them, as the sole style of demeanour on a level with their dignified station.  Continental society is bad by its ideals.  In the execution, there may be frequent differences, moderating what is offensive in the conception.  But the essential and informing principle of foreign society is the scenical, and the nisus after display.  It is a state of perpetual tension; while, on the other hand, the usual state of English society, in the highest classes, is one of dignified repose.  There is the same difference in this point between the two systems of manners, as between the English and French tone of national intercourse, in the matter of foreign relations.  In France, when the popular blood is up, nothing is to be heard but bounce, menace, and defiance; for England, all the hurricanes of foreign wrath that ever blew, could not disturb her lion port of majestic tranquillity.  But when we distinguish between what is English and what is foreign, it becomes proper that we should say more specifically what it is that we mean by the term “foreign;” what compass we allow to that idea.  It is too palpable, and for many reasons, that the French standard of taste has vitiated the general taste of the Continent.  How has this arisen?  In part from the central position of France; in part from the arrogance of France in every age, as pretending to the precedency amongst the kingdoms of Christendom; in part from the magnificence of the French kings since the time of Louis XII.—­that is, beginning with Francis I.; and in part, since the period 1660-80, from the noisy pretensions of the French literature, at the time creating itself, followed by that natural consequence of corresponding pretensions for the French language.  Literature it was that first opened to the language a European career; but inversely the language it was that subsequently clenched and riveted the diffusion of the literature.  Two accidents of European society favoured the change.  Up to the restoration of our Charles II., diplomacy had been generally conducted in Latin.  Efforts had been made, indeed, as early as Cardinal Richelieu’s time, to substitute French.  His pupil, Mazarine, had repeated the attempt; and Cromwell had resolutely resisted it.  But how?  Because, at that period, the resistance was easy.  Historians are apt to forget that, in 1653, there was no French literature.  Corneille, it is true, was already known; but the impression which he had as yet made, even upon Paris, did not merit the name of a popular impression—­and for this decisive reason, that, as yet, Louis XIV. was a boy.  Not until seven years later, did he virtually begin to reign; whilst, as France was then constituted, nothing could be popular which did not bear the countersign and imprimatur of a king and his court.  The notion, therefore, adopted by all historians of English literature, (not excluding the arrogant Schlegel,) that Charles II., on his restoration, laid the foundation of a “French