FRENCH PREACHING-BOSSUET. 175 upon JULY 29TH. RENEWED my acquaintance with Bossuet's noblest sermon the Resurrection. How opposite the whole system of French eloquence is to our own, the Henriade to Paradise Lost-Corneille to Shakspere! Perhaps the aptest parallel might be found in Père la Chaise and the churchyard of an English village. One is recognised by its dressed walks, bouquets of flowers, and sentimental inscriptions; the other by daisies, heaps of turf, and monitory texts strewed over "the rude forefathers of the hamlet." Sparkling conceits, artificial blossoms, and stage sorrow, abound even in the master-pieces of Bossuet, Massillon, and Flechier. Sterne hit the false taste of the French Pulpit in Mr. Shandy's comment on the Corporal's discourse: “I like it well-'tis dramatic, and there is something in that way of writing, when skilfully managed, which catches the attention.' 'We preach much in that way with us,' said Dr. Slop. 'I know that very well,' said my father, but in a tone and manner which disgusted Dr. Slop, full as much as his assent, simply, would have pleased him.” But Père la Chaise is shone over by the sun. That, at least, is natural and true. And the sermon often brightens up with the warmth of genuine feeling or imagination. The following picture of a journey of life is coloured with exceeding power. I give a hasty and free copy—an etching of a picture : La vie humaine est semblable à un chemin; dans l'issue est un précipice affreux; on nous en avertit dès le premier pas; mais la loi est prononcée, il faut avancer toujours. Je voudrois retourner sur mes pas : "Marche! Marche!" Un Human life resembles a path ending in a frightful precipice. We are warned of it from our first step; but the law is passedwe must advance always. I would retrace my steps-"Forward! Forward!" An irre sistible weight, an unconquerable might, drags us along. For ever we draw nearer to the precipice. Thousand disappointments, thousand difficulties fatigue and Oh that I disquiet us in the journey. il faut poids invincible, une force invincible nous entraîne; il faut sans cesse avancer vers le précipice. Mille traverses, mille peines nous fatiguent, et nous inquiètent dans la route; encore si je pouvois éviter ce précipice affreux. Non, non, marcher; il faut courir; telle est la rapidité des années. On se console pourtant; parceque de temps en temps on rencontre des objets qui nous divertissent, des eaux courantes, des fleurs qui passent. On voudroit arrêter; "Marche! Marche!" Et cependant on voit tomber derrière soi tout ce qu'on avoit passé; fracas effroyable, inévitable ruine! On se console, parcequ'on emporte quelques fleurs cueillies en passant, qu'on voit se faner entre ses mains ; du matin au soir; quelques fruits qu'on perd en les goutant; enchantement! Toujours entraîné, tu approche du gouffre affreux; déjà tout commence à s'effacer; les jardins sont moins fleuris, les fleurs moins brillantes, leurs couleurs moins vives, les prairies moins riantes, les eaux moins claires; tout se ternit tout s'efface: l'ombre de la mort se présente; on commence à sentir l'approche du gouffre fatal. Mais il faut aller sur le bord; encore un pas. Déjà l'horreur trouble les sens; la tête tourne; les yeux s'égarent; il faut marcher. On voudroit retourner en arrière; plus de moyen; tout est tombé; tout est évanoui; tout est échappé. Je n'ai besoin de vous dire que ce chemin, c'est la Vie; que ce gouffre, c'est la Mort. could escape this terrible precipice! No, no! still on. You must run; so swift is the current of years. Now and then objects divert us-flowing streams, passing flowers; we would halt. "Forward! Forward!" Meanwhile, we see behind us everything falling as soon as passed-frightful crash, inevitable desolation ! Some flowers, gathered in the morning, perish in our hands before night; some fruits we find, but they die in tasting. Strange enchantment! Always hurried on, you draw nigh to the gulf. Already everything waxes dim, and goes out. Gardens grow less lovely, flowers less brilliant, meadows less gay, waters less clear. Everything fades ; everything disappears. The shadow of death confronts us; we begin to feel the nearness of death. One step further-to the edge! Already the soul is dismayed; the head turns; the eyes wander. But on! We would turn back-we cannot ! All is fallen; all is vanished; all is slipped away. I need not tell you that this road is— Life; that this gulf is-Death. Mr. Rogers has paraphrased this description in his Human Life without preserving the grandeur of the original. The amplification of French prose destroys the refining processes of poetry. The gold is already beaten out. Ogilvie mentions a sermon by Fordyce, where the death of a wicked man is portrayed with strokes worthy of Demosthenes; and he quotes this passage with immense applause: "The dreadful alternative entirely misgives him; it." A POET'S VIEW OF BIRDS. 177 he meditates the devouring abyss of eternity; he recoils as he eyes The italics are Ogilvie's. Whatever be the merit of the image, it is due to Bossuet, whom Fordyce copied. MR. WORDSWORTH sings in musical verse The blackbird in the summer trees, The lark upon the hill, A A Let loose their carol when they please, A foolish strife: they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free. The former part of the description is unquestionable, but the latter may be doubted. We know little of the closing days of birds-what they suffer or regret. One fact alone is ascertained; that their existence is short, in proportion to what I may venture to call their mental influences. The calm swan sails into his third century, and the emulative nightingale warbles away its sweet life, before it has seen a sixteenth summer. As to the happiness of old age among the feathered tribes, nothing can be told, because nothing is known. The bird in the cage evidently feels the burden of years, and often becomes dependent on friendly hands for assistance in its infirmities. Why should the patriarch of the trees escape the trials of brother in confinement? Affection seldom survives the nest. A story is told of a thrush feeding a captive blackbird for ten days with tender assiduity. But an occasional example proves no rule. The whole subject of bird-manners and customs is full of lively and enduring interest. How much may the little musician, among the apple-bloom, know and feel in common with sad and thoughtful minds!—with Falkland, or Bishop Jewell? a The mere circumstance that a bird dreams is a link that fastens it to man. Beckstein mentions a bulfinch, which frequently fell from its perch in the terror of sleep, and became immediately tranquil and reassured by the voice of its mistress. Birds may engage a man's study as well as himself. They enjoy some of his best and brightest emotions. They are loving and faithful. Their memory is quick and lasting. Old trees, shadowy eaves, and blossomy hedges, are known and revisited |