Plato.—­The French language is not so harmonious as the Greek, yet you have given a sweetness to it which equally charms the ear and heart.  When one reads your compositions, one thinks that one hears Apollo’s lyre, strung by the hands of the Graces, and tuned by the Muses.  The idea of a perfect king, which you have exhibited in your “Telemachus,” far excels, in my own judgment, my imaginary “Republic.”  Your “Dialogues” breathe the pure spirit of virtue, of unaffected good sense, of just criticism, of fine taste.  They are in general as superior to your countryman Fontenelle’s as reason is to false wit, or truth to affectation.  The greatest fault of them, I think, is, that some are too short.

Fenelon.—­It has been objected to them—­and I am sensible of it myself—­that most of them are too full of commonplace morals.  But I wrote them for the instruction of a young prince, and one cannot too forcibly imprint on the minds of those who are born to empire the most simple truths; because, as they grow up, the flattery of a court will try to disguise and conceal from them those truths, and to eradicate from their hearts the love of their duty, if it has not taken there a very deep root.

Plato.—­It is, indeed, the peculiar misfortune of princes, that they are often instructed with great care in the refinements of policy, and not taught the first principles of moral obligations, or taught so superficially that the virtuous man is soon lost in the corrupt politician.  But the lessons of virtue you gave your royal pupil are so graced by the charms of your eloquence that the oldest and wisest men may attend to them with pleasure.  All your writings are embellished with a sublime and agreeable imagination, which gives elegance to simplicity, and dignity to the most vulgar and obvious truths.  I have heard, indeed, that your countrymen are less sensible of the beauty of your genius and style than any of their neighbours.  What has so much depraved their taste?

Fenelon.—­That which depraved the taste of the Romans after the ago of Augustus—­an immoderate love of wit, of paradox, of refinement.  The works of their writers, like the faces of their women, must be painted and adorned with artificial embellishments to attract their regards.  And thus the natural beauty of both is lost.  But it is no wonder if few of them esteem my “Telemachus,” as the maxims I have principally inculcated there are thought by many inconsistent with the grandeur of their monarchy, and with the splendour of a refined and opulent nation.  They seem generally to be falling into opinions that the chief end of society is to procure the pleasures of luxury; that a nice and elegant taste of voluptuous enjoyments is the perfection of merit; and that a king, who is gallant, magnificent, liberal, who builds a fine palace, who furnishes it well with good statues and pictures, who encourages the fine arts, and makes them subservient