The Defects of one’s own Country.
French Criticisms of France.
It is a part of strict justice to see the defects of one’s own country as plainly as those of another. This is certainly not incompatible with strong affection, as in private life we see very plainly the defects of those whom we love well and faithfully, and for whom we are ready to make the utmost sacrifices. In this way a few Englishmen see clearly the defects of England, but I should say that many more Frenchmen see clearly and justly the defects of France. I have heard severe criticisms of France from English people, but far more telling and formidable criticisms from the French themselves, because they knew the weak points and could criticise in detail. This is especially true with regard to the defects of French administration, apparently so perfect and looking so laboriously after centimes, yet in reality unable to prevent either waste or corruption.
Inconvenience of Justice in Literature.
Baits for the French Reader.
Gallic Sharpness.
M. Philippe Daryl.
His Invention about the Queen.
The natural refuge of justice ought to be in the press, but unfortunately, as I have observed elsewhere, justice is not a very convenient or acceptable quality in literature, and least of all in journalism. Its constant tendency is to diminish the display of what people foolishly take for literary force, and to make what might otherwise have been called forcible writing seem dull and commonplace. Now, the French journalist may be wildly inaccurate, he may be wrong in all his statements, and give suppositions in the place of facts, but he cannot afford to be dull, as he addresses readers whose chief peculiarity, as he well knows, is to be inattentive. Wit and exaggeration are the baits by which the French reader is to be caught, but wit is seldom just, and exaggeration never is. There was poor John Brown, the Queen’s domestic, I will not say what the French press made of him, but in the exercise of its Gallic sharpness it got a good way beyond the truth. French writers are rather fond of laughing at the Queen, as English writers have laughed at various foreign sovereigns, and sometimes the laugh is harmless yet based on inaccurate information. For example, M. Philippe Daryl says that after a drawing-room “la reine remonte dans son carosse à six chevaux café-au-lait, de race hanovrienne comme elle, et prend le chemin de Windsor.” This is a French fiction, intended to make the Queen a little ridiculous; the Frenchman is trotting out the cream-coloured horses (they are eight, not six) for the occasion, and despatches them on the road to Windsor. As a matter of fact the Queen travels to Windsor by rail, and usually drives to the Paddington Station behind four bays, so that the whole pleasantry falls rather flat on an English reader. It is a trifle, but it may serve to illustrate the position of a French writer who must be amusing at all costs.
Great Writers not Just.