goal and his pleasure.1 Barely has he escaped from religious wars and feudal isolation, when he makes his bow and has his say. With the Hotel de Rambouillet we get the fine drawing-room talk, which is to last two centuries: Germans, English, all Europe, either novices or dullards, listen to France open-mouthed, and from time to time clumsily attempt an imitation. How amiable are French talkers! What discrimination! What innate tact! With what grace and dexterity they can persuade, interest, amuse, stroke down sickly vanity, rivet the diverted attention, insinuate dangerous truth, ever soaring hundred feet above the tedium-point where their rivals are floundering with all their native heaviness. But, above all, how sharp they have soon become! Instinctively and without effort they light upon easy gesture, simple speech, sustained elegance, a characteristic piquancy, a perfect clearness. Their phrases, still formal under Balzac, are looser, lightened, launch out, flow speedily, and under Voltaire find their wings. Did any one ever see such a desire, such an art of pleasing? Pedantic sciences, political economy, theology, the sullen denizens of the Academy and the Sorbonne, speak but in epigrams. Montesquieu's l'Esprit des Lois is also 'T'Esprit sur les lois.' Rousseau's periods, which begat a revolution, were balanced, turned, polished for eighteen hours in his head. Voltaire's philosophy breaks out into a million sparks. Every idea must blossom into a witticism; thought is made to leap; all truth, the most thorny and the most sacred, becomes a pleasant drawing-room conceit, cast backward and forward, like a gilded shuttlecock, by delicate women's hands, without sullying the lace sleeves from which their slim arms emerge, or the garlands which the rosy Cupids unfold on the wainscoting. Everything must glitter, sparkle, or smile. The passions are refined, love is dimmed, the proprieties are multiplied, good manners are exaggerated. The refined man becomes sensitive.' From his wadded taffeta dressinggown he keeps plucking his worked handkerchief to whisk away the moist omen of a tear; he lays his hand on his heart, he grows tender; he has become so delicate and correct, that an Englishman knows not whether to take him for an hysterical young woman or a dancingmaster. Take a clear view of this beribboned puppy, in his light-green dress, lisping out the songs of Florian. The genius of society which has led him to these fooleries has also led him elsewhere; for conversation, in France at least, is a chase after ideas. To this day, in spite of

1 Even in 1826, Sidney Smith, arriving at Calais, writes (Life and Letters, ii. 274): What pleases me is the taste and ingenuity displayed in the shops, and the good manners and politeness of the people. Such is the state of manners, that you appear almost to have quitted a land of barbarians. I have not seen a cobbler who is not better bred than an English gentleman.'

2 See Evelina, by Miss Burney, 3 vols., 1784; observe the character of the poor, genteel Frenchman, M. Dubois, who is made to tremble even whilst lying in the gutter. These very correct young ladies go to see Congreve's Love for Love; their

modern distrust and sadness, it is at table, over the coffee especially, that deep politics and the loftiest philosophy crop up. To think, above all, to think rapidly, is a recreation. The mind finds in it a sort of ball; think how eagerly it hastens thither. This is the source of all French culture. At the dawn of the age, the ladies, between a couple of bows, produced studied portraits and subtle dissertations; they understand Descartes, appreciate Nicole, approve Bossuet. Presently little suppers are introduced, and during the dessert they discuss the existence of God. Are not theology, morality, set forth in a noble or piquant style, pleasures for the drawing-room and adornments of luxury? Fancy finds place amongst them, floats about and sparkles like a light flame over all the subjects on which it feeds. What a flight was this of the eighteenth century! Was society ever more anxious for lofty truths, more bold in their search, more quick to discover, more ardent in embracing them? The perfumed marquises, these laced coxcombs, all these pretty, well-dressed, gallant, frivolous people, crowd to philosophy as to the opera; the origin of animated beings, the eels of Needham, the adventures of Jacques the Fatalist,' and the question of free judgment, the principles of political economy, and the calculations of the Man with Forty Crowns,2-all is to them a matter for paradoxes and discoveries. All the heavy rocks, which the men who had made it their business, were hewing and undermining laboriously in solitude, being carried along and polished in the public torrent, roll in myriads, mingled together with a joyous clatter, hurried onwards with an everincreasing rapidity. There was no bar, no collision; they were not hindered by the practicability of their plans: they thought for thinking's sake; theories could be expanded at ease. In fact, this is how in France men have always conversed. They play with general truths; they glean one nimbly from the heap of facts in which it lay concealed, and develop it; they hover above observation in reason and rhetoric; they find themselves uncomfortable and common-place when they are not in the region of pure ideas. And in this respect the eighteenth century continues the seventeenth. The philosophers had described good breeding, flattery, misanthropy, avarice; they now examined liberty, tyranny, religion; they had studied man in himself; they now study him in the abstract. Religious and monarchical writers are of the same family as impious and revolutionary writers; Boileau leads up to Rousseau, Racine to Robespierre. Oratorical reasoning formed

parents are not afraid of showing them Miss Prue. See also, in Evelina, by way of contrast, the boorish character of the English captain; he throws Mrs. Duval twice in the mud; he says to his daughter Molly: 'I charge you, as you value my favour, that you'll never again be so impertinent as to have a taste of your own before my face' (i. 190). The change, even from sixty years ago, is surprising.

1 The title of a philosophical novel by Diderot.-TR.

2 The title of a philosophical tale by Voltaire.-TR.

the regular theatre and classical preaching; oratorical reason produces the Declaration of Rights and the Contrat Social. They form for themselves a certain idea of man, of his inclinations, faculties, duties; a mutilated idea, but the more clear as it was the more reduced. From being aristocratic it becomes popular; instead of being an amusement, it is a faith; from delicate and sceptical hands it passes to coarse and enthusiastic hands. From the lustre of the drawing-room they make a brand and a torch. Such is the current on which the French mind floated for two centuries, caressed by the refinements of an exquisite politeness, amused by a swarm of brilliant ideas, charmed by the promises of golden theories, till, thinking that it touched the cloud-palace, made bright by the future, it suddenly lost its footing and fell in the storm of the Revolution.

Altogether different is the path which English civilisation has taken. It is not the spirit of society which has made it, but moral sense; and the reason is, that here man is not as he is in France. The Frenchmen who became acquainted with England at this period were struck by it. In France,' says Montesquieu, 'I become friendly with everybody; in England with nobody. You must do here as the English do, live for yourself, care for no one, love no one, rely on no one.' They were of a singular genius, yet 'solitary and sad. They are reserved, live much in themselves, and think alone. Most of them having wit, are tormented by their very wit. In scorn or disgust of all things, they are unhappy amid so many reasons why they should not be so.' And Voltaire, like Montesquieu, continually alludes to the sombre energy of this character. He says that in London there are days when the wind is in the east, when it is customary for people to hang themselves; he relates shudderingly how a young girl cut her throat, and how the lover, without a word, bought back the knife. He is surprised to see so many Timons, so many splenetic misanthropes.' Whither will they go? There was one path which grew daily wider. The Englishman, naturally serious, meditative, and sad, did not regard life as a game or a pleasure; his eyes were habitually turned, not outward to smiling nature, but inward to the life of the soul; he examines himself, ever descends within himself, confines himself to the moral world, and at last sees no other beauty but that which shines there; he enthrones justice as the sole and absolute queen of humanity, and conceives the plan of disposing all his actions according to a rigid code. He has no lack of force in this; for his pride comes to assist his conscience. Having chosen himself and by himself the route, he would blush to quit it; he rejects temptations as his enemies; he feels that he is fighting and conquering,1 that he is doing a difficult thing, that he is worthy of admiration, that he is a man. Moreover, he rescues himself from his capital foe,

1 The consciousness of silent endurance, so dear to every Englishman, of standing out against something and not giving in.'-Tom Brown's School Days.

tedium, and satisfies his craving for action; having grasped his duties, he has a task for his faculties and an end in life, and this gives rise to associations, foundations, preachings; and finding more stedfast souls, and nerves more tightly strung, it sends them forth, without causing them too much suffering, to long strife, through ridicule and danger. The reflective character of the man has given a moral rule; the militant character now gives moral force. The mind, thus directed, is more apt than any other to comprehend duty; the will, thus armed, is more capable than any other of performing its duty. This is the fundamental faculty which is found in all parts of public life, concealed but present, like one of those deep and primeval rocks, which, lying far inland, give to all undulations of the soil a basis and a support.

IV.

To Protestantism first, and it is from this structure of mind that the Englishman is religious. Find your way through the knotty and uninviting bark. Voltaire laughs at it, and jests about the ranting of the preachers and the rigours of the faithful. 'There is no opera, no comedy, no concert on a Sunday in London; cards even are expressly forbidden, so that only persons of quality, and those who are called decent men, play on that day.' He amuses himself at the expense of the Anglicans, so scrupulous in collecting their tithes ;' the Presbyterians, 'who look as if they were angry, and preach with a strong nasal accent;' the Quakers, who go to church to wait for the inspiration of God with their hats on their heads.' But is there nothing to be observed but these externals? And do you suppose that you are acquainted with a religion because you know the details of formulary and vestment? There is a common faith beneath all these sectarian differences : whatever be the form of Protestantism, its object and result are the culture of the moral sense; that is why it is popular here: principles and dogmas all make it suitable to the instincts of the nation. The sentiment which in the reformed man is the source of all, is anxiety of conscience; he pictures perfect justice, and feels that his uprightness, however great, cannot stand before that. He thinks of the Day of Judgment, and tells himself that he will be damned. He is troubled, and prostrates himself; he prays God to pardon his sins and renew his heart. He sees that neither by his desires, nor his deeds, nor by any ceremony or institution, nor by himself, nor by any creature, can he deserve the one or obtain the other. He betakes himself to Christ, the one Mediator; he prays to him, he feels his presence, he finds himself justified by his grace, elect, healed, transformed, predestinated. Thus understood, religion is a moral revolution; thus simplified, religion is only a moral revolution. Before this deep emotion, metaphysics and theology, ceremonies and discipline, all is blotted out or subordinate, and Christianity is simply the purification of the heart. Look now at these men, dressed in sombre colours, speaking through the nose on

Sundays, in a box of dark wood, whilst a man in bands, with the air of a Cato,' reads a psalm. Is there nothing in their heart but theological 'trash or mechanical phrases? There is a deep sentiment— veneration. This bare Dissenters' meeting-house, this simple service and church of the Anglicans, leave them open to the impression of what they read and hear. For they do hear, and they do read; prayer in the vulgar tongue, psalms translated into the vulgar tongue, can penetrate through their senses to their souls. Be sure they do penetrate; and this is why they have such a collected mien.

For the race is by nature capable of deep emotions, disposed by the vehemence of its imagination to comprehend the grand and tragic; and the Bible, which is to them the very word of eternal God, provides it. I know that to Voltaire it is only emphatic, unconnected, ridiculous; the sentiments with which it is filled are out of harmony with French sentiments. In England the hearers are on the level of its energy and harshness. The cries of anguish or admiration of the solitary Hebrew, the transports, the sudden outbursts of sublime passion, the thirst for justice, the growling of the thunder and the judgments of God, shake, across thirty centuries, these biblical souls. Their other books assist it. The Prayer Book, which is handed down as an heirloom with the old family Bible, speaks to all, to the dullest peasant, or the miner, the solemn accent of true prayer. The new-born poetry, the reviving religion of the sixteenth century, have impressed their magnificent gravity upon it; and we feel in it, as in Milton himself, the pulse of the twofold inspiration which then lifted a man out of himself and raised him to heaven. Their knees bend when they listen to it. The Confession of Faith, the collects for the sick, for the dying, in case of public misfortune or private grief, the lofty sentences of impassioned and sustained eloquence, transport a man to some unknown and august world. Let the fine gentlemen yawn, mock, and succeed in not understanding: I am sure that, of the others, many are moved. The idea of dark death and of the limitless ocean, to which the poor weak soul must descend, the thought of this invisible justice, ever present, ever foreseeing, on which the changing show of visible things depends, enlighten them with unexpected beams. The physical world and its laws seem to them but a phantom and a figure; they see nothing more real than justice; it is the sum of humanity, as of nature. This is the deep sentiment which on Sunday closes the theatre, discourages pleasures, fills the churches; this it is which pierces the breastplate of the primitive spirit and the corporeal dulness. This shopkeeper, who all the week has been counting his bales or drawing up columns of figures; this cattle-breeding squire, who can only bawl, drink, jump a fence; these yeomen, these cottagers, who amuse themselves, in order to draw blood whilst boxing, or vie with each other in grinning through a horse-collar, -all these uncultivated souls, immersed in material life, receive thus from their religion a moral life. They love it; you will hear it in the