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GEORGE SCUDERY, her brother, and inferior in genius, had a striking singularity of character:–he was one of the most complete votaries to the universal divinity, Vanity. With a heated imagination, entirely destitute of judgment, his military character was continually exhibiting itself by that peaceful instrument the pen, so that he exhibits a most amusing contrast of ardent feelings in a cool situation; not liberally endowed with genius, but abounding with its semblance in the fire of eccentric gasconade; no man has portrayed his own character with a bolder colouring than himself, in his numerous prefaces and addresses; surrounded by a thousand self-illusions of the most sublime class, everything that related to himself had an Homeric grandeur of conception.

In an epistle to the Duke of Montmorency, Scudery says, “I will learn to write with my left hand, that my right hand may more nobly be devoted to your service;” and alluding to his pen (plume), declares “he comes from a family who never used one, but to stick in their hats.” When he solicits small favours from the great, he assures them “that princes must not think him importunate, and that his writings are merely inspired by his own individual interest; no! (he exclaims) I am studious only of your glory, while I am careless of my own fortune.” And indeed, to do him justice, he acted up to these romantic feelings. After he had published his epic of Alaric, Christina of Sweden proposed to honour him with a chain of gold of the value of five hundred pounds, provided he would expunge from his epic the eulogiums he bestowed on the Count of Gardie, whom she had disgraced. The epical soul of Scudery magnanimously scorned the bribe, and replied, that “If the chain of gold should be as weighty as that chain mentioned in the history of the Incas, I will never destroy any altar on which I have sacrificed!”

Proud of his boasted nobility and erratic life, he thus addresses the reader: “You will lightly pass over any faults in my work, if you reflect that I have employed the greater part of my life in seeing the finest parts of Europe, and that I have passed more days in the camp than in the library. I have used more matches to light my musket than to light my candles; I know better to arrange columns in the field than those on paper; and to square battalions better than to round periods.” In his first publication, he began his literary career perfectly in character, by a challenge to his critics!

He is the author of sixteen plays, chiefly heroic tragedies; children who all bear the features of their father. He first introduced, in his “L’Amour Tyrannique,” a strict observance of the Aristotelian unities of time and place; and the necessity and advantages of this regulation are insisted on, which only shows that Aristotle’s art goes but little to the composition of a pathetic tragedy. In his last drama, “Arminius,” he extravagantly scatters his panegyrics on its fifteen predecessors; but of the present one he has the most exalted notion: it is the quintessence of Scudery! An ingenious critic calls it “The downfall of mediocrity!” It is amusing to listen to this blazing preface:–“At length, reader, nothing remains for me but to mention the great Arminius which I now present to you, and by which I have resolved to close my long and laborious course. It is indeed my masterpiece! and the most finished work that ever came from my pen; for whether we examine the fable, the manners, the sentiments, or the versification, it is certain that I never performed anything so just, so great, nor more beautiful; and if my labours could ever deserve a crown, I would claim it for this work!”

The actions of this singular personage were in unison with his writings: he gives a pompous description of a most unimportant government which he obtained near Marseilles, but all the grandeur existed only in our author’s heated imagination. Bachaumont and De la Chapelle describe it, in their playful “Voyage:”

Mais il faut vous parler du fort,
Qui sans doute est une merveille;
C’est notre dame de la garde!
Gouvernement commode et beau,
A qui suffit pour tout garde,
Un Suisse avec sa hallebarde
Peint sur la porte du chateau!

A fort very commodiously guarded; only requiring one sentinel with his halbert–painted on the door!

In a poem on his disgust with the world, he tells us how intimate he has been with princes: Europe has known him through all her provinces; he ventured everything in a thousand combats:

L’on me vit obeir, l’on me vit commander,
Et mon poil tout poudreux a blanchi sons les armes;
Il est peu de beaux arts ou je ne sois instruit;
En prose et en vers, mon nom fit quelque bruit;
Et par plus d’un chemin je parvins a la gloire.

IMITATED.

Princes were proud my friendship to proclaim,
And Europe gazed, where’er her hero came!
I grasp’d the laurels of heroic strife,
The thousand perils of a soldier’s life;
Obedient in the ranks each toilful day!
Though heroes soon command, they first obey.

‘Twas not for me, too long a time to yield!
Born for a chieftain in the tented field!
Around my plumed helm, my silvery hair
Hung like an honour’d wreath of age and care!
The finer arts have charm’d my studious hours,
Versed in their mysteries, skilful in their powers;
In verse and prose my equal genius glow’d,
Pursuing glory by no single road!

Such was the vain George Scudery! whose heart, however, was warm: poverty could never degrade him; adversity never broke down his magnanimous spirit!