XLIV.
MICHELET. 1797–1874.
THE early life of this most original and eloquent of French historians passed amidst much hardship and difficulty. His father, who was a printer, had been employed by the government of the Revolution period (1790–1794), and at the political reaction, a few years later, he found himself reduced to poverty. From the experiences of his earlier life Jules Michelet doubtless derived his contempt for the common rich and luxuriant manner of living. Until his sixteenth year, flesh-meat formed no part of his food; and his diet was of the scantiest as well as simplest kind.
Naturally sensitive and contemplative, and averse from the rough manners and petty tyranny of his schoolfellows, the young student found companionship in a few choice books, of which A’Kempis’ Imitation of Christ seems to have been at that time one of the most read. At the Sorbonne Michelet carried away some of the most valued prizes, which were conferred with all the éclat of the public awards of the Académie. At the age of 24, having graduated as doctor in philosophy, he obtained the chair of History in the Rollin College. His manner, original and full of enthusiasm, though wanting often in method and accuracy, possessed an irresistible fascination for his readers; and all, who had the privilege of listening to him, were charmed by his earnest eloquence.
His first principal work was his Synopsis of Modern History (1827). His version of the celebrated Scienza Nuova of Vico, of whom he regarded himself as the especial disciple, appeared soon after. Upon the revolution of July, Michelet received the important post of Keeper of the Archives, by which appointment he was enabled to prosecute his researches in preparation for his magnum opus in history, L’Histoire de la France, the successive volumes of which appeared at long intervals. It contains some of the finest passages in French prose, the episode of La Pucelle d’Orleans being, perhaps, the finest of all. Having previously held a professorship in the Sorbonne (of which he was deprived by Guizot, then minister), he was afterwards invited to fill the chair of History in the Collège de France.
In 1847 his advanced political views deprived him once more of his professorial post and income, in which the Revolution of the next year, however, reinstated him. The coup d’état of 1851 finally banished him from public life—at least as far as teaching was concerned—for being too conscientious to subscribe the oath of allegiance to the new Empire. Michelet, like an eminent writer of the present day, upon principle, elected to be his own publisher; a fact which, in conjunction with the unpopularity of his opinions, considerably lessened the sale and circulation of his books; and, by this independency of action, the historian was a pecuniary loser to a great extent.
Deprived of the means of subsistence by his conscientiousness, he left Paris almost penniless, and sought an asylum successively in the Pyrenees and on the Normandy coast. In 1856 appeared the book with which the name of Michelet will hereafter be most worthily associated—the one which may be said to have been written with his heart’s blood. That the taste of the reading world was not entirely corrupt, was proved by the rapid sale of this the most popular of all his productions. A new edition of L’Oiseau came from the press each year for a long period of time, and it has been translated into various European languages. How far the attractiveness of the book, through the illustrative genius of Giacomelli, influenced the buying public; how far the surpassing merits of the style and matter of the work—we will not stay to determine; but it is certain that The Bird at once established his popularity as a writer, and relieved his pecuniary needs. L’Oiseau was followed by several other eloquent interpretations of Nature. But the first—there can be no question with persons of taste—remains the masterpiece. It is, indeed, unique in its kind in literature—by the intense sympathy and love for the subject which inspired the writer. It is the only book which treats the Bird as something more than an object of interest to the mere classifier, to the natural-history collector, or to the “sportsman.” It considers the winged tribes—those of the non-raptorial kinds—as possessed of a high intelligence, of a certain moral faculty, of devoted maternal affection—of a soul, in fine.
Of his remaining writings, La Bible de l’Humanité (1863) is one of the most notable, characteristic as it is of the author’s method of treatment of historical and ethnographical subjects.
The calamities of his native land he so greatly loved, through the corrupt government which had brought upon it the devastations of a terrible war, ending, by a natural sequence, in the fearful struggle of the suffering proletariat, deeply affected the aged champion of the rights of humanity. Almost broken-hearted, he withdrew from his accustomed haunts and went to Switzerland, and afterwards to Italy. He died at Hyères, in 1874, in the 77th year of his age. A public funeral, attended by great numbers of the working classes, awaited him in the capital.
In the following passage Michelet virtually subscribes to the creed of Vegetarianism. The saving clause, in which he seems to suppose the diet of blood to be imposed upon our species by the “cruel fatalities” of life, it is pretty certain he would have been the first to wish to cancel, had he enjoyed the opportunity of investigating the scientific basis of dietetic reform:—
“There is no selfish and exclusive salvation. Man merits his salvation only through the salvation of all. The animals below us have also their rights before God. ‘Animal life, sombre mystery! Immense world of thoughts and of dumb sufferings! But signs too visible, in default of language, express those sufferings. All Nature protests against the barbarity of man, who misapprehends, who humiliates, who tortures his inferior brethren.’ This sentence, which I wrote in 1846, has recurred to me very often. This year (1863), in October, near a solitary sea, in the last hours of the night, when the wind, the wave were hushed in silence, I heard the voices of our humble domestics. From the basement of the house, and from the obscure depths, these voices of captivity, feeble and plaintive, reached me and penetrated me with melancholy—an impression of no vague sensibility, but a serious and positive one.