French novels, and, indeed, of the French poetry, of the present day is too well known to require much comment. Three authors only I will name:—Béranger, the noble Béranger, the exquisite chansonnier and faithful eulogist of Napoleon —like our own great song-writer,. Burns,[1] not entirely free from the corrupting influence;—Paul de Kock, who, with his exhaustless humour and kindly sympathy with life of all grades, might have done better things: and Honoré de Balzac, whose Contes Drolatiques—written not only in the style, but in the vieux langage of Rabelais—are, as he notifies in the title, expressly "for the diversion of Pantagruelists, and no others (pour l'esbattement des Pantagruelistes, et non aultres)" I hope the limitation will be observed, and then, I think, these tales will find few readers on this side of the Channel.
It will be seen that I am by no means one of those who consider that no harm may be derived from the perusal of an impure book, unless the impurity be already inherent in the reader's mind. Moreover, the question of contagion aside, we have nothing to do with these diseased forms of literature. Literature, fulfilling its noble and real office, seeks, like the Spirit of Truth, to lead us into all truth. Let us seek after truth, and truth only, neither turning to the right hand nor to the left, and ever remembering the apostolic injunction:— "Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but that which is good to the use of edifying."
- ↑ See the song, When Januar' Wind. Of Béranger, see Le Senateur, and not a few songs in the volume (Chansons, par M—un tel) published anonymously in 1816.
THE END.
[The first sketch of this essay was written in Glocestershire during the months of October and November, 1860, and read before an amateur literary association in December of the same year. Immediately after it was printed, but suppressed before publication. In the present edition numerous alterations have been made, and much new matter has been added.]
