the very foundations of her clear accurate language, and a

language must always be the most infallible index of national
character. In the same way you may note that the French popular

airs are those most calculated to strike the imagination, the
best-modulated melodies are taken over by the people; clearness

of thought, the intellectual" target="_blank" title="n.知识分子">intellectualsimplicity of an idea attracts them;
they like the incisive sayings that hold the greatest number of

ideas.
France is the one country in the world where a little phrase may

bring about a great revolution. Whenever the masses have risen,
it has been to bring men, affairs, and principles into agreement.

No nation has a clearer conception of that idea of unity which
should permeate the life of an aristocracy; possibly no other

nation has so intelligent a comprehension of a political
necessity; history will never find her behind the time. France

has been led astray many a time, but she is deluded, woman-like,
by generous ideas, by a glow of enthusiasm which at first

outstrips sober reason.
So, to begin with, the most strikingcharacteristic" target="_blank" title="a.特有的 n.特性">characteristic of the

Faubourg is the splendour of its great mansions, its great
gardens, and a surrounding quiet in keeping with princely

revenues drawn from great estates.
And what is this distance set between a class and a whole

metropolis but visible and outward expression of the widely
different attitude of mind which must inevitably keep them apart?

The position of the head is well defined in every organism. If
by any chance a nation allows its head to fall at its feet, it is

pretty sure sooner or later to discover that this is a suicidal
measure; and since nations have no desire to perish, they set to

work at once to grow a new head. If they lack the strength for
this, they perish as Rome perished, and Venice, and so many other

states.
This distinction between the upper and lower spheres of social

activity, emphasised by differences in their manner of living,
necessarily implies that in the highest aristocracy there is real

worth and some distinguishing merit. In any state, no matter
what form of "government" is affected, so soon as the patrician

class fails to maintain that complete superiority which is the
condition of its existence, it ceases to be a force, and is

pulled down at once by the populace. The people always wish to
see money, power, and initiative in their leaders, hands, hearts,

and heads; they must be the spokesmen, they must represent the
intelligence and the glory of the nation. Nations, like women,

love strength in those who rule them; they cannot give love
without respect; they refuse utterly to obey those of whom they

do not stand in awe. An aristocracy fallen into contempt is a
roi faineant, a husband in petticoats; first it ceases to be

itself, and then it ceases to be.
And in this way the isolation of the great, the sharply marked

distinction in their manner of life, or in a word, the general
custom of the patrician caste is at once the sign of a real

power, and their destruction so soon as that power is lost. The
Faubourg Saint-Germain failed to recognise the conditions of its

being, while it would still have been easy to perpetuate its
existence, and therefore was brought low for a time. The

Faubourg should have looked the facts fairly in the face, as the
English aristocracy did before them; they should have seen that

every institution has its climacteric periods, when words lose
their old meanings, and ideas reappear in a new guise, and the

whole conditions of politics wear a changed aspect, while the
underlying realities undergo no essential alteration.

These ideas demand further development which form an essential
part of this episode; they are given here both as a succinct

statement of the causes, and an explanation of the things which
happen in the course of the story.

The stateliness of the castles and palaces where nobles dwell;
the luxury of the details; the constantlymaintained

sumptuousness of the furniture; the "atmosphere" in which the
fortunate owner of landed estates (a rich man before he was born)

lives and moves easily and without friction; the habit of mind
which never descends to calculate the petty workaday gains of

existence; the leisure; the higher education attainable at a much
earlier age; and lastly, the aristocratictradition that makes of

him a social force, for which his opponents, by dint of study and
a strong will and tenacity of vocation, are scarcely a match-all

these things should contribute to form a lofty spirit in a man,
possessed of such privileges from his youth up; they should stamp

his character with that high self-respect, of which the least
consequence is a nobleness of heart in harmony with the noble

name that he bears. And in some few families all this is
realised. There are noble characters here and there in the

Faubourg, but they are marked exceptions to a general rule of
egoism which has been the ruin of this world within a world. The

privileges above enumerated are the birthright of the French
noblesse, as of every patrician efflorescence ever formed on the

surface of a nation; and will continue to be theirs so long as
their existence is based upon real estate, or money; domaine-sol

and domaine-argent alike, the only solid bases of an organised
society; but such privileges are held upon the understanding that

the patricians must continue to justify their existence. There
is a sort of moral fief held on a tenure of service rendered to

the sovereign, and here in France the people are undoubtedly the
sovereigns nowadays. The times are changed, and so are the

weapons. The knight-banneret of old wore a coat of chain armour
and a hauberk,; he could handle a lance well and display his

pennon, and no more was required of him; today he is bound to
give proof of his intelligence. A stout heart was enough in the

days of old; in our days he is required to have a capacious
brain-pan. Skill and knowledge and capital--these three points

mark out a social triangle on which the scutcheon of power is
blazoned; our modern aristocracy must take its stand on these.

A fine theorem is as good as a great name. The Rothschilds, the
Fuggers of the nineteenth century, are princes de facto. A great

artist is in reality an oligarch; he represents a whole century,
and almost always he is a law to others. And the art of words,

the high pressure machinery of the writer, the poet's genius, the
merchant's steady endurance, the strong will of the statesman who

concentrates a thousand dazzling qualities in himself, the
general's sword--all these victories, in short, which a single

individual will win, that he may tower above the rest of the
world, the patrician class is now bound to win and keep

exclusively. They must head the new forces as they once headed
the material forces; how should they keep the position unless

they are worthy of it? How, unless they are the soul and brain
of a nation, shall they set its hands moving? How lead a people

without the power of command? And what is the marshal's baton
without the innate power of the captain in the man who wields it?

The Faubourg Saint-Germain took to playing with batons, and
fancied that all the power was in its hands. It inverted the

terms of the proposition which called it into existence. And
instead of flinging away the insignia which offended the people,

and quietly grasping the power, it allowed the bourgeoisie to
seize the authority, clung with fatal obstinacy to its shadow,

and over and over again forgot the laws which a minority must
observe if it would live. When an aristocracy is scarce a

thousandth part of the body social, it is bound today, as of old,
to multiply its points of action, so as to counterbalance the

weight of the masses in a great crisis. And in our days those
means of action must be living forces, and not historical

memories.
In France, unluckily, the noblesse were still so puffed up with

the notion of their vanished power, that it was difficult to
contend against a kind of innate presumption in themselves.

Perhaps this is a national defect. The Frenchman is less given
than anyone else to undervalue himself; it comes natural to him

to go from his degree to the one above it; and while it is a rare
thing for him to pity the unfortunates over whose heads he rises,

he always groans in spirit to see so many fortunate people above
him. He is very far from heartless, but too often he prefers to