adoptive country stood in need of some stimulant which should awaken it to a consciousness of its powers, and she sent l'Allemagne to the press. It was as a life-boat launched vigorously, defying the violence of the tempest, to rescue the crew of a sinking frigate: the crew was France itself, who, as Madame de Staël believed, had well-nigh lost all her dearly-bought liberties. Convinced that nations ought to guide and support one another, she sought in the bosom of defeated and humbled Germany the safety of France. There was more patriotism than national pride in the book of Madame de Staël. Bonaparte's police gave it a character which it did not deserve. Despite of a persecution quite in accordance with military despotism, the spirit of the times, and the general bent of the public mind, insured success to the obnoxious work on Germany. Its ideas became popular; the men whom victory had not rendered insensible to freedom felt that a powerful voice had embodied in an eloquent address their hopes and their fears; the panegyric of the descendants of the Teutons appeared in its true light, a proclamation of resistance.

Many a battle was fought in the arena of periodical criticism for or against l'Allemagne: this is always a sure sign that the book noticed must be worth some attention; and it soon became evident that Madame de Staël had successfully scattered her new doctrines on literature and the fine arts. Already a decided tendency might be traced throughout the reading public towards something more true to nature than the dull and fastidious imitations of Racine and Corneille: the veil was drawn, and from behind it a glorious landscape burst forth upon the sight of the astonished gazers for many a young and ardent mind l'Allemagne was replete with the perfumes and emanations of unknown but fragrant shores. That literature described by Madame de Staël, strange, wild as it appeared, brought to the imagination pleasing fancies and beautiful ideas. Germany became to France as a long-forgotten sister who had treasured in her heart and was now disclosing old family traditions, otherwise lost for ever. Then, there came along with her the prestiges of liberty, a literature free from all restraints, whose resources were to be increased a hundred-fold; and the young generation, tired of a classicism which was nothing more than the echo of an echo, thought that with independence she had recovered all its earnests of real happiness. Whether for good or for evil, Madame de Staël's new work had an immediate influence. It brought to a close the coldness, the enmity which had so long existed between two great people. Many years after, Goëthe wrote thus of the book we are now alluding to:

"It ought to be considered as a powerful artillery which made a wide breach in the sort of wall raised up between the two nations by superannuated prejudices. Thus, beyond the Rhine, we were soon more exactly inquired after; and we could not, consequently, fail to acquire great influence throughout the whole occident of Europe."

Madame de Staël wanted to borrow from Germany something towards alleviating France's literary distress. The principle which she sought to inoculate on this side of the Rhine was nothing less than enthusiasm. But she pursued her plan cleverly, without proclaiming it, without that air of charlatanerie too often assumed by those who believe they have made a fortunate hit. Considering her country as an invalid, to whom change of air is prescribed as the first remedy, she accompanied the patient on a tour through Germany. In reading Madame de Staël's remarkable work, you can fancy a well-informed and judicious guide, pointing out to his friend the most striking features of a foreign land. There is nothing polemical,

no attack upon any one's feelings or tastes; and the calmness and impartiality which the attentive reader cannot fail noticing, is indeed praiseworthy. Madame de Staël's purpose is not to preach a crusade in behalf of Germany. She simply states the facts, gives the bad as well as the fair side of the picture, and then leaves us to judge and decide for ourselves.

The author (and nobody can deny it who has studied her book on Germany) is a decided champion of the Teutonic races; yet, in spite of her acknowledged predilection, she did not find favour in the sight of all her trans-Rhenan critics. Many accused her of having disguised the truth, and of being a very superficial judge. We do not think that Madame de Staël had within her reach all the means of information which should have formed the proper ground-work of her observations. As for society itself, she knew nothing beyond the manners of aristocratic circles and the fashionable world; whereas it is only by studying the people and the uncultivated classes that we can attain anything like accurateness. Amongst the higher orders cosmopolitism is too prevalent, and the national character soon wears off by a constant moral and mental friction with our neighbours. This was noticeable even in Madame de Staël's time, though, of course, not to the same degree as is the case now: a few years more, and, by the help of railways and the electric telegraph, we shall see all the nations of Europe deprived of their individuality.

One of Madame de Staël's great mistakes was her partiality for German philosophy. She thought that materialism had breathed its last in the universities of Heidelberg or of Bonn ; and she did not see that the systems of Locke or Condillac are not the only receptacles of error. Idealism leads quite as much astray as the philosophy of sensation; and we are inclined to believe that in metaphysical as well as in other discussions, there is still a via media to be found. One of our contemporaries thus expresses himself on this delicate subject; and we shall take the liberty of borrowing from him one or two quotations, in which our own views of moral philosophy are most felicitously embodied :

"Metaphysicians have hitherto divided the nature of thought into sensation and reflection; and here they have stopped. No one has attempted to trace the possible modifications of that mysterious principle, which we so designate, upwards or downwards. Metaphysicians seem to have wandered betwixt extremes. Idealism, on one hand, annihilates all but itself by merging negations. Materialism, on the other hand, builds the triumph of matter only upon the degradation or denial of mind; for that is the real result. In the ripeness of time, it is probable that truth may be found between these two. We may learn to assign to the substance, whose attribute is thought, its true rank and true domain; whilst we find for the material modes a subordinate office, even as the sand interposed betwixt the hand and that which it would grasp, often enables it to seize that which must else have eluded its clutch. Such appears to us the direction in which pyschological discovery is to be made."*

France had, it is true, drunk largely from the cup prepared for her by Voltaire and Dupuis; and it is the disgust she felt for the brutal doctrines of the encyclopædist school which drove her to the study of German philosophy. But it was only falling from Charybdis into Scylla; and we feel to this day the fatal consequences of our obstinate worship before the shrines of Kant and Goëthe.

* British Quarterly Review.

It is not Madame de Staël, it is the natural bent of the human mind, which we must here accuse: it is that drunken man who cannot sit steady on his horse, but must needs he falling either right or left.

The British Quarterly Review has most accurately described the effect produced upon the language and polite literature of Germany by the influence of idealist metaphysics. We shall transcribe the whole paragraph, which is perfectly applicable to France.

"This philosophy, as taught by its author and his successors, has unquestionably led to a series of innovations in language, which appears to be ending in the establishment of a sort of modern euphuism, or totally novel style of talking and writing, not only on philosophical, but on ordinary, subjects. Now there exists a set of men, beyond all doubt, who love that which is cloudy and mysterious for its own sake, and own an elective attraction towards vague phraseology, misty dialectics, and an exalted and tumid, but nebulous, generality of expression. Ixion embraced a cloud because he thought it Juno. These men embrace their Juno purely because she is a cloud. To such spirits the style peculiar to the German school of thinkers and talkers has a charm irresistible. They love it even as they delight in the dreamy poetry of Ossian, or the versified metaphysics of Akenside. It is deemed sublime, because, according to the prescription of Burke, it is compounded with a portion of the obscure; and pleases as moonlight pictures do, because their light is less, and their shadows deeper than sunlight will permit. It is the propensity of such temperaments to exaggerate: and thus, as this style becomes more common, in that precise ratio will it be found to become more unintelligible. As the painter who determined to outvie Rembrandt, finished at last with a picture which was all chiaro-scuro, so transcendental literature threatens to end in something which may literally be termed ‘a darkness visible.' Now against this we must take leave to protest. Ex fumo dare lucem may be an apposite motto for a gas-lamp, but hardly for a philosophical school; and sure we are that the man who labours to clear language of its ambiguity, will go to posterity with a passport better than his who struggles to obscure it." Hearken to that, MM. Edgar Quinet, de Balzac, Janin !

It would be very easy to point out a thousand instances of the injurious effects produced on contemporary French literature by an exaggerated imitation of German idealism. We shall select one, almost at random. The great moral agent in works of fancy, as everybody knows, is love. This passion worked out in various ways is the poet's chief tool; and how powerful for mischief, as well as for good! But mark the different meaning given to love by the French and by the German writer :-*

"The French look upon it only as a passion, of the same nature as others, whose effect is to mislead our reason; whose end is to procure enjoyment. The Germans perceive in it something of a religious and sacred character; an emanation of the Divinity; an accomplishment of the destiny of man upon earth; a mysterious and omnipotent bond between two souls that exist only for each other. Under the first point of view, love is common to man and to the animals; under the second, it is common to man and to God. Where love is but a passion, as in the French stage, it can interest only by its violence and its delirium. The transports of the

The character given here to love, as depicted by the French poets, is also a feature of the literary school which sprang up in England after the Restoration. See Dryden, Congreve, Farquhar, Wycherley.

senses, the ravings of jealousy, the struggle between desire and remorse; these constitute tragic love in France. But when love is, on the contrary, as in the German poetry, a ray of divine light, sent to warm and purify the heart, it combines force with calmness: from the moment it appears, we see that it rules over all that surrounds it. It may have to contend with circumstances, but not with duties; for it is itself the first of duties, and the guarantee for the fulfilment of others. It cannot lead to guilt, it cannot descend to crime, or even to stratagem; for thus it would belie its nature, and cease to be itself. It cannot yield to obstacles; it cannot be extinguished, for its essence is immortal; it can return only into the bosom of its Creator."

When Benjamin Constant wrote this, he was drawing up an apology for German esthetics. We do not think that there is any choice between the French and German systems; but there they are, sketched to the life. The passion of love becomes, in the writers belonging to la belle France, either licentiousness, or mawkish, foppish, stupid galanterie. Open Racine, and see how that otherwise great poet represents a Roman Emperor :......Je me suis fait un plaisir nécessaire

De la voir chaque jour, de l' aimer, de lui plaire.

Maintenant que je puis couronner tant d'attraits,
Maintenant que je l'aime encor plus que jamais,
Lorsqu'un heureux hymen joignant nos destinées
Peut payer en un jour les vœux de cinq années,
Je vais, Paulin......Oh ciel! puis-je le déclarer!
(Bérénice. Act ii., sc. 2.)

Is not all that stuff worthy of Monsieur de Scudéry, and does not Titus here speak like a perfect Sir Amorous La-Fool? When Boileau, in his Satires, said of Racine's Alexander,—

C'est un glorieux qui ne dit rien de tendre,

he was uttering a bitter sarcasm applicable to the great majority of our writers, both ancient and modern.

If we come now to Germany, we see the opposite principle acting in the same way. Schiller, indeed, was too superior in every respect to overstep the proper limits; but most of his countrymen have made themselves conspicuous by depicting, under the name of love, some undescribable feeling which they give over to the control of a species of fatality. That accomplishment of destiny, that mysterious and omnipotent bond between two souls, upon which Benjamin Constant expatiates con amore, is downright foolish, besides being quite false in its application. Thus, in Zacharias Werner's fine drama of "Luther," when the poet represents the Reformer breaking open the convent doors, and releasing the nuns from their long and tedious captivity, Catherine de Bora rushes forth, and as soon as she sees Luther, she exclaims, “Behold my ideal!”

The French romantic school, instead of discarding galanterie, to put in its stead the German theory of love, combined the one with the other, thereby producing a heterogeneous compound, and submitting licentiousness to the laws of fatality. The most striking examples of this new literary element are Alexandre Dumas's "Antony," and the character of Claude Frollo in Victor Hugo's Nôtre Dame de Paris. But this is not all: let a candid

* Mélanges de Littérature et de Politique.

and impartial judge examine with some degree of attention the dazzling axiom which establishes love as ruling all that surrounds it, on the ground of its being a divine principle. A clever writer undertakes to illustrate the tyranny of what we call the laws of society, by standing up as the champion of some victim unjustly condemned by public opinion. How does he select his hero? Does he protest against prejudice, iniquity, vice? Quite the contrary. He introduces the reader to the inmates of a prison or a house of infamous character, and picks out of the haunts of crime a soul laden with sin, and upon which his imagination heaps all the deeds of darkness that have a name in the language of men. Then, by a process now so often reduced to practice that it has become a theory in literature, he puts into the heart of that repulsive creature the spark of one single good feeling,-love. Henceforward the felon, the prostitute, are offered to our admiration as realizing all that is grand, all that is heroic, all that is praiseworthy, in human nature. They may have, they have, most likely, murdered, robbed, rendered themselves guilty of the lowest debaucheries. What does that signify? They love, and that noble passion, as a cleansing baptism, washes away all the stains of their past life. You speak of repentance! But is not love much more efficacious, much more holy? And does not the hero of the novel or the play even realize the precept of the Gospel?" Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much." Thus the poet's ideal pursues his career; nourishing in his soul, at the same time, his first guilty propensities, and that flame of love allsanctifying. His whole endeavours are directed towards the happiness of the beloved one: to attain that end he joyfully submits to suffering; he readily encounters every difficulty. But throw no obstacles in his way, attempt not to retard his progress or to thwart his views. Crime and infamy are no considerations for him. Does not the end sanctify the means? In that severe struggle which he is carrying on against fate, his boldness is the greatest proof of the fervour of his love; and therefore it makes him so much the more worthy of our admiration. Then, at last, when he dies, his last breath is a sacrifice to his idol; and although remorseless, unrepenting, and unconverted, he leaves the world, a hero justified and sanctified merely by the merit of his love and of his devotedness.

Those of our readers who are acquainted with the productions of Victor Hugo, de Balzac, and George Sand, will bear witness to the accuracy of the above portrait. It is not a solitary exception, a single case, that we have been describing it is a feature which is characteristic of the whole contemporary French school of writers. Ferragus, Marion Delorme, le Père Goriot, Lucrèce Borgia, Lelia, are a few names out of a thousand examples.

The distinguished historian, M. Michelet, has, in one of his last works, very eloquently characterized the deplorable tendency to which we here allude. "Our popular writers," says he, "have descended from their saloons, and inquired of the passengers in the street where the people live. They have been directed to the galleys, the prisons, and the low neighbourhoods. And what is the consequence?

"If you would find something in the world wholly opposed to nature, to all the instincts of childhood, look at that artificial creature, the gamin de Paris. Still more artificial is that youngest imp of Satan, the frightful boy-man of London, who, at twelve years old, trades, robs, drinks gin, and has his girls. Artists! such are your models! the fantastic, the exceptional, the monstrous! This is what you seek, moralist, caricaturist! The terms are identical to-day.