their love of form and their sharp perceptions, but more especially to that kind of fear and wildness which they at times exhibit; for civilization has not quenched the primitive ardor and fierceness of the Frenchman yet, and it is to be hoped it never will.  He is still more than half a wild man, and, if turned loose in the woods, I think would develop, in tooth and nail, and in all the savage, brute instincts, more rapidly than the men of any other race, except possibly the Slavic.  Have not his descendants in this country—­the Canadian French—­turned and lived with the Indians, and taken to wild, savage customs with more relish and genius than have any other people?  How hairy and vehement and pantomimic he is!  How his eyes glance from under his heavy brows!  His type among the animals is the wolf, and one readily recalls how largely the wolf figures in the traditions and legends and folklore of Continental Europe, and how closely his remains are associated with those of man in the bone-caves of the geologists.  He has not stalked through their forests and fascinated their imaginations so long for nothing.  The she-wolf suckled other founders beside those of Rome.  Especially when I read of the adventures of Russian and Polish exiles in Siberia—­men of aristocratic lineage wandering amid snow and arctic cold, sleeping on rocks or in hollow trees, and holding their own, empty-handed, against hunger and frost and their fiercer brute embodiments do I recognize a hardihood and a ferity whose wet-nurse, ages back, may well have been this gray slut of the woods.

It is this fierce, untamable core that gives the point and the splendid audacity to French literature and art,—­its vehemence and impatience of restraint.  It is the salt of their speech, the nitre of their wit.  When morbid, it gives that rabid and epileptic tendency which sometimes shows itself in Victor Hugo.  In this great writer, however, it more frequently takes the form of an aboriginal fierceness and hunger that glares and bristles, and is insatiable and omnivorous.

And how many times has Paris, that boudoir of beauty and fashion, proved to be a wolf’s lair, swarming with jaws athirst for human throats!—­the lust for blood and the greed for plunder, sleeping, biding their time, never extinguished.

I do not contemn it.  To the natural historian it is good.  It is a return to first principles again after so much art, and culture, and lying, and chauvinisme, and shows these old civilizations in no danger of, becoming effete yet.  It is like the hell of fire beneath our feet, which the geologists tell us is the life of the globe.  Were it not for it, who would not at times despair of the French character?  As long as this fiery core remains, I shall believe France capable of recovering from any disaster to her arms.  The “mortal ripening” of the nation is stayed.

The English and Germans, on the other hand, are saved by great breadth and heartiness, and a constitutional tendency to coarseness of fibre which art and civilization abate very little.  What is to save us in this country, I wonder, who have not the French regency and fire, nor the Teutonic heartiness and vis inertiae, and who are already in danger of refining or attenuating into a high-heeled, shortjawed, genteel race, with more brains than stomach, and more address than character?