After such a sentence as this, it must be, I know, rococo to name him; but yet I would say, in his own words,
D'adorateurs zélés à peine un petit nombre
Ose des premiers temps nous retracer quelque ombre;
Le reste....
Se fait initier à ces honteux mystères,
Et blasphème le nom qu'ont invoqué leurs pères.
As I profess myself of the petit nombre, you must let me recall to your memory some of the fragments of that noble edifice which Racine raised over him, and which, as they say, has now perished under the mighty power of Victor Hugo. It will not be lost time to do this; for look where you will among the splendid material of this uprooted temple, and you will find no morsel that is not precious; nothing that is not designed, chiseled, and finished by the hand of a master.
Racine has not produced dramas from ordinary life; it was not his object to do so, nor is it the end he has attained. It is the tragedy of heroes and demi-gods that he has given us, and not of cut-purses, buffoons, and street-walkers.
If the language of Racine be poetry, that of M. Hugo is not; and wherever the one is admired, the other must of necessity be valueless. It would be endless to attempt giving citations to prove the grace, the dignity, the majestic flow of Racine's verse; but let your eye run over "Iphigénie," for instance,—there also the loss of a daughter forms the tragic interest,—and compare such verses as those I have quoted above with any that you can find in Racine.
Hear the royal mother, for example, describe the scene that awaits her: