Passing Holland and Belgium as more akin to the genius of the English people, as respects the supremacy of honest industry, its independent exercise, and the comparative insignificance of aristocracies, conventionally so called, we come to FRANCE:  there we find a provincial and a Parisian aristocracy—­the former a servile mob of placemen, one in fifty, at least, of the whole population; and the latter—­oh! my poor head, what a clanjaffrey of journalistes, feuilletonistes, artistes, dramatists, novelists, vaudivellistes, poets, literary ladies, lovers of literary ladies, hommes de lettres, claqueurs, litterateurs, gerants, censeurs, rapporteurs, and le diable boiteux verily knows what else!

These people, with whom, or at least with a great majority of whom, common sense, sobriety of thought, consistency of purpose, steady determination in action, and sound reasoning, are so sadly eclipsed by their vivacity, empressement, prejudice, and party zeal, form a prominent, indeed, the prominent aristocracy of the salons:  and only conceive what must be the state of things in France, when we know that Paris acts upon the provinces, and that Paris is acted upon by this foolscap aristocracy, without station, or, what is perhaps worse, enjoying station without property; abounding in maddening and exciting influences, but lamentably deficient in those hard-headed, ungenius-like qualities of patience, prudence, charity, forbearance, and peace-lovings, of which their war-worn nation, more than any other in Europe, stands in need.

When, in the name of goodness, is the heart of the philanthropist to be gladdened with the desire of peace fulfilled over the earth?  When are paltry family intrigues to cease, causing the blood of innocent thousands to be shed?  When will the aristocracy of genius in France give over jingling, like castanets, their trashy rhymes “gloire” and “victoire,” and apply themselves to objects worthy of creatures endowed with the faculty of reason?  Or, if they must have fighting, if it is their nature, if the prime instinct with them is the thirst of human blood, how cowardly, how paltry, is it to hound on their fellow-countrymen to war with England, to war with Spain, to war with every body, while snug in their offices, doing their little best to bleed nations with their pen!

Why does not the foolscap aristocracy rush forth, inkhorn in hand, and restore the glories (as they call them) of the Empire, nor pause till they mend their pens victorious upon the brink of the Rhine.

To resume:  the aristocracies of our provincial capitals are those of literature in the one, and lickspittling in the other:  mercantile towns have their aristocracies of money, or muckworm aristocracies:  Rome has an ecclesiastical—­Prussia, Russia, military aristocracies:  Germany, an aristocracy of functionaries:  France has two, or even three, great aristocracies—­the military, place-hunting, and foolscap.