The little prince
has already shown all the Grand Monarque in his childish "Je suis Louis
Quatorze," and has been carried in his bib to hold his first parliament.
That parliament, heroic as its English contemporary, though less
successful, has reached the point of revolution at last. Civil war is
impending. Conde, at twenty-one the greatest general in Europe, after
changing sides a hundred times in a week, is fixed at last. Turenne is
arrayed against him. The young, the brave, the beautiful cluster around
them. The performers are drawn up in line,--the curtain rises,--the play
is "The Wars of the Fronde,"--and into that brilliant arena, like some
fair circus equestrian, gay, spangled, and daring, rides Mademoiselle.
Almost all French historians, from Voltaire to Cousin, (St. Aulaire being
the chief exception,) speak lightly of the Wars of the Fronde. "La Fronde
n'est pas serieuse." Of course it was not. If it had been serious, it
would not have been French. Of course, French insurrections, like French
despotisms, have always been tempered by epigrams; of course, the people
went out to the conflicts in ribbons and feathers; of course, over every
battle there pelted down a shower of satire, like the rain at the Eglinton
tournament. More than two hundred pamphlets rattled on the head of Conde
alone, and the collection of _Mazarinades_, preserved by the Cardinal
himself, fills sixty-nine volumes in quarto.
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