France, but if we are to trust (as we must trust) M. de Tocqueville, in
almost every nation in Europe, except Britain.

And as for its moral state. We must look for that--if we have need,
which happily all have not--in its lighter literature.

I shall not trouble you with criticisms on French memoirs--of which those
of Madame de Sevigne are on the whole, the most painful (as witness her
comments on the Marquise de Brinvilliers's execution), because written by
a woman better and more human than ordinary. Nor with "Menagiana," or
other 'ana's--as vain and artificial as they are often foul; nor with
novels and poems, long since deservedly forgotten. On the first perusal
of this lighter literature, you will be charmed with the ease, grace,
lightness with which everything is said. On the second, you will be
somewhat cured of your admiration, as you perceive how little there is to
say. The head proves to be nothing but a cunning mask, with no brains
inside. Especially is this true of a book, which I must beg those who
have read it already, to recollect. To read it I recommend no human
being. We may consider it, as it was considered in its time, the typical
novel of the Ancien Regime. A picture of Spanish society, written by a
Frenchman, it was held to be--and doubtless with reason--a picture of the
whole European world. Its French editor (of 1836) calls it a _grande
epopee_; "one of the most prodigious efforts of intelligence, exhausting
all forms of humanity"--in fact, a second Shakespeare, according to the
lights of the year 1715. I mean, of course, "Gil Blas." So picturesque
is the book, that it has furnished inexhaustible motifs to the
draughtsman. So excellent is its workmanship, that the enthusiastic
editor of 1836 tells us--and doubtless he knows best--that it is the
classic model of the French tongue; and that, as Le Sage "had embraced
all that belonged to man in his composition, he dared to prescribe to