anced--though perhaps chiefly from a sense of duty--to the very steps
of the central throne. But if an English painter were to choose a
similar subject, how would he treat the master who stands acknowledged
as the most characteristic representative of the literature of France?
Would Racine find a place in the picture at all? Or, if he did, would
more of him be visible than the last curl of his full-bottomed wig,
whisking away into the outer darkness?

There is something inexplicable about the intensity of national tastes
and the violence of national differences. If, as in the good old days, I
could boldly believe a Frenchman to be an inferior creature, while he,
as simply, wrote me down a savage, there would be an easy end of the
matter. But alas! _nous avons change tout cela_. Now we are each of us
obliged to recognise that the other has a full share of intelligence,
ability, and taste; that the accident of our having been born on
different sides of the Channel is no ground for supposing either that I
am a brute or that he is a ninny. But, in that case, how does it happen
that while on one side of that 'span of waters' Racine is despised and
Shakespeare is worshipped, on the other, Shakespeare is tolerated and
Racine is adored? The perplexing question was recently emphasised and
illustrated in a singular way. Mr. John Bailey, in a volume of essays
entitled 'The Claims of French Poetry,' discussed the qualities of
Racine at some length, placed him, not without contumely, among the
second rank of writers, and drew the conclusion that, though indeed the
merits of French poetry are many and great, it is not among the pages of
Racine that they are to be found. Within a few months of the appearance
of Mr. Bailey's book, the distinguished French writer and brilliant
critic, M. Lemaitre, published a series of lectures on Racine, in which
the highest note of unqualified panegyric sounded uninterruptedly from
beginning to end. The contrast is remarkable, and the conflicting
criticisms seem to represent, on the whole, the views of the cultivated
classes in the two countries. And it is worthy of note that neither of
these critics pays any heed, either explicitly or by implication, to the
opinions of the other. They are totally at variance, but they argue
along lines so different and so remote that they never come into
collision. Mr. Bailey, with the utmost sang-froid, sweeps on one side
the whole of the literary tradition of France