In spite of the romancers and all the twaddle they talk in the interest of the psychological novel, there are no women capable of warmer and more generous friendships than Frenchwomen, none capable of a deeper, discreeter, more abiding loyalty. They are astonishingly indulgent, too, which is part of their great sense, and even their intolerance, where it exists, they have the grace to clothe in the suavity of tact. If they talk, as they too often do, a great deal of nonsense about the English, and cherish vast illusions about their own nation, this is only in the nature of things, seeing that there is no race in the world brought up in more astonishing ignorance of every other race, and more trained to cherish denser prejudices. At school they learn only French geography, French history, French grammar. The rest of Europe comprises mere congested districts round France; and while it takes several volumes to learn the history of France, the history of other peoples may be told in a few paragraphs. Boys may fare differently, but in my time this is how French girls were taught. England, as the traditional enemy, must necessarily expect rough treatment at the hands of the French; and in a country where the Press is a blatant monument of misrepresentation, the women cannot be wiser than their country, led by such a disastrous influence. French prejudices against England are as substantial and
