The most remarkable of these are the first two and the last one.  In the funeral oration on Henrietta of France, Bossuet had just the kind of subject which he was best fitted to treat, and it must be considered his masterpiece.  It presents in magnificent style, in pompous development, a complete exposition of his historical and political theories, together with a strikingly vivid account of the great English rebellion.  His portraits of Charles I. and Oliver Cromwell—­the one, of course, altogether too enthusiastic, the other too severe—­stand out in as bold relief as the paintings of Van Dyck or Velasquez.  His theory of revolutions, which he considers the punishments inflicted by God upon sovereigns for violations of His law, is presented with a wealth of illustrations which was simply overwhelming for the audience that listened to it.  It remains to this day one of the most plausible, as it will remain forever one of the most eloquent pieces of historical and theological reasoning.

In the funeral oration on Henrietta of England we find little of history, still less of politics.  Here we have a domestic catastrophe of appalling suddenness:  a brilliant woman, the worshiped centre of the most brilliant court, one to whom the speaker himself was most tenderly attached, so abruptly snatched away by death that the suspicion of foul play at once arose and has not to this day been entirely dispelled.  Nowhere has Bossuet, nor perhaps any other orator, so powerfully depicted the uncertainty of everything human.  The closeness with which he treated his subjects is well illustrated by an anecdote that is connected with this oration.  Only two or three hours before her death, when already conscious of her desperate position, the unfortunate princess had directed that an emerald ring of hers should be after her death handed to the great preacher.  “What a pity,” he was told, “that such an incident cannot find place in a funeral oration!”—­“Why not” he answered.  When he delivered the oration, the emerald ring was on one of the fingers of his right hand; and when speaking of the princess’s virtues and charming qualities, he alluded to the art of giving, in which she signally excelled.  “And this art,” he went on, “never deserted her, not even, I know it, in the throes of death,” at the same time raising his right hand and placing the precious jewel in full view of the audience.

The funeral oration on the Prince de Conde shows us how he triumphed over difficulties.  He was a warm friend and ardent admirer of the Prince, and at the same time a devoted subject of the King, rebellion against whom he considered a very grievous sin.  Yet the Prince had for years been a rebel against the King during the wars of the Fronde, and had continued in the ranks of the hostile Spaniards even after all the other rebels had submitted to the royal authority.  After conducting his narrative down to the time when the Prince, still a faithful subject, was unjustly