The glories of the age of Lewis XIV. were the climax of a set of ideas that instantly afterwards lost alike their grace, their usefulness, and the firmness of their hold on the intelligence of men. A dignified and venerable hierarchy, an august and powerful monarch, a court of gay and luxurious nobles, all lost their grace, because the eyes of men were suddenly caught and appalled by the awful phantom, which was yet so real, of a perishing nation. Turn from Bossuet’s orations to Boisguillebert’s _Détail de la France_; from the pulpit rhetorician’s courtly reminders that even majesty must die, to Vauban’s pity for the misery of the common people;[3] from Corneille and Racine to La Bruyère’s picture of ‘certain wild animals, male and female, scattered over the fields, black, livid, all burnt by the sun, bound to the earth that they dig and work with unconquerable pertinacity; they have a sort of articulate voice, and when they rise on their feet, they show a human face, and, in fact, are men.’ The contrast had existed for generations. The material misery caused by the wars of the great Lewis deepened the dark side, and the lustre of genius consecrated to the glorification of traditional authority and the order of the hour heightened the brightness of the bright side, until the old contrast was suddenly seen by a few startled eyes, and the new and deepest problem, destined to strain our civilisation to a degree that not many have even now conceived, came slowly into pale outline.