered with gold; Then counts the rounds and ovals in the halls, "The festoons, friezes, and the astragals." Tired with his tedious pomp, away I run, And skip o'er twenty pages, to be gone. Of such descriptions the vain folly see, And shun their barren superfluity. All that is needless carefully avoid; The mind once satisfied is quickly cloyed. He cannot write who knows not to give o'er, To mend one fault he makes a hundred more: A verse was weak, you turn it much too strong, And grow obscure for fear you should be long; Some are not gaudy, but are flat and dry; Not to be low, another soars too high. Would you of every one deserve the praise? In all you write be neither low nor vile; Parnassus spoke the cant of Billingsgate; Nor think to raise, though on Pharsalia's plain, Our ancient verse, as homely as the times, And taught the noble art of writing well, And found for poetry a richer vein. Then Davenant came, who, with a new-found art, This headstrong writer, falling from on high, Waller came last, but was the first whose art And changed hard discord to soft harmony. All owned his laws; which, long approved and tried, There is a kind of writer pleased with sound, The expression follows, perfect or impure; Observe the language well in all you write, In short, without pure language, what you write Take time for thinking; never work in haste; And value not yourself for writing fast; A rapid poem, with such fury writ, Shows want of judgment, not abounding wit. More pleased we are to see a river lead His gentle streams along a flowery mead, Than from high banks to hear loud torrents roar, With foamy waters, on a muddy shore. Gently make haste, of labor not afraid; A hundred times consider what you've said; |