defy the Omnipotent to arms"—their great resources, their discipline, and perfect unity of purpose—their confidence in themselves, their still increasing dominion over the public mind, by which that confidence was more and more exalted, presented a spectacle which it was impossible to contemplate without a feeling of awe.
"Apparent diræ facies inimicaque Trojæ Numina."
But when all the doctrines of infidelity and materialism had been promulgated—when the "Remunerateur Vengeur," whom even Voltaire scrupled to dispense with, had been cashiered by the more thorough-going Atheists of the Système de la Nature—when philosophy had ventilated her philanthropic wardrobe, till it had actually assumed the look of cast-off finery—when ridicule had been successively and successfully cast upon every thing as it was, and all imaginable schemes of impossible reform had been propounded—even this species of literature, stimulating as it had been, ceased to interest—the productive talent of the country gradually took another direction; and while the principles of the French philosophers were operating with all the force of novelty in other countries, and with fear of change perplexing monarchs, they had ceased in France to excite enthusiasm, and, to a superficial observer, might appear likely to pass away without any abiding effect either on society or government.
But, in truth, a permanent and incurable injury had been done to the national and to the literary character. The doctrines of selfishness which resulted from materialism, and which have ever been found to be the accompaniments of a state of social decline—the want of all fixed belief in a future state—the examples of servility to power, shameless flattery, mean rivalry, and intrigue, which had been set even by such men as Voltaire—seemed to have destroyed every source of inspiration springing from belief or enthusiasm of feeling; while the torpor in which society generally was plunged—the drowsy current in which affairs seemed to run on—equally excluded the stimulus which might have been given to the imagination by the vicinity of great events and engrossing public interests. Just and striking is the remark of Vauvenargues, "Les grandes penseés viennent du cœur!" "Strange singularity!" says Villemain, "while French society was labouring with the hope of liberalizing and elevating itself, and seeking to regain a civic virtue, a party of writers were systematically employed in giving vent in their writings to opinions the most hostile to all dignity or independence of mind. But it is not the belief in personal interest and necessity; it is not the doctrine which deprives man of his soul, and makes him but the passive instrument of his own organs; it is not such a doctrine which can inspire the courage necessary for great devotion, the heroism necessary for great duties social reform and materialism seem contradictory terms."
"For when was public virtue ever found
Where private was not? Can he love the whole
Who loves no part? He be a nation's friend
Who is in truth the friend of no man there?
Can he be strenuous in his country's cause
Who slights the charities for whose dear sake
That country, if at all, must be beloved?"
To the many, no doubt, who regarded literature merely as a profession, or a means of rising in the world, such a state of things might seem tolerable enough. The regular Helots of literature continued to do their spiriting as before—not gently indeed but equably—furnishing the daily tale of bricks as in better times; for theirs was a source of inspiration unaffected by the absence of faith or genuine feeling. But to minds of a better order, who had not wholly yielded to the degrading doctrines of the time, the prospect appeared in the last degree gloomy and uncheering; nor need we wonder that when the natural feelings of such men found vent in words, the sentiments expressed should be indicative of profound life-weariness and contempt for a world which offered neither comfort here nor hope hereafter. Gilbert, dying in youth in the hospital, tired of existence, tired even of fame, in one of the few strains of genuine feeling of which the poetry of this period has to boast, doubtless speaks the sentiments of many on whose hearts the aspect of all around pressed as heavily as on his own:—
"Au banquet de la vie, infortuné convive,
J'apparus un jour, et je meurs.
