that delivered by the Abbé de Hardion; who,
having been appointed temporary secretary
to the Academy during the illness of the
regular functionary, had to reply in that
capacity to the speech of a new member,
Monsieur de Mayran. The Abbé was really
a man of learning, but lamentably deficient
in the art of composition. Words, such as
never were heard before, and sentences of
immeasurable length came thundering on the
ears of the perplexed auditors; and the
public was shortly afterwards amused by the
appearance of a book from the pen of de
Beauveau, entitled, "A Treatise on a
Sentence two hundred words long, comprising
very many new ones, in a late speech of the
Abbé de Hardion."

Of Patru, a bold and honest man, whose
excellent speech established the precedent of
panegyric, it should be recorded, that on one
occasion, when some titled dunce was on the
point of being elected, he addressed his
brethren in the following apologue:—"An
ancient Greek possessed a lyre that was
attuned to the most perfect harmony. By
accident, one of its chords was broken, and
the Greek must needs replace it with a silver
string. His vanity was fatal to his reputation,
for the beauty of his music was destroyed."
The fable, it is said, did wholesome service
for the time; but, when it was no longer
fresh, it could no longer excite lively emotion,
and produce effect in an academy of
Frenchmen.

The Abbé Tallemant having published a
book containing some highflown notices of
deceased Academicians, de Boze, on taking
possession of his chair, in 1715, paid compliment
to the Abbé's production, in accordance
with a time-honoured class of blunders: "The
admirable manner in which the eloquent
author has depicted our losses inspires me," he
said, " with the fervent desire that he may
have many more opportunities to write about
us." This reminds one of the heedless reply of
Miss Chudley, afterwards Duchess of Kingston,
to George the Second, who did her the
honour of inquiring, upon her presentation at
Court, " how she had enjoyed the sights of the
metropolis?" -- "O wonderfully, sire; but
there is one sight above all others that I have
the greatest curiosity to behold."—"And what
may that be? " asked the King.—" A
coronation, may it please your Majesty."

The practice of panegyric which continues
to this day in the Academy, so manifestly
bad, has been protested against frequently.
"The necessity," said Voltaire, " of making
an harangue, the difficulty of finding anything
to say, and the desire to appear a person of
wit, make the most sensible speakers ridiculous.
It has passed into a practice for every
new member to assure his colleagues that his
predecessor was a great man; that Chancellor
Séguier was a very great man; and that
Cardinal Richelieu was a greater man still: to
which Monsieur le Secretaire is in the habit
of replying, that all this is exceedingly true;
that the new Academician is on the high road
to become a great man likewise; and that he,
the secretary, ventures to hope that he
is something in that way himself. Such
speeches," he goes on to say, " remind one of
the Barmecide's banquet, where the guests
were in danger of dying with hunger all the
time they were pretending to eat." De
Mesme, himself an Academician, compares
them to those solemn masses in which the
priest, after absolving everybody present,
ends by absolving himself. Piron, the sworn,
enemy of the Academy, informed the secretary,
that against the time when he should
one day or other be elected a member, he had
already composed both his own speech and
the secretary's reply. " I shall rise up," said
Piron, " take off my hat to the assembly, and
thank the members for the very great honour
which they have been pleased to confer upon,
me: whereupon you, Mr. Secretary, will rise
up, take off your hat to me, and say,
'Monsieur Piron, I beg you will not mention it. It
is not worth the trouble of your thanks.' '"
Piron composed his own epitaph in derision
of the Academy; it may be rendered thus:

"Here lies Piron; who was nobody; not even an
Academician."

Another practice of the Academy, not
less injudicious than panegyrical orations, is
that of giving out subjects for literary
compositions, and rewarding with prizes of money
some of the competitors. Intrigue often
presided over these adjudications; and even
when the decision has been honest, the public,
by a sort of fatality, most frequently
preferred some unsuccessful essay. " I wrote," says
Voltaire, " when I was eighteen years old, an
ode upon a subject given by the Academy, and
a very miserable ode too. Bad as it was,
there could be no doubt that it was infinitely
superior to the successful poem; which was
written by the Abbé du Jarri, a man
quite old enough to have left off writing
nonsense; for he was at that time nearly seventy
years of age. One of the Abbé's lines ran
thus:

"' And from the freezing to the burning pole.'

I took the liberty of asking Monsieur de la
Mothe—by whose voice it was commonly
reported that the judgment of his colleagues
had been mainly influenced—what he thought
of the Abbé's geography?  ' Young man,'
said he, with an air of severity, ' we are a
literary association, living at Paris, and cannot
reasonably be expected to know anything
about such very distant places as the poles.
Besides, the Abbé is a friend of mine.' An
ode by de Gacon was so intolerably bad,
that the Academy, while they decreed it a
prize, sent a private message to the author,
begging him to put the money into his pocket
and say nothing about the matter."