time
was appreciated by Voltaire, various publications by M. Benjamin
Guerard, whose learning was much appreciated by him, and a few works
by M. de Maistre, notably his _Lettre sur l'Inquisition espagnole_.
He did not much like this last-named treatise, and he would constantly
rub his hands and say, "How plain it is that M. de Maistre is no
theologian." All he cared for was theology, and he had a profound
contempt for literature. He rarely failed to stigmatise as futile
nonsense the highly-esteemed studies of the Nicolaites. For M.
Dupanloup, whose principal dogma was that there is no salvation
without a good literary education, he had little sympathy, and he
generally avoided mention of his name.

For myself, believing as I do that the best way to mould young men of
talent is never to speak to them about talent or style, but to
educate them and to stimulate their mental curiosity upon questions
of philosophy, religion, politics, science, and history--or, in other
words, to go to the substance of things instead of adopting a hollow
rhetorical teaching, I was quite satisfied at this new direction given
to my studies. I forgot the very existence of such a thing as modern
literature. The rumour that contemporary writers existed occasionally
reached us, but we were so accustomed to suppose that there had not
been any of talent since the death of Louis XIV., that we had an _a
priori_ contempt for all contemporary productions. _Le Teleinaque_ was
the only specimen of light literature which ever came into my hands,
and that was in an edition which did not contain the Eucharis episode,
so that it was not until later that I became acquainted with the few
delightful pages which record it. My only glimpse of antiquity was
through _Teleinaque_ and _Aristonoues_, and I am very glad that such
is the case. It was thus that I learnt the art of depicting nature by
moral touches. Up to the year 1865 I had never formed any other idea
of the island of Chios except that embodied in the phrase of Fenelon:
"The island of Chios, happy as the country of Homer."

These words, so full of harmony and rhythm,[4] seemed to present
a perfect picture of the place, and though Homer was not born
there--nor, perhaps, anywhere--they gave me a better idea of the
beautiful (and now so hapless) isle of Greece than I could have
derived from a whole mass of material description.

I must not omit to mention another book, which together with
_Telemaque_, I f