those abrupt turns, which, under the appearance of brevity, border on obscurity and bad taste.

Let us, then, leave this manner to those immortal geniuses who, from different causes, have created a peculiar style; a style which they alone can support, and which it is dangerous to imitate. Be it remembered that the writers of the most brilliant eras of literature were strangers to that studied conciseness of ideas and language. The ideas of Livy and Bossuet are copious, and strictly concatenated; with them, every word arises out of that which goes before it, and gives birth to the word which is to follow. Great rivers, if we may be allowed to use this simile, flow not at intervals in a right line; their currents, slowly rolling from their distant sources, are continually increasing; they take a large and circuitous sweep in the plains, embracing cities and forests with their mighty arms, and discharging into the ocean streams of water capable of filling its deepest caverns.

CHAPTER IV.

OF THE REASONS WHY THE FRENCH HAVE NO HISTORICAL WORKS, BUT ONLY MEMOIRS.

HERE is another question, which relates exclusively to the French-Why have we nothing but memoirs instead of history, and why are almost all of these memoirs excellent?

The Frenchman, in all ages, even while yet a barbarian, was vain, thoughtless, and sociable. He reflects little upon objects in general, but he is an inquisitive observer of details, and his eye is quick, penetrating, and accurate. He must always be upon the stage himself, and even in the quality of an historian he cannot make up his mind to keep entirely out of sight. Memoirs leave him at full liberty to follow the bent of his genius. There, without quitting the theatre, he introduces his observations, which are always intelligent and sometimes profound. He is fond of saying, I was there, and the king said to me. The prince informed me I gave my advice, I foresaw the benefit or the mischief. In this manner his vanity gratifies itself; he makes a

display of his wit to the reader; and his solicitude to gain credit for ingenious ideas often leads him to think well. In this kind of history, moreover, he is not obliged to renounce his passions, from which he finds it difficult to part. He is an enthusiast in this or that cause, in behalf of this or that person; and, sometimes insulting the adverse party, at others jeering his own, he at once indulges his revenge and gives vent to his spleen.

From the Sire de Joinville to the Cardinal de Retz, from the memoirs of the time of the League to those of the time of the Fronde, this character is everywhere conspicuous; it betrays itself even in the grave Sully. But when you would tranfer to history this art of details, the whole scene is changed; for weak tints are lost in large pictures, like slight undulations on the surface of the ocean. Compelled in this case to generalize our observations, we fall into the spirit of system. Add to this that, being prevented from speaking openly of ourselves, we appear behind all the characters of our history. In the narrative we become jejune, prolix, and circumstantial, because we chat much better than we relate; in general reflections we are trivial or vulgar, because we are intimately acquainted with him only with whom we associate.1

Finally, the private life of the French is, perhaps, another circumstance unfavorable to the genius of history. Tranquillity of mind is necessary for him who would write well upon men. Now our literati, living in general without families, or at least out of their families, their passions restless and their days miserably devoted to the gratification of vanity, acquire habits which are directly at variance with the gravity of history. This practice of confining our whole existence within a certain circle must, of course, shorten our sight and contract our ideas. Too attentive to a nature that is but the creature of compact, genuine nature

We know that there are exceptions, and that some French writers have distinguished themselves as historians; we shall presently do justice to their merit. But it seems to us that it would be unfair to found an objection upon this fact, which could not affect the truth of our general assertion. Otherwise, there would be no truth in criticism. General theories partake not of the nature of man, in which the purest truth contains always some mixture of Truth in man is like a triangle, which can have but one right angle, as if nature had wished to impress an image of our defective virtue upon the very science which alone we consider certain.

error.

eludes our observation; we scarcely ever reason upon it, except by an extraordinary effort, and, as it were, by accident; and when we happen to be right, it is the result of conjecture more than of judgment.

We may therefore safely conclude that to the revolution in human affairs, to a different order of things and of times, to the difficulty of striking out new tracks in morals, in politics, and in philosophy, we must ascribe the inferiority of the moderns in history; and as to the French, if they have in general good memoirs only, it is in their peculiar character that we must seek the reason of this singularity.

By some, it has been referred to political causes; if, say they, history has not risen among us to the standard of antiquity, it is because her independent genius has always been fettered. This assertion seems to be flatly contradicted by facts. In no age, in no country, under no form of government, was greater freedom of thought enjoyed than in France during the time of the monarchy. Some acts of oppression, some severe or unjust proceedings of the censors of the press, may, no doubt, be adduced; but would they counterbalance the numberless contrary examples?1 Turn to our memoirs, and in every page of them you will find the severest and often the most offensive truths levelled against kings, priests, and nobles. The Frenchman has never bowed with abject servility to the yoke; he has always indemnified himself by the independence of his opinion for the constraint imposed upon him by monarchical forms. The Tales of Rabelais, the treatise on Voluntary Slavery by La Beotie, the Essays of Montaigne, the Morals of Charron, the Republics of Boddin, all the works in favor of the League, the treatise in which Mariana even goes so far as to defend regicide, are sufficient proofs that the privilege of unlimited discussion belonged to other times as well as to the present. If the citizen rather than the subject constituted the historian, how happens it that Tacitus, Livy himself, and among us the Bishop of Meaux and Montesquieu, gave their severe lessons under the most absolute masters that ever reigned? Never did they imagine, while censuring dishonorable actions and praising the virtuous, that the liberty of writing consisted in abusing

1 See note AA.

governments and shaking the foundations of duty. Had they made so pernicious a use of their talents, Augustus, Trajan, and Louis would most assuredly have compelled them to be silent; but is not this kind of dependence a benefit rather than an evil? When Voltaire submitted to a lawful censure, he gave us Charles XII. and the Age of Louis XIV.; when he broke through all restraint, he produced only the Essay on Manners. There are truths which prove the source of the greatest disorders, because they inflame all the passions; and yet, unless a just authority closes our lips, it is precisely these that we take the highest pleasure in revealing, because they gratify, at one and the same time, the malignity of our hearts corrupted by the fall, and our primitive propensity to the truth.

CHAPTER V.

EXCELLENCE OF MODERN HISTORY.

It is now but just to consider the reverse of the picture, and to show that modern history is still capable of being highly interesting, if treated by some skilful hand. The establishment of the Franks in Gaul, Charlemagne, the crusades, chivalry, a battle of Bouvines, the last branch of an imperial family perishing at Naples on a scaffold, a battle of Lepanto, a Henry IV. in France, a Charles I. in England, present at least memorable epochs, singular manners, celebrated events, tragic catastrophes. But the grand point to be seized in modern history is the change produced by Christianity in social order. By erecting morals on a new basis, it has modified the character of nations, and created in Europe a race of men totally different from the ancients in opinions, government, customs, manners, arts, and sciences.

And what characteristic traits do the new nations exhibit! Here are the Germans, a people among whom the radical corruption of the higher classes has never extended its influence to the lower; where the indifference of the former toward their country has never prevented the latter from being sincerely at

tached to it; a people among whom the spirit of revolt and of fidelity, of slavery and of independence, has never changed since the days of Tacitus.

There you behold the laborious Batavians, whose information comes from their good sense, their ingenuity from industry, their virtues from coldness, and their passions from reason.

Italy, with her hundred princes and magnificent recollections, forms a strong contrast to obscure and republican Switzerland.

Spain, cut off from other nations, still presents a more original character to the historian. The kind of stagnation of manners in which she lies will, perhaps, one day prove of advantage to her, and, when all the other European nations will have been exhausted by corruption, she alone will be able to appear with lustre upon the stage of the world, because there the groundwork of morals will still subsist.

A mixture of German and French blood, the English nation displays in every thing its double origin. Its government, a compound of royalty and aristocracy; its religion, less pompous than the Catholic, but more brilliant than the Lutheran; its soldiers, at once robust and active; its literature and its arts; finally, the language, the very features and persons, of the English, partake of the two sources from which they are descended. With German simplicity, sedateness, good sense, and deliberation, they combine the fire, impetuosity, levity, vivacity, and elegance of mind, which distinguish the French.

The English have public spirit, and we have national honor; our good qualities are rather the gifts of divine favor than the effects of a political education. Like the demi-gods, we are more nearly allied to heaven than to earth.

The French, the eldest sons of antiquity, are Romans in genius and Greeks in character. Restless and fickle in prosperity, constant and invincible in adversity; formed for all the arts; polished even to excess during the tranquillity of the state; rude and savage in political commotions; tossed, like ships without ballast, by the vehemence of all the passions,one moment in the skies, the next in the abyss; enthusiasts alike in good and in evil, doing the former without expecting thanks and the latter without feeling remorse; remembering neither their crimes nor their virtues; pusillanimously attached