of the country, of the rustic home and the carpenter's shop: in the other we are stifled by the perfumes of the court-room and suffocated by tight lacing. In the one we are never for a moment to wear a mask: in the other we are never for a moment to move without it. Yet, though the one is built up of social theories by an enthusiastic dreamer, and the other is a cold, practical experiment by a man of the world, and "an imperfect man of action, whom politics had made a perfect moralist," there is the same verdict of failure to be pronounced upon them both. Voltaire said of Emilius that it was a stupid romance, but admitted that it contained fifty pages which he would have bound in morocco. Lord Chesterfield's was no romance, but its pages deserve perhaps as careful treatment. "It is a rich book," says Sainte-Beuve; "one cannot read a page without finding some happy observation worthy of being mentioned." Yet, as a system of education, it is blasted with the foul air of the charnel-house.
V.
If we look at the result we must pronounce his experiment no less a failure. The odds were too heavy in the first instance, and a man of less energy and stability than Lord Chesterfield would not have dared to have played at such high stakes. He ought
