FRENCH & ENGLISH [Illustration]
FRENCH & ENGLISH
A Comparison
BY
PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON
AUTHOR OF ‘THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE,’ ETC.
London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND NEW YORK
1889
_All rights reserved_
ADVERTISEMENT
In the years 1886 and 1887 the author contributed a series of seven
articles to the _Atlantic Monthly_, which bore the title of the present
volume, and are in great part absorbed in it. The book, however, is
essentially new, as it contains much more matter than the articles, and
the chapters are either hitherto unpublished or rewritten in a less
desultory order.
This work is not intended to be historical. It only professes to
compare the French and English of the second half of the nineteenth
century.
PREFACE
It may be taken as typical of the author’s intentions that he has felt
uncertain which of the two nationalities he would put first in the
title, and that the question has been decided by a mere consideration
of euphony. If the reader cares to try the experiment of saying
“English and French,” and “French and English” afterwards, he will
find that the latter glides the more glibly from the tongue. There is
a tonic accent at the beginning of the word “English” and a dying away
at the end of it which are very convenient in the last word of a title.
“French,” on the other hand, comes to a dead stop, in a manner too
abrupt to be agreeable.
The supercilious critic will say that I am making overmuch of a
small matter, but he may allow me to explain why I put the Frenchmen
first, lest I be accused of a lack of patriotism. This book has not,
however, been written from a patriotic point of view; it is not
simply an exposition of the follies and sins of another nation for
the comparative glorification of my own, neither is it an example of
what Herbert Spencer has aptly called “anti-patriotism,” which is the
systematic setting down of one’s own countrymen by a comparison with
the superior qualities of the foreigner.
I should like to write with complete impartiality, if it were possible.
I have at least written with the most sincere desire to be impartial,
and that perhaps at the cost of some popularity in England, for certain
English critics have told me that impartiality is not patriotic, and
others have informed me of what I did not know before, namely, that I
prefer the French to my own countrymen.
It seems to me that the best patriotism does not consist in speaking
evil of another country, but in endeavouring to serve one’s own. There
are many kinds of service. That of a writer is above all things to
tell the truth and not to deceive his countrymen even when they wish
to be deceived. If he fails in veracity he is guilty of a kind of
treachery to his own country by giving it erroneous ideas or fallacious
information. Such treachery may become serious when the subject of
the volume is international. When public writers are patriotic in the
old narrow and perverse meaning of the term, that is to say, when
they are full of gall and injustice, when they systematically treat
the foreigner as a being who has neither rights, nor merits, nor
feelings, then, whether intentionally or not, they are urging their
own nation on the path that leads to war. When they endeavour to write
truly and justly about the foreigner, with a due consideration for his
different position and a fair recognition of his rights and feelings,
then they are favouring the growth of a conciliatory temper which,
when a difficulty arises, will tend to mutual concession and to the
preservation of peace. Is it better or worse for England that she
should maintain peaceful relations with her nearest neighbour, with
that nation which, along with herself, has done most for liberty and
light? That question may be answered by the experience of seventy years.
I have no illusions about friendship between nations. There will never
be any firm friendship between England and France, and a momentary
attachment would only cause me anxiety on account of the inevitable
reaction. All I hope for and all that seems to me really desirable is
simply mutual consideration. _That_ is possible, _that_ is attainable;
in the higher minds of both countries (with a few exceptions) it exists
already. If it existed generally in the people it would be enough to
prevent bloodshed. Any difficulty that arose between the two countries
would be met in a rational temper and probably overcome without leaving
rancour behind it. This has actually been done on one or two recent
occasions with complete success, a result due to the high patriotism of
the statesmen on both sides. A lower and more vulgar patriotism would
have aroused the passion of _chauvinisme_ which puts an end to all
justice and reason.
Whatever the spirit of justice may lead to in the correspondence of
statesmen, it is a sad hindrance to effect in literature. I am fully
aware of this, and know that, without justice, a more dashing and
brilliant book might easily have been written. _Just_ writing does
not amuse, but malevolence may be made extremely entertaining. What
is less obvious is that justice often puts her veto on those fine
effects of simulated indignation which the literary advocate knows to
be of such great professional utility. It is a fine thing to have an
opportunity for condemning a whole nation in one terribly comprehensive
sentence. The literary moralist puts on his most dignified manner when
he can deplore the wickedness of thirty millions of human beings. It is
ennobling to feel yourself better and greater than thirty millions, and
the reader, too, has a fine sense of superiority in being encouraged
to look down upon such a multitude. Justice comes in and says, “But
there are exceptions and they ought not to be passed over.” “That may
be,” replies the Genius of Brilliant Literature, “but if I stop to
consider these I shall lose all breadth of effect. Lights will creep
into my black shadows and I shall no longer appal with gloom. I want
the most telling oppositions. The interests of art take precedence over
commonplace veracity.”
The foreigner may be effectually dealt with in one of two ways. He
may be made to appear either ridiculous or wicked. The satire may
be humorous, or it may be bitter and severe. The French, with their
lighter temperament, take pleasure in making the Englishmen absurd.
The English, on their part, though by no means refusing themselves the
satisfaction of laughing at their neighbours, are not disinclined to
assume a loftier tone. It is not so much what is obviously ridiculous
in French people that repels as that which cannot be described without
a graver reprobation.
And yet, delightful as may be the pleasures of malice and
uncharitableness, they must always be alloyed by the secret misgiving
that the foreigner may possibly, in reality, not be quite so faulty as
we describe him and as we wish him to be. But the pleasure of knowing
the truth for its own sake, when there is no malice, is a satisfaction
without any other alloy than the regret that men should be no better
than they are.
One of my objects in this book has been to show real resemblances under
an appearance of diversity. Not only do nations deceive themselves
by names, but they seem anxious to deceive themselves and unwilling
to be undeceived. For example, in the matter of Government, there is
the deceptive use of the words “Monarchy” and “Republic.” When we are
told, for the sake of contrast, that England is a Monarchy and France
a Republic, it is impossible, of course, to deny that the statement
is nominally accurate, but it conveys, and is disingenuously intended
to convey, an idea of opposition that does not correspond with the
reality. The truth is that both countries have essentially the same
system of Government. In both we find a predominant Legislative
Chamber, with a Cabinet responsible to that Chamber, and existing by
no other tenure than the support of a precarious majority. The Chamber
in both countries is elected by the people, with this difference,
that in France the suffrage is universal and in England very nearly
universal. In short, the degree of difference that there is does
not justify the use of terms which would be accurate if applied to
countries so politically opposite as Russia and the United States.
Again, in the matter of religion, to say that France is “Catholic” and
England “Protestant” conveys a far stronger idea of difference than
that which would answer to the true state of the case. In each country
we find a dominant Orthodoxy, the Church of the aristocracy, with its
hierarchy of prelates and other dignitaries; and under the shadow
of the Orthodoxy, like little trees under a big one, we find minor
Protestant sects that have no prelates, and also tolerated Jews and
unbelievers. Stated in this way the real similarity of the two cases
becomes much more apparent, the most important difference (usually
passed over in silence) being that co-establishment exists in France
for two Protestant sects and for the Jews, whilst it does not exist in
England.
It is an obstacle to accurate thinking when differences are made to
appear greater than they are by the use of misleading language.[1]
France and England are, no doubt, very different, as two entirely
independent nations are sure to be, especially when there is a marked
diversity of race, but the distance between them is perpetually
varying. I hope to show in this volume how they approach to and recede
from each other. The present tendency is strongly towards likeness,
as, for example, in the adoption by the English of the closure and
county councils, which are both French institutions; and it might
safely be predicted that the French and English peoples will be more
like each other in the future than they are now. Democracy in politics
and the recognition of complete liberty of conscience, both positive
and negative, in religion, will be common to both countries. Even in
matters of custom there is a perceptible approach, not to identity,
but to a nearer degree of similarity. The chauvinist spirit in both
countries recognises this unwillingly. A nobler patriotism may see in
it some ground of hope for a better international understanding.
As it is unpleasant for an author to see his opinions misrepresented,
I may be permitted to say that in politics I am a pure “Opportunist,”
believing that the best Government is that which is best suited to
the _present_ condition of a nation, though another might be ideally
superior. When a country is left to itself a natural law produces
the sort of Government which answers for the time. I look upon all
Governments whatever as merely temporary and provisional expedients,
usually of an unsatisfactory character, their very imperfection being
a sort of quality, as it reconciles men to the inevitable change. To
make a comparison far more sublime than our poorly-contrived political
systems deserve, they are moving like the sun with all his _cortège_ of
planets towards a goal that is utterly unknown. Or it is possible that
there may be no goal whatever before us, but only unending motion. The
experimental temper of our own age is preparing, almost unconsciously,
for an unseen and unimaginable future. It is our vain desire to
penetrate the secret of that future that makes all our experiments so
interesting to us. France has been the great experimental laboratory
during the last hundred years, but England is now almost equally
venturesome, and is likely, before long, to become the more interesting
nation of the two.
I believe Parliamentary Government to be the only system possible and
practicable in England and France at the present day. I believe this
without illusion and without enthusiasm. The parliamentary system is
so imperfect that it works slowly and clumsily in England, whilst in
France it can hardly be made to work at all. With two parties the
prize of succession is offered to the most eloquent fault-finder, with
three a Cabinet has not vitality enough for bare existence. At the
present moment the English Parliament inspires but little respect and
the French no respect whatever. Still we are parliamentarians, not for
the love of long speeches in the House, but from a desire to preserve
popular liberty outside of it. The distinction here between England
and France is that in France every parliamentarian is of necessity
a republican, a freely-elected parliament being incompatible with
monarchy in that country, whereas in England Queen Victoria, unlike her
predecessor Charles I., has made it possible for her subjects to be
parliamentarians and royalists at the same time.
In the variety of national and religious antipathies we sometimes
meet with strange anomalies. Whenever there is any conflict between
French Catholics and French Freethinkers the sympathy of all but a very
few English people is assured to the Catholics beforehand, without
any examination into the merits of the case, and the case itself is
likely to be stated in England in such a manner as to command sympathy
for the Catholics. This is remarkable in a country which is, on the
whole, Protestant, as the very existence of the French Protestants
(in themselves a defenceless minority) is due to the protection of
the Freethinkers. Without that strictly neutral protection Protestant
worship would no more be tolerated in France than it was in the city of
Rome when the Popes had authority there. I may also remind the English
reader that if genuine Catholics were to become masters of England
all Protestant places of worship would be shut up, and the Anglican
sovereign would have the alternative of Henri IV, whilst the heaviest
political and municipal disabilities would weigh upon all who did not
go to confession and hear mass. On the other hand, if Freethinkers,
such as the present generation of French politicians, were masters
of England, the worst evil to be apprehended would be the impartial
treatment of all religions, either by co-establishment as in France,
or by disestablishment as in Ireland. The bishops might be dismissed
from the House of Lords, but the bishops and clergy of all faiths would
be eligible for the House of Commons, as they are for the Chamber of
Deputies.
It is now quite a commonly-received opinion in England that religion
is “odiously and senselessly persecuted” in France, but nothing is
said against the Italian Government for its treatment of the monastic
orders. Neither does it occur to English writers that this is a case
of a mote in the neighbour’s eye and a beam in one’s own. The Catholic
Church has been robbed and pillaged by the French secular power,
which allows her nearly two millions sterling a year in compensation,
and keeps the diocesan edifices in excellent repair. The Catholic
Church has been robbed and pillaged by the English secular power,
which repairs none of her buildings and allows her nothing a year in
compensation. In France the Jewish and Dissenting clergy are paid by
the “persecuting” State, in England they get nothing from the State.
Catholic street processions are forbidden in many of the French towns;
in England they are tolerated in none. In France a Catholic may be the
head of the State; in England he is excluded from that position by law.
The French Government maintains diplomatic relations with the Holy See;
a Nuncio is not received at the Court of St. James’s.
The French Government is described as persecuting and tyrannical
because it has sent pretenders into exile after tolerating them for
sixteen years. The English Government never tolerated pretenders at
all, but kept them in exile from first to last--the _last_ being their
final extinction on foreign soil.
Another very curious and unfortunate anomaly is the instinctive
opposition of French Republicans to England. It exists in degrees
exactly proportioned to the degree of democratic passion in the
Frenchman. When he is a moderate Republican he dislikes England
moderately, a strong Republican usually hates her, and a radical
Republican detests her. These feelings are quite outside of the domain
of reason. England is nominally monarchical, it is true, but in
reality, as every intelligent Frenchman ought to know, she has set the
example of free institutions.
An hypothesis that may explain such anomalies as these, is that the
ancient national antipathy which our fathers expressed in bloodshed
has now, in each nation, taken the form of jealousy of the other’s
progress, so that although each enjoys freedom for herself she
can never quite approve of it in her neighbour. There is also the
well-known dislike to neutrals which in times of bitter contention
intensifies itself into a hatred even stronger than the hatred of the
enemy. The French Freethinker is a neutral between hostile religions,
and the English lover of political liberty is regarded as a sort
of neutral by Frenchmen, since he has neither the virulence of the
_intransigeant_ nor the vindictiveness of the _réactionnaire_.
In concluding this Preface I wish to say a few words about nationality
in ideas.
The _purity_ of nationality in a man’s ideas is only compatible with
pure ignorance. An English agricultural labourer may be purely English.
The gentleman’s son who learns Latin and Greek becomes partly latinised
and partly hellenised; if he learns to speak French at all well he
becomes, so far, gallicised. To preserve the pure English quality you
must exclude everything that is not English from education. You must
exclude even the natural sciences and the fine arts, as they have been
built up with the aid of foreigners and constantly lead to the study
of foreign works. These things do not belong to a nation but to the
civilised world, and England, as Rebecca said in _Ivanhoe_, is not the
world. Her men of science quote foreign authorities continually, her
painters and musicians are nourished, from their earliest youth, on
continental genius.
But although it is impossible for an educated man to preserve the
_purity_ of his mental nationality, that is, its exclusive and insular
character, although it is impossible for him to dwell in English ideas
only when foreign ideas are equally accessible to him, the fact remains
that the educated mind still includes far more of what is English than
the uneducated one. The man who is called “half a foreigner” because he
knows a foreign language may be more largely English than his critic.
A rich man may hold foreign securities and yet, at the same time, have
larger English investments than his poorer neighbour. Even with regard
to affection, there are Englishmen who love Italy far more passionately
than I have ever loved France, yet they love England as if they had
never quitted their native parish.
The _Saturday Review_ was once good enough to say that I am
“courteously careful not to offend.” It is satisfactory to be told that
one has nice literary manners, but I have never consciously studied
the art of avoiding offence, and in a book like this it does not seem
possible to avoid it. People are more sensitive for their nation
than they are even for themselves. They resent the simplest truths,
though stated quite without malice, if they appear to be in the least
unfavourable. One evening, at Victor Hugo’s house in Paris, a few of
his friends met, and the conversation turned by accident on a book of
mine, _Round my House_, then recently published. Gambetta, who was
present, was in a mood of protestation because I had said that the
French peasants were ignorant, and Victor Hugo was inclined to take
their part. The sentiment of patriotism was very ardent and sensitive
in Gambetta, so he could not allow a foreigner to say anything that
seemed unfavourable to France. Yet the French themselves have shown
that they were aware of the ignorance prevalent in their own country by
their praiseworthy efforts to remedy it.
CONTENTS
PART I.--EDUCATION
CHAP. PAGE
1. PHYSICAL EDUCATION 1
2. INTELLECTUAL EDUCATION 15
3. ARTISTIC EDUCATION 31
4. MORAL TRAINING 39
5. THE EDUCATION OF THE FEELINGS 47
6. EDUCATION AND RANK 56