struggled and pined. Her poets, a band sadly thinned already by the
guillotine, sang in forced and hollow strains until the return of
royalism begat an imperialist fervour in the soul-stirring lyrics of
Béranger: her philosophy was dumb; and Napoleonic history limped along
on official crutches, until Thiers, a generation later, essayed his
monumental work. In the realm of exact and applied science, as might
be expected, splendid discoveries adorned the Emperor's reign; but if
we are to find any vitality in the literature of that period, we must
go to the ranks, not of the panegyrists, but of the opposition. There,
in the pages of Madame de Staël and Chateaubriand, we feel the throb
of life. Genius will out, of its own native force: but it cannot be
pressed out, even at a Napoleon's bidding. In vain did he endeavour to
stimulate literature by the reorganization of the Institute, and by
granting decennial prizes for the chief works and discoveries of the
decade. While science prospered, literature languished: and one of his
own remarks, as to the desirability of a public and semi-official
criticism of some great literary work, seems to suggest a reason for
this intellectual malaise:

"The public will take interest in this criticism; perhaps it will
even take sides: it matters not, as its attention will be fixed on
these interesting debates: it will talk about grammar and poetry:
taste will be improved, and our aim will be fulfilled: _out of that
will come poets and grammarians_."

And so it came to pass that, while he was rescuing a nation from chaos
and his eagles winged their flight to Naples, Lisbon, and Moscow, he
found no original thinker worthily to hymn his praises; and the chief
literary triumphs of his reign came from Chateaubriand, whom he
impoverished, and Madame de Staël, whom he drove into exile.