he wrote to him; "independently of its being commonplace, I cannot too
earnestly recommend you not to let yourself give way to the temptation of
writing French verses which would serve no purpose but to distract your
mind; above all, you should not write against anybody." This son, the
object of so much care, to whom his father wrote such modest, grave,
paternal, and sagacious letters, never wrote verses, lived in retirement,
and died young without ever having married. Little Louis, or Lionval,
Racine's last child, was the only one who ever dreamt of being a writer.
"You must be very bold," said Boileau to him, "to dare write verses with
the name you bear! It is not that I consider it impossible for you to
become capable some day of writing good ones, but I mistrust what is
without precedent, and never, since the world was world, has there been
seen a great poet son of a great poet." Louis Racine never was a great
poet, in spite of the fine verses which are to be met with in his poems
_la Religion_ and _la Grace_. His _Memoires_ of his father, written for
his son, describe Racine in all the simple charm of his domestic life.
"He would leave all to come and see us," writes Louis Racine; "an equerry
of the duke's came one day to say that he was expected to dinner at
Conde's house. 'I shall not have the honor of going,' said he; 'it is
more than a week since I have seen my wife and children who are making
holiday to-day to feast with me on a very fine carp; I cannot give up
dining with them.' And, when the equerry persisted, he sent for the
carp, which was worth about a crown. 'Judge for yourself,' said he,
'whether I can disappoint these poor children who have made up their
minds to regale me, and would not enjoy it if they were to eat this dish
without me.' He was loving by nature," adds Louis Racine; "he was loving
towards God when he returned to Him; and, from the day of his return to
those who, from his infancy, had taught him to know Him, he was so
towards them without any reserve; he was so all his life towards his
friends, towards his wife, and towards his children."

Boileau had undertaken the task of reconciling his friend with
Port-Royal. Nicole had made no opposition, "not knowing what war was."
M. Arnauld was intractable. Boileau one day made up his mind to take him
a copy of _Phedre,_ pondering on the way as to what he should say to him.
"Shall this man," said he, "be always right, and shall I never