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remark. A friend thought to amuse him during hislast illness by reading a new and popular tragedy: “ Ah !-my friend,” he cried, “ am I not dying in time? thePradons, whom we laughed at in our youth, weresuns in comparison with these authors.” When he wasasked how he felt, he replied by a verse from Malherbe,
“ Je suis vaincu du temps, je cede a ses outrages.”
As he was expiring, he saw M. Coutard approach; hepressed his hand, saying, “ Bon jour, et adieu— c’est unlong adieu.”
He died of dropsy on the chest, on the 13th of March,1711, in the seventy-fifth year of his age. He wasburied in the lower chapel of the Sainte Chapelle ,immediately under the spot which, in the upper chapel,is immortalised by his “ Lutrin .” Numerous friendsattended the funeral; and one among them overhearda woman say, “ He had many friends, it seems, yet Ihave heard that he spoke ill of everybody.”
This is an exaggeration of what may be consideredas the only flaw in Boileau’s character: — generous andcharitable; simple and natural in his manners; full offriendship, kindness, and integrity; we almost hesitateto pronounce severity of criticism against bad books afault; but we cannot avoid perceiving that the ridiculehe has attached to the names of Chapelain, Cotin, andothers, however well deserved by their writings, mighthave been spared to the men. It reminds us toostrongly of the anonymous critics of the present daynot to be held in detestation.
It is not necessary to enter at length on the subjectof his works. He possessed to a high degree thefaculty of wit; generally speaking wit simply, nothumour*: point the most acute, expressions the mosthappy, embody and carry home his meaning. He is not aselegant as Horace, nor as bitter nor as elevated as Juvenal :