one; and it is possible that the value of the Academy as a centre of purity and taste has been at least balanced by the extreme reluctance which it has always shown to countenance any of those forms of audacity and change without which no literature can be saved from petrifaction.  All through its history the Academy has been timid and out of date.  The result has been that some of the very greatest of French writers—­including Moliere, Diderot, and Flaubert—­have remained outside it; while all the most fruitful developments in French literary theory have come about only after a bitter and desperate resistance on its part.  On the whole, perhaps the most important function performed by the Academy has been a more indirect one.  The mere existence of a body of writers officially recognized by the authorities of the State has undoubtedly given a peculiar prestige to the profession of letters in France.  It has emphasized that tendency to take the art of writing seriously—­to regard it as a fit object for the most conscientious craftsmanship and deliberate care—­which is so characteristic of French writers.  The amateur is very rare in French literature—­as rare as he is common in our own.  How many of the greatest English writers have denied that they were men of letters!—­Scott, Byron, Gray, Sir Thomas Browne, perhaps even Shakespeare himself.  When Congreve begged Voltaire not to talk of literature, but to regard him merely as an English gentleman, the French writer, who, in all his multifarious activities, never forgot for a moment that he was first and foremost a follower of the profession of letters, was overcome with astonishment and disgust.  The difference is typical of the attitude of the two nations towards literature:  the English, throwing off their glorious masterpieces by the way, as if they were trifles; and the French bending all the resources of a trained and patient energy to the construction and the perfection of marvellous works of art.

Whatever view we may take of the ultimate influence of the French Academy, there can be no doubt at all that one of its first actions was singularly inauspicious.  Under the guidance of Cardinal Richelieu it delivered a futile attack upon the one writer who stood out head and shoulders above his contemporaries, and whose works bore all the marks of unmistakable genius—­the great CORNEILLE.  With the production, in 1636, of Corneille’s tragedy, Le Cid, modern French drama came into existence.  Previous to that date, two main movements are discernible in French dramatic art—­one carrying on the medieval traditions of the mystery-and miracle-play, and culminating, early in the seventeenth century, with the rough, vigorous and popular drama of Hardy; and the other, originating with the writers of the Renaissance, and leading to the production of a number of learned and literary plays, composed in strict imitation of the tragedies of Seneca,—­plays of which the typical representative is the Cleopatre of