In some writers the flicker of
French brilliancy illumines the depth of these Teutonic woods, producing
a German which, in spite of the condemnation of the Emperor, we should
like to write ourselves if the choice were offered to us.
But, notwithstanding the depth and strength of German, it is generally
agreed that as an instrument of thought French prose in a master-hand is
unrivalled, by its subtlety and precision, and its epigrammatic force.
Every one knows and laments the decadent style which is eating into it;
and every one knows that the deplorable tone of much of its contemporary
literature makes discernment in French reading a matter not only of
education but of conscience and sanity; but this does not make the
danger to be inherent in the French language; obliging translators are
ready to furnish us, in our own language and according to taste, with
the very worst taken, from everywhere. And these faults do not affect
the beauty of the instrument, nor its marvellous aptitude for training
the mind to precision of expression. The logical bent of the French
mind, its love of rule, the elaborateness of its conventions in
literature, its ceremonial observances dating from by-gone times, the
custom of giving account of everything, of letting no nuance pass
unchallenged or uncommented, have given it a power of expression and
definiteness which holds together as a complete code of written and
unwritten laws, and makes a perfect instrument of its kind.
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