s derides Thoreau as not merely provincial, but parochial; yet that parochial life has found already three biographers in England, which is possibly two more than the lifelong transplantation of Mr. James may win for him. On the other hand, what place in the world is less truly cosmopolitan than Paris, where no native feels called upon to learn a modern language or visit a foreign country, but each Frenchman remains at home for other people to visit him and learn the language he speaks?
Paul Bourget, it is to be noticed, had to place his Cosmopolis elsewhere than in Paris.
And what a commentary it is upon the qualities which make for permanence that the genius of Edgar Allan Poe has so impressed itself on French literature as still to be quoted there, while successive literary models in that very language-Charles de Bernard, Stendhal, Baudelaire, even Guy de Maupassant — have risen and passed away!
The moral is that while cosmopolitanism may be an ornament either in manners or in