M. Philarète Chasles is a literary disciple of Cobden. He would not only lower the barriers between province and province, but wholly abolish them between nation and nation. His imagination carries him as a balloon beyond the tops of custom-houses; and after visiting the shores of England and America, he returns to France with some curious samples of foreign literature. By this come-and-go policy of importation and exportation, he has created, or at least developed, a noble spirit of commerce, which may be termed international criticism.
This commerce is particularly useful for us who are always ready to proclaim ourselves in every thing and to every one the first nation of the globe. It is an auspicious time therefore to become acquainted with the weaknesses of our character without losing its force. The glory of the past obliges us to think of the glory of the future, which can be easily lost to us if ambition does not come in time to animate our courage. To deny that there are rivals is no way to conquer them. It is a great deal better to study them attentively, and to consider beforehand the perils of the combat. We are indeed the heroes of genius, but if we misapprehend the tactics, we say it frankly, we shall be beaten.
The author of the Etudes wishes to spare us such a humiliation, by telling us of the enemy as he is; and in this sense his work is truly patriotic, and cannot be unacceptable to any.
Many writers have instituted a relation between us and the Latins and Greeks. M. Chasles thinks that to remember the glorious dead of the south is to engender contempt for the living. It is not then towards the south that he directs his attention. The Saxon race, beyond the British Sea and the Atlantic, preoccupies him. The nations in progress are those most hopeful for new and immortal productions of the muse. The rest of the world is given to an incurable imitation. And M. Chasles is right in bringing us into the presence of the English and the Americans. He is sufficiently conversant with their language to fulfil the delicate functions of interpreter.
I know writers who, on account of studying foreign literature, so bear the imprints of it in their works, that one would say in reading them, that he had before him French translations of Italian or German, or English, or Spanish. The literary temperament of M. Chasles, however, is not changed, notwithstanding his migrations. The author of Etudes thinks in French, writes in French, and what is more, in French inherited from a Gaul. He preserves in his mind the brightness of his native sky, whether he wanders in the fogs of London, or is becoming a victim of ennui among the vapors of New-York. His pen seems to strike out sparks as he writes. He is active and bold, strong and light, independent and courteous. Nothing stops him. He runs oftener than he walks, and leaps over an obstacle that he may not lose time in going round it. Indeed, every thing is accomplished well by the intelligence that judges as it travels. Reflection itself is rapid, and logic hastens the step and smooths the way. A light and tripping foot belongs especially to criticism. If it raises a little brilliant dust in the road, it is no matter, it soon falls again. M. Chasles has no taste for old truths; he prefers much some kind of paradox which is now a truth and now a lie. It is for this reason that foreigners reproach him with being superficial. Very well! let him be so. He is a true Frenchman, for he touches only the flower of ideas, and, for a Frenchman, the flower and the surface are all one.
It is not just, however, to regard this reproach as wholly merited, although (originating beyond the British Sea) it is reproduced among us by those would-be grave men who are dull writers. M. Chasles often allies lightness of expression with great profundity of thought. His style cuts as a blade of steel. He has eloquence, gayety, irony, caprice, and all in a perfect measure. No style resembles less the childish dashes of persons of wit, and who possess nothing else—who play the mountebank by a hundred tricks to astonish the gaping crowd—a light style, if you please, but empty as it is light.
The Etudes of M. Chasles are not of that superficial character adopted by many. The admiration of ninnies is not his desire. The object that he pursues continues ever a serious one, although a thousand graces ornament the way. He has vivacity without losing precision—two characteristics of good writing seldom found together. If he indulges in digressions, they are not perceptible until the reappearance of his subject shows us how gracefully he has departed from it. He passes rapidly over what is known, while with an especial care he dwells on what is unknown. Thus, in the history of American literature he does not amuse himself long with the popular names of Fenimore Cooper and Franklin. What could he say new respecting these two great ornaments of American science and literature? His instinct of observation and criticism suggested to him the works less known of Gouverneur Morris and Hermann Melville. Between these two writers, of whom one was the contemporary of Washington, and the other still living in some corner of Massachusetts, are ranged according to their date the productions of the writers of the great American nation.
Gouverneur Morris was of a noble spirit. His Mémoires represent to us, with a full and attractive fidelity, the opinion which the young and tranquil republic of the United States entertained at the close of the eighteenth century, of the men and the events of our French Revolution. He was far from misunderstanding the abuses of our ancient society, but he deplored that it was necessary for violence to abolish them. A sensible and polished observer, he criticised them without passion, and with a benevolent irony. Let us hear him tell of a conversation he had, at Madame de la Suze's, with one of the most brilliant leaders of the gay world that had just perished. In a few lines, he presents an admirable sketch of the personage:
'The rest of our party were playing at cards, and quite absorbed in the game, when M. de Boufflers, in want of something better to do, spoke to me of America. The carelessness with which he heard me proved that he did not pay the least attention to what he had asked me.
—"But how could you defend your country from invasion without fleets and armies?"