nge of Greek literature before them to choose
from, would have selected. His second venture was almost worse than his
first; for there _are_ some prettinesses in Aristaenetus, and except for
the one famous passage enshrined by Pope in the _Essay on Criticism_,
there is, I believe,[311] nothing good in the continuation of _Don
Quixote_ by the so-called Avellaneda. But at any rate this job, which
is attributed to the suggestion of the Abbe de Lyonne, "put" Lesage on
Spanish, and never did fitter seed fall on more fertile soil.

[Sidenote: And its variety.]

Longinus would, I think, have liked _Gil Blas_, and indeed Lesage, very
much. You might kill ten asses, of the tallest Poitou standard in size
and the purest Zoilus or Momus sub-variety in breed, under you while
going through his "faults." He translates; he borrows; he "plagiarises"
about as much as is possible for anybody who is not a mere dullard to
do. Of set plot there is nothing in his work, whether you take the two
famous pieces, or the major adaptations like _Estevanille Gonzales_ and
_Guzman d'Alfarache_, or the lesser things, more Lucianic than anything
else, such as the _Cheminees de Madrid_[312] and the _Journee des
Parques_ and the _Valise Trouvee_. "He worked for his living" (as M.
Anatole France long ago began a paper about him which is not quite the
best of its very admirable author's work), and though the pot never
boiled quite so merrily as the cook deserved, the fact of the
pot-boiling makes itself constantly felt. _Les chaines de l'esclavage_
must have cut deep into his soul, and the result of the cutting is
evident enough in his work. But the vital marks on that work are such as
many perfectly free men, who have wished to take literature as a
mistress only, have never been able to impress on theirs. He died full
of years, but scarcely of the honours due to him, failing in power, and
after a life[313] of very little luck, except as regards possession of a
wife who seems to have been beautiful in youth and amiable always, with
at least one son who observed the Fifth Commandment to the utmost. But
he lives among the immortals, and there are few names in our present
history which are of more importance to it than his.

Some of his best and least unequal work is indeed denied us. We have
nothing to do with his drama, though _Turcaret_ is something like a
masterpiece in comedy, and _Crispin Rival de son Maitre_ a capital
farce. We cannot even discuss th