They are perhaps the
only two great masters of expression who keep sending their
readers to a glossary.
"Shall we not dare to say of a thief," asks Montaigne, "that
he has a handsome leg?" It is a far more serious claim that
we have to put forward in behalf of Villon. Beside that of
his contemporaries, his writing, so full of colour, so
eloquent, so picturesque, stands out in an almost miraculous
isolation. If only one or two of the chroniclers could have
taken a leaf out of his book, history would have been a
pastime, and the fifteenth century as present to our minds as
the age of Charles Second. This gallows-bird was the one
great writer of his age and country, and initiated modern
literature for France. Boileau, long ago, in the period of
perukes and snuff-boxes, recognised him as the first
articulate poet in the language; and if we measure him, not
by priority of merit, but living duration of influence, not
on a comparison with obscure forerunners, but with great and
famous successors, we shall instal this ragged and
disreputable figure in a far higher niche in glory's temple
than was ever dreamed of by the critic. It is, in itself, a
memorable fact that, before 1542, in the very dawn of
printing, and while modern France was in the making, the
works of Villon ran through seven different editions.
Pages:
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242