Whatever the spirit of justice may lead to in the correspondence of statesmen, it is a sad hindrance to effect in literature. I am fully aware of this, and know that, without justice, a more dashing and brilliant book might easily have been written. _Just_ writing does not amuse, but malevolence may be made extremely entertaining. What is less obvious is that justice often puts her veto on those fine effects of simulated indignation which the literary advocate knows to be of such great professional utility. It is a fine thing to have an opportunity for condemning a whole nation in one terribly comprehensive sentence. The literary moralist puts on his most dignified manner when he can deplore the wickedness of thirty millions of human beings. It is ennobling to feel yourself better and greater than thirty millions, and the reader, too, has a fine sense of superiority in being encouraged to look down upon such a multitude. Justice comes in and says, “But there are exceptions and they ought not to be passed over.” “That may be,” replies the Genius of Brilliant Literature, “but if I stop to consider these I shall lose all breadth of effect. Lights will creep into my black shadows and I shall no longer appal with gloom. I want the most telling oppositions. The interests of art take precedence over commonplace veracity.” The foreigner may be effectually dealt with in one of two ways. He may be made to appear either ridiculous or wicked. The satire may be humorous, or it may be bitter and severe. The French, with their lighter temperament, take pleasure in making the Englishmen absurd. The English, on their part, though by no means refusing themselves the satisfaction of laughing at their neighbours, are not disinclined to assume a loftier tone. It is not so much what is obviously ridiculous in French people that repels as that which cannot be described without a graver reprobation. And yet, delightful as may be the pleasures of malice and uncharitableness, they must always be alloyed by the secret misgiving that the foreigner may possibly, in reality, not be quite so faulty as we describe him and as we wish him to be. But the pleasure of knowing the truth for its own sake, when there is no malice, is a satisfaction without any other alloy than the regret that men should be no better than they are.