olary writing,
in what may be called the pamphlet; in another species of composition,
characteristically, peculiarly, almost uniquely, French,--the Thought
and the Maxim; by eminence in comedy, and in all those related modes of
written expression for which there is scarcely any name but a French
name,--the _jeu d'esprit_, the _bon mot_, _persiflage_, the _phrase_; in
social and political speculation; last, but not least, in scientific
exposition elegant enough in form and in style to rise to the rank of
literature proper,--the French language has abundant achievement to
show, that puts it, upon the whole, hardly second in wealth of letters
to any other language whatever, either ancient or modern.

What constitutes the charm--partly a perilous charm--of French
literature is, before all else, its incomparable clearness, its
precision, its neatness, its point; then, added to this, its lightness
of touch, its sureness of aim; its vivacity, sparkle, life; its
inexhaustible gayety; its impulsion toward wit,--impulsion so strong as
often to land it in mockery; the sense of release that it breathes and
inspires; its freedom from prick to the conscience; its exquisite study
and choice of effect; its deference paid to decorum,--decorum, we mean,
in taste, as distinguished from morals; its infinite patience and labor
of art, achieving the perfection of grace and of ease,--in one word, its
style.

We speak, of course, broadly and in the gross. There are plenty of
French authors to whom some of the traits just named could by no means
be attributed, and there is certainly not a single French author to whom
one could truthfully attribute them all. Voltaire insisted that what was
not clear was not French,--so much, to the conception of this typical
Frenchman, was clearness the genius of the national speech. Still,
Montaigne, for example, was sometimes obscure; and even the tragedist
Corneille wrote here and there what his commentator, Voltaire, declared
to be hardly intelligible. So, too, Rabelais, coarsest of humorists,
offending decorum in various ways, offended it most of all exactly in
that article of taste, as distinguished from morals, which, with
first-rate French authors in general, is so capital a point of regard.
On the other hand, Pascal,--not to mention the moralists by profession,
such as Nicole, and the preachers Bourdaloue and Massillon,--Pascal,
quivering himself, like a soul unclad, with sense of responsibility to
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