wife, entertained all comers with talk unrestrained by respect for institutions of any kind.

The salon has maintained its influence in literature as well as in politics. From Arthenice to Madame Recamier there has been a constant succession of great ladies who have delighted in the society of scholars and poets. Let us, however, descend to the lower levels of the tavern; let us betake ourselves to the Rue de la Juiverie, near Notre Dame, where we shall find the Pomme du Pin, a tavern sacred as the Rainbow, and venerable by reason of association with Rabelais and Villon. Or to the Cormier in the Rue des Fossés, Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, loved by Saint Amant and Théophile; or to the famous house of Madame Du Ryer at St. Cloud. Let us hear the opening of corks, the glouglou of the wine, the propos of the drinkers, the songs of those who sing, and the laughter of those whose hearts are glad.

One of the earliest convivial societies which preceded the Caveau was that called Les Enfants de Bacchus. The members were exhorted continually to celebrate the praises of their divine father, and never to drink their glasses of wine without singing songs in his praise. They published a volume of these effusions, called Le Parnasse des Muses, cu Recueil des plus belles Chansons à danser,' to which was added 'Le Concert des Enfants de Bacchus assemblez avec ses Bacchantes,' from the title of which it may be inferred that the society of ladies was encouraged among the members of this association. The poets who tippled in the taverns were not always singing while they drank. Sometimes they spent their time in scoffing. Théophile Viaud, whose misfortunes more than his merits have kept his memory green, Frénicle, Desbarreaux, Colletet, Luillier, Saint Patrix, Saint Pavin, Furet, and Saint Amant make up a list whose names recall to those who have roamed among the books of the time countless stories of jovial merriment, innocent mirth, and lighthearted laughter, mingled with others of profanity and debauchery. They were not, it is true, obedient children of the Church; mostly, in fact, they called themselves unbelievers and atheists. But they were one and all touched with the sacred fire of genius; they were not envious one of the other; they loved to sit together, to talk, and to sing; and they loved, with more than the average Frenchman's love, with passion, their Paris. 'Paris,' cries Saint Amant, in a fine rapture at the Pomme du Pin—

Paris, where Bacchus holds all hearts;
Paris, where Coiffier bakes his tarts;

Paris, where Cormier hangs his sign,
An apple-tree that points to wine;
Paris, which offers to our eyes
Another apple-greater prize
Than that of gold, which, by belief,
Brought gods and goddesses to grief.
An apple from the tall fir tree-

Thou knows't that it has sheltered thee:
Paris, that cemetery vast,

Where all our griefs are buried fast:
Paris, that bitter world, in short,
Of sweet delight and pleasing sport:
Paris, whose joys bring more content
Than heart can wish or brain invent.

It is consoling to record that, with two exceptions, all these graceless poets repented in the end, and made their peace with the religion at which they had scoffed all their lives. Desbarreaux, certainly the worst of them all, if Tallemant des Réaux is to be believed, was the earliest to repent. It was on the occasion of a severe illness. When he recovered he relapsed, and invited the priest who had before received his confession to a discussion. Volontiers,' replied his reverence; when M. Desbarreaux is again ill.' Growing old, he once more sought pardon, and finally died penitent and 'fortified' by the consolations of the Church. Another of them, St. Pavin, a stray lamb who returned to the fold earlier in life than Desbarreaux, emphasized the sincerity of his conversion by the badness of his verses. And Frénicle, a poet with ease and power of expression, who prided himself upon his galanterie more than on his verses, reformed, turned the Psalms into verse, and sang of the conversion of Clovis. This termination to a life of scoffing is, indeed, common among French poets. Just as it is rare to find a Frenchman of letters on the side of the Church, so it is seldom indeed that one of them fails at the last moment to send for the priest, and to die a penitent. The case of Patrix is, however, unusual, because his conversion was brought about by a miracle. We relate it for the solace and strengthening of spiritualists. One day he was sitting alone in his study when a heavy wooden chair lifted itself from the floor, without any apparent motive cause, and advanced slowly towards him, all four legs off the ground. Had it been a chair at a modern séance, two legs at least would have been on the floor. Greatly startled, but instantly convinced of his errors, and recognizing on the spot the whole theological system of the Church, the atheist cried, M. le diable, les intérêts de Dieu à part, je suis bien votre serviteur.' Nothing could be more polite, or mɔre

definite. Up to a certain point only, politeness would be extended to the devil. Whether the mover of the furniture was dissatisfied with the reservation does not appear, because the chair was instantly carried back and moved no more. Patrix, however, received the miracle in a becoming spirit, and became a faithful son of the Church. The two exceptions of which we have spoken are those of Luillier and Picot. Luillier, the father of Chapelle, a man of pleasant and ready wit, who greatly resembled Rabelais in face, had the misfortune to die suddenly, unrepentant. Picot, who had time for reflection, had the courage of his convictions, and died like Raminogrobis, save that, in place of cursing the monks who came to his deathbed, he bribed a priest not to disturb his last moments. As for Saint Amant, he was too sensible to find any joy in a false profession of atheism. He went on singing, laughing, and drinking to the end. Boileau most unkindly says that he died in a garret, which means that our good Nicolas had no sympathy with a muse who had so little feeling for the dignity of verse, and thought more of matter than of form, a realistic muse to whom truth was everything. In fact, Saint Amant, who had become an Academician, and charged himself with the care of the slang words, died in comfort, ease, and honour.

Vivre sans boire, c'est mourir;
Et boire en mourant, c'est revivre.

When this company of scoffers and atheists were broken up, dispersed, or dead, Colletet instituted a club of his own, at which he received, once a week, all who came to dine with him. He possessed the historical marble table at which Jodelle's sacrificial banquet had been held, and he lived in Ronsard's house. Because he was not rich, he made the rule that every guest should bring his contribution to the feast. The name of Colletet was not without a certain lustre in his own time. He wrote much, and he wrote a little well. And he married three servants, one after the other, pretending that the last was a poet, and writing verses for her to recite as her own. His friends met also at the Fosse aux Lions,' chez le Coffier. Among them were the above-mentioned Saint Amant, Boisrobert the clerical buffoon, the Count d'Harcourt, and Furet. On the door of the tavern were written the lines:

Profanes, loin d'ici! Que pas un homme n'entre
Qui soit du rang de ceux qui trahissent leur ventre,
Qui fraudent leur génie et d'un cœur inhumain
Kemettent tous les jours à vivre du lendemain.

When Furet and Harcourt fell off, Saint Amant repaired to another tavern, the Epée Royale, where he gathered round him a new set of drinkers and poets. Among them were Marigny, Villeneuve, Desgranges, Pontménard, Gilot, and Des Yveteaux, wits all, and poets, and every man certain that posterity would have nothing to do but to read his verses and sing his songs. Now that the voice of the roysterers is hushed, one is fain to ask where is their immortality? Poets are spoiled by Horace and Ovid. They cannot be content with supplying the pleasure of the moment; they must needs please for ever, a thing granted once in a century; they must bercer themselves with the thought that their verses will be read by generation after generation, even though they have failed to please their own compeers.

They died, these drinkers, each in his appointed time, and for a while there was, so to speak, a kind of silence. The latter years of the seventeenth century were dark and dull: the great men were gone; the witlings were dead; poets and poetasters alike were grown either old, or dead, or weary. It was a time of dulness. Boileau, aged and deaf, sat in his house at Auteuil and growled. Colletet, Théophile, Saint Amant, Chapelle, all the bawlers and topers were dead. The Olympian heights whereon Molière, La Fontaine, Racine, and Despréaux had walked hand in hand were deserted. It was time that the century should come to an end, and other time begin with new enthusiams and other aims.

Then commenced the eighteenth century, whose chief merit, it seems to us, is that it contrived to make the best of life, to get out of it the most of culture and pleasure, to raise manners to the rank of fine art, and to hide away, as much as they can be hidden, the ugly realities of death, disease, and age. With the eighteenth century disappeared for ever the pickled herrings, tongues, bacon, and salt hams, which formed part of the singer's refrain from the time of the Vaux de Vire, and do so thirstily inspire the drinking scenes in Rabelais. The glasses clink, it is true, but no longer in taverns reeking of tobacco, and the guests do not drink strong Burgundy but champagne: the talk is irreverent, just as it was when Théophile led it off, but it is no longer so coarse great. ladies listen, laugh, and launch their little epigrams which have so sharp a point: the service of the supper is artistic; the dress is stately; rank is respected; and it is better to succeed in society than to make the people laugh and cry by a play or a poem. At such a time it seems better, and is. certainly more enjoyable, to be Caylus than to be Voltaire;

while, if Shakespeare had been a Parisian, he would have been lancé by some great lady, and would have frittered away his genius in epigrams for society, and in bon mots carefully provided beforehand for the salon of Madame.

The Duchess of Maine 'led off' the literary satire of the eighteenth century with her famous Order of the Mouche à Miel, founded by her in the year 1702. The granddaughter of the great Condé, and a princess as spirituelle as she was little-Mademoiselle de Nantes called her la poupée du sangwhen she went to live in the château de Sceaux, the former residence of Colbert, she began to gather round her a society not only of the most illustrious among the French nobles, but also of the best wit and genius to be found in Paris. Mademoiselle de Launay, afterwards Madame de Staal, was a resident at the château. During the twenty-three years of the Order's existence, President Hénault, Destouches, Fontenelle, then an old man, Voltaire, quite young, La Fare, Chaulieu, Sainte Aulaire, La Motte Houdart, formed part of her following. The order of the Mouche à Miel was composed of thirty-nine persons, ladies being admitted as well as men. They wore a medal, on one side of which were the letters, L. BAR. D. SC. D. P. D. L. 0. D. L. M. A. M. (Louise Baronne de Sceaux, directrice perpétuelle de l'ordre de la Mouche à Miel). On the reverse was a bee flying towards a hive. This decoration, suspended by a ribbon, was always worn by the members of the Order when at Sceaux. The aim of the society was to promote the diversions of the place, into which music, poetry, and composition largely entered. The principal organizer of the fêtes was Malezieu, a scholar, a mathematician, and a man of science, who also rejoiced in improvising verses and writing operas. With him was the Abbé Genest, an Academician, half poet, half fashionable buffoon. Matho, the court musician, directed the lyrical representations. One amusement was to have lotteries, at which letters of the alphabet were drawn at random. He who drew 'a' was told to prepare an ariette; a 'c' meant a comedy or a chanson; an 'f' required a fable; an 'r' a rondeau; and so on. They played at bouts rimés and made enigmas; they manufactured anagrams; they played with rondeaux, triolets, and virelays; they propounded riddles and doubtful questions. 'What,' they asked Fontenelle one night, is the difference between the princess and a clock?' The one,' replied the sage, who, perhaps, had had a little time to study the riddle, 'marks the hours, the other makes us forget them.' Voltaire, condemned to pay a forfeit in an enigma, wrote the following