For a man of real genius, who knows the difference
between this and that, there never was silly, shrieking inflation like Victor Hugo's. The address he has put out to the Germans, entreating them not to pursue the war, is hardly sane, so full is it of un- meaning rhetoric and conceited tricks of style. It is all cut up into short assertions and questions after this fashion :—" Germans— He who speaks to you is a friend. Three years ago, at the time of the Exposition of 1867, from the retreat of my exile, I welcomed you into your city. What city ? Paris. For Paris belongs not to us alone ; Paris is yours as much as ours. Berlin, Vienna, Dresden, Stuttgart, are your capitals ; Paris is your centre. It is in Paris that the beating of Europe's heart is felt." Con- sidering that Paris was fiercely crying "A Berlin!" two months ago, and one month ago was fiercely expelling all the innocent German residents, this assertion that Paris is the German "centre," and also that " it is one immense hospitality," will hardly be regarded by Germans as opportune. Perhaps they may reply that it is not so much the beating of Europe's heart, as the throb of Europe's passion which is felt there. But, in any case, rhodo- montade of this sort is odious and almost morally degrading in such an hour as this, when all France ought to be thinking of the vain-glory which rendered the Empire possible and popular, in- stead of loading the Emperor, who has sins enough of his own, with all the sins of France, and crying up France as an angel of purity now that it is delivered from the Empire. In spite of our hearty sympathy for France, such tawdry and unmanly falsehood as Victor Hugo's makes us sick. It is said that even he, in some
former work, has spoken of the man who should give the Rhine to France as deserving of immortal glory. Is it possible he can vapour in this style if he did?
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