The very latest conspicuous French candidate for renown as a writer of _pensees_ is Joseph ROUX, a rural Roman Catholic priest, and a man still living. Out of a volume of his "Thoughts" lately translated and published in America under the title of "Meditations of a Parish Priest," we show the following specimen of literary criticism peculiarly pertinent to the subject of the present chapter: Pascal is somber, La Rochefoucauld bitter, La Bruyere malicious, Vauvenargues melancholy, Chamfort acrimonious, Joubert benevolent, Swetchine gentle. Pascal seeks, La Rochefoucauld suspects, La Bruyere spies, Vauvenargues sympathizes, Chamfort condemns, Joubert excuses, Swetchine mourns. Pascal is profound, La Rochefoucauld penetrating, La Bruyere sagacious, Vauvenargues delicate, Chamfort paradoxical, Joubert ingenious, Swetchine contemplative. _Pensee_-writing has gained such headway in France, there is so much literary history behind it there, and it is in itself so fascinating a form of literary activity, that, in that country at least, the fashion will probably never pass away. XXV. EPILOGUE. How much author's anguish of self-tasking and of self-denial, in exploration, study, selection, rejection, condensation, retrenchment, to say nothing of the anxiety to be clear in expression, to be true, to be proportionate, to be just, finally, too, to be entertaining as well as instructive--this little book has cost the producer of it, no one is likely ever to guess that has not tried a similar task with similar application of conscience himself. For instance, to name Ronsard, the brilliant, the once sovereign Ronsard--lately, after so long occultation of his orb, come, through the romanticists of to-day, or shall we write "of yesterday"? almost to brightness again--to name this poet, without at least giving in specimen the following celebrated sonnet from his hand, which, for the sake of making our present point the clearer, we may now show in a neat version by Mr. Andrew Lang (but why should Mr. Lang, in his fourth line, change Ronsard's "fair" to "young"?): When you are very old, at evening You'll sit and spin beside the fire, and say, Humming my songs, "Ah well, ah well-a-day! When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing." None of your maidens that doth hear the thing, Albeit with her weary task foredone, But wakens at my name, and calls you one Blest, to be held in long remembering. I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid On sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade, While you beside the fire, a grandame gray, My love, your pride, remember and regret; Ah, love me, love! we may be happy yet, And gather roses while 'tis called to-day: