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display themselves before the world in the most lovely, the most gorgeous, the most strange, or the most extravagant of dresses. To them flock the "gentlemen of Paris, glad to see, to know, to talk, to flirt before the civilized world. Around them gather the "ladies" of Paris, princesses, duchesses, marquisses, and empresses, to see what the latest fashion is, to know how a lady is to array herself; only anxious to equal she cannot rival-these free "dames du lac." Such is the latest phase of Christian civilization in Paris!

The name of Cora Pearl is well known. She is an English girl, who has beaten the French on their own ground. Her wit, her beauty, her audacity, her vice, have surpassed theirs, and to-day she rivals the Empress herself in the gaze of the crowd. She it was who invented the fashion of wearing red hair; she dyed that of her poodle red, that it might be in harmony with her own. The brunettes of Paris hate none so much as her. They long to thrust a knife under the fifth rib-but murder is not permitted.

I have said that fashion means business-that it is thoroughly systematized -that it is a mystery-and that it has its finger in the purse of every woman in the land. Can any one doubt? Can any fail to see that, by means of it, Paris draws a tribute of $90,000,000 from the universal world? Can any one question that, if Paris could to-day be engulfed five thousand fathoms deep, the soul of every woman would be freed from a terrible tyrant? Does she desire to be freed? Let her answer for herself. There is one religion in Paris, and it is called Roman Catholic. It is a curious fact that in this city, where the Calvinists once almost drove out the Catholics, there exist to-day but two Calvinistic houses of worship. There is one religion, but, according to Guizot, there is not a faith-or almost none. Faith in the unseen, faith in virtue, faith in an after-life of which this is the mere beginning, is rare, if it is to be found at all in the Church. This religion, through two thousand years, has be

come thoroughly systematized into a Church. This Church is a perfect machine, which is indeed a power in the State, but is controlled and managed by the State. This perfect machine is in the hands of able men, and is an inte gral part of the social life of the city. The worship at Notre-Dame is a superb spectacle; the dresses are rich, the lights fine, the music delightful, the audiences well-behaved. Here, too, is applied that wonderful system and thoroughness which marks every thing in Paris. A high-mass costs from 50 to 300 francs; a grand marriage, with carpets, chairs, choir, &c., costs some 300 francs; and blessed candles for the poor to burn before the shrine of "Our Lady" can be had for a few sous. Death, too, pays. The business of burying is in the hands of the great company (Pompes Funèbres) chartered by the State, who furnish funerals at prices ranging from 19 francs to 7,184 francs-of which the Church has its share. We must not forget, however, that in the bosom of this wonderful Church lives and acts a body of women who save it from perdition-the Sisters of Charity. Some of them are old, many young, but all devoted. They spend their lives in relieving distress and allaying suffering. They do this not for money, but for the love of God and man. In the Church, too, are to-day, as there always have been, honest, sincere, devoted men, who work at the problem of human life, and labor to raise the souls of men from the temporal to the spiritual. Just now the most conspicuous of these are Father Felix and Father Hyacinth. The first is a Jesuit, and a most finished and cultivated preacher; but he fails to impress one with the earnestness and intensity of feeling which inspires Father Hyacinth. This last always attracts crowds, and they are not only women. Grave men, ministers, artists, writers, hang upon his fiery words in rapt attention. The Church is crowded hours before he speaks; carriages stop the way. It is a new, a startling, a novel sensation-this man preaching, as though he believed it, the gospel of the

poor and the suffering-the gospel spoken by Jesus of Nazareth two thousand years ago on the banks of the Sea of Galilee.

What is the result? It were impossible to tell. The brilliant correspondent of the Evangelist confesses herself perplexed. She sees the crowd, she knows they are impressed, moved, electrified; but they turn away talking as they would after hearing an opera or seeing a performer. They have had a sensation-they go away. She says: "Never has preaching in the Church been more followed. Never was there more talent put into requisition to satisfy this mercurial population, mad for excitement of every kind-whether in the church or the theatre; yet never, perhaps, was there more of demoralization in society, or even vice, more unblushingly displayed in the amusements and literature of the people." What, then, has religion come to be, and where is the home of faith?

Sunday is in no sense a holy day. The Church discourages business labors, and most of the public works are suspended; but private enterprises go forward, and for a part of the day labors go on, and the small shops are kept open. The people throng the museums and gardens; the shows of the Champs Elysées are vivacious, and the theatres are in full blast. Sunday is the holiday of the people.

Education is not universal, but in the higher walks it is not surpassed. The "Polytechnique," the "School of Mines," the "School of Natural History," the "Academy of Fine Arts," the "Conservatoire," the "Sorbonne," and the "School of Medicine," attract thousands of scholars from all parts of the world. There are also some five hundred schools for elementary instruction, where some seventy-two thousand children are taught at the expense of the State.* These schools are under the charge of the "Brothers of the Christian Faith," the counterpart of the "Sisters of Charity." The education here is

* Annual cost, £120,000 ($600,000).

most practical and valuable, being such only as will fit the children for the work they have to do in life; for it is not understood there that every child will probably be a senator, or an emperor, as here. The mind of France concentrates in Paris, and the mind of Paris concentrates in the Institute. This comprises: 1. The Académie Française, founded since 1635, of forty members. 2. The Académie des Inscriptions et Belleslettres (1663), of fifty members. 3. The Académie des Sciences (1666), of seventyfive members. 4. The Académie des Beaux Arts (1648–71), of fifty members. 5. The Académie des Sciences Morales et Politiques, of forty-six members. Those who have the honor of being elected to these posts have received the stamp of excellence, and are recognized masters. Even in the whirl and vanity and excitement of Parisian life, it is anxiously asked, "When is there to be a sitting of the Academy? when a reception?" and tickets are eagerly sought for.

In the various branches of science the French are unsurpassed. In the fine arts, especially in painting, they are today unrivalled. In literature there is certainly vast activity, and in the year 1860 nearly twelve thousand literary works were published, besides numerous periodicals. The press would be the most brilliant and varied in Europe, but it is muzzled. In the department of fiction, there is more brilliancy, variety, and intensity, and more vice, than in any literature of Europe; and it is a significant fact that the tendency in all directions is to tickle a satiated appetite and to excite a prurient imagination. Works are published and read unblushingly in Paris, which would not bear the light in America; and they prove most profitable.

In the departments of literature, science, and art, men not only reap honors, but they gather wealth, more than elsewhere. But they work; they spare no pains; they are thorough. Here is now to be found the true nobility of France, small in numbers, great in intellect. But this nobility, we may well believe, is nigh hopeless. It looks,

and it sees Cæsarism, sword in hand, sitting on the throne, in the temple, in the schools; it sees vice made beautiful, accepted, and worshipped; it sees the grossest materialism mastering a whole people, and-it can do almost nothing -it is silent, its mouth is shut.

It is a significant fact, that when, recently, some of these earnest souls proposed to establish a free readingroom for the workmen of Paris, the police at once arrested it. No, it could not be! Men rarely speak of Cæsarism in Paris; but what are their thoughts?

Paris, in fact, is the city of the stranger, for by the stranger the people live. Its manufactures are peculiar; they are most perfect and thorough, and they are especially of such things as the stranger can and will buy. They produce in perfection shoes and gloves, clothes in variety, watches and bronzes, pianos and perfumery, artificial flowers, and all varieties of instruments. As long ago as 1851, the annual product of these amounted to $292,725,000, and it may now be double that.

The city is made gay and beautiful to please the eye of the stranger; the galleries and museums are free for their use; the great streets are gay with gas and people; the eating and drinking are of the best; thirty theatres, paid by the State, nightly open wide their doors, ranging from the Grand Opera to the Theatre Montmartre; circuses and concerts are cheap; balls of all sorts abound; at the Mabille manners are free but good, at the Chateau Rouge they are most free, if not good; "Où il y a de la géne, il n'y a pas de plaisir." Such is their motto "pleasure at any price." Over two millions of dollars are received yearly at some nineteen of the first theatres; and all places of amusement are thronged.

Two hundred thousand strangers visited Paris to witness the distribution of the Eagles to the army; and the numbers who have visited the Great Exposition reach millions. All have left their money at Paris. Listen! "Of all modern cities Paris is the most eminently ennuyé, gossiping, and indif

ferent. For a long time she has permit. ted any one to say or do any thing before her, without shame or hesitation, if only she may be diverted for a moment." So says one of her own writers.

No visitor will fail to be struck with two things at Paris. One is, the brilliancy of the city. No city surpasses it in this respect-but I felt, when I saw it, that it was the brilliancy of veneering admirably varnished. A more careful examination satisfied me that this is so. It is not a hearty, substantial, honest, real city. The other thing is, the people. Industrious, capable, thorough, they certainly are; but they are not gay, light-hearted, trivial. They are in grim earnest to get something to eat, and they use every faculty, they strain every nerve, they practise every art to accomplish it. But their wonderful, admirable, superlative quality is shown in the patience and good nature with which they know and accept their destiny, and make the best of it. I do believe there is less of whining and repining at the situation, and a more widespread determination to enjoy their poverty, than in any other country of the known world. And this habit of making the best of things, and enjoying small pleasures, might make them teachers of us in America. The Parisians have less and enjoy more, while we have more and enjoy less, than any other people.

The brilliant city, then, is the result of a thousand years of paternal government, enlightened by science, softened by art, tempered by the Church. It is considered by the Parisians certainly, if not by the world, as the finest flower of modern civilization.

Is it the best that human nature is capable of? I ask you to think of it.

What is to be its future, what its perfection, it were hard to tell. Believing, as I do, that such a civilization is a sham and a delusion, permitted by the providence of God to prove to us the folly and feebleness of humanity, I do not altogether admire it. Not only do I distrust it, but so do others; and

he, the man who has grasped it and made it his, as much as any, perhaps.

On the 18th of last November (1867), Louis Napoleon made a speech to his Senate and Corps Législatif, which was intended to reassure his own people, and himself. He said, among other things, "You will, I trust, vote laws which will be submitted to you that will contribute, &c., &c." Observe "that will be submitted to you!" By whom?

Again: "The journey I have made with the Empress to the east and north of France has afforded the opportunity for manifestations of sympathy which have touched me profoundly. I have been able to ascertain that nothing has been able to shake the confidence the people have placed in me, and the attachment they entertain toward my dynasty, &c., &c."

"Manifestations of sympathy," and "my dynasty," are the key-notes of this painful moan. Does the man see the end approaching? Does he see that in all the millions of France, not a thousand have any sympathy with his grasped Empire? that not one of all those millions loves him? that the conscience of France has judged him? that the intellect of France scorns him? that the shopkeepers and traders support him only because they fear change? He knows, and his people know, that he is all false, and his Empire a falsehood, and yet not a man in all France dare print one word of criticism or condemnation; not a man dare whisper it above his breath; his Senate and Corps Législatif must vote the laws he submits, or none. Meantime, starvation today presses more heavily upon the people of Paris; placards are posted in the secrecy of night, "Bread, or death!" His moan says, 66 The situation is undoubtedly not free from embarrassments. Industrial and commercial activity has slackened; uneasiness is general in Europe-the harvest is not good -dearness is inevitable," &c. Besides which, the great Adventurer's schemes in Mexico have proved a complete failure, and the blood of Maximilian smells

at the foot of the throne. More than all, that other great adventurer, the Count von Bismarck, pulls his beard, and laughs at his padded figure. He has ceased to be the scarecrow of all Europe, and he knows it.

"My dynasty" strikes another note it is also a wail. The poor boy for whom he has hoped much and sinned much, the unhappy victim of his father's corruption, drags out his melancholy life, and will not live to sit in the throne his sire has seized. It will not be strange, then, if this strange man should see himself the last of his strange line, and that his setting should be solitary and in clouds and darkness; for we should never forget that there is a God above, and that villany is sometimes vanquished on earth. Napoleon has played a bold and a desperate game, and he has won. But if, to have the respect of the wise, the esteem of the noble, the sympathy of the virtuous, the love of the poor and weak, be evidences of a God-like man, then he has them not then he is a total failure.

But we must leave him. The convulsion will come, but not during his lifetime. I do not look for it; his system is too perfect; and while he divides the spoil of the people with his generals and his army, he will keep his seat. We have to see and understand this, and then guard ourselves against the glittering idol who is only washed with gold.

To show how differently men see, I venture to give here the criticisms of a gentleman whose high position and whose means of observation entitle his views to great weight.

"I have read your paper about Paris, and was not surprised to find that you have adopted the prevailing American view of the French people and Government-a view substantially the same as that which has been sedulously inculcated by the English press and stage for the past two hundred years or more. I suppose it is the more popular view, and will therefore be acceptable to your readers, at least on this side of the Atlantic. I think, however, if you had seen the French Adminis tration more nearly and known the French people more intimately, you would entertain different views from those expressed in your

paper. You would find that you have underrated them politically, socially, and morally, and failed to appreciate the obligations under which, for full three centuries that they have held the lead of European civilization, they have placed mankind. However, such views would astonish rather than gratify your readers, who will, I dare say, be charmed and satisfied with your picture.

"I feel that I should hardly comply with the promise I made you, if, after what I have written, I did not state some of the points on which I differ most widely from you.

"I do not think the French military force is more burdensome, in proportion to population, or more expensive, than that of Russia, Prussia, Austria, or even England, counting, as it is proper to do, the naval forces.

"Louis Philippe depended just as much upon the army as Napoleon III. does. If it furnishes the latter more support, it is because he renders his administration more acceptable to the people from among whom the army is recruit ed. It is a familiar mot quite current in France, that the French army never made or prevented a revolution. It is true.

"I think you entirely overstate the distress in Paris. I know of no people in any city in the world so comfortably fed and clothed, and where all the material conditions of living are so favorable, not excepting our own.

"You are mistaken in supposing that passports are a part of the enginery of the police. Passports are not required at all of travellers entering or sojourning in France. I think you greatly exaggerate also the espionage of the police, which, in all my residence in Paris, I never knew to seek information that all good citizens were not interested in its procuring. Of course there were cases, no doubt, of a dif

ferent character, but they were so rare, and so circumscribed in their range, that they never, so far as I now recollect, came under my observation.

"I think you overstate the mercenary character of matrimonial engagements in France. Mercenary marriages are contracteď everywhere, and the most mercenary matches that I have known in France were between parties half American. Some of the pleasantest and most affectionate domestic circles I have ever known I found in France.

"While I do not think the French women specially noticeable for physical beauty, there are no women in the world of such taste or of such rare companionable qualities. No salons in the world are so renowned as the French.

"So the French men are a remarkable race; they feed, clothe, and decorate the wealthier class of all civilized countries. They are not poor, as you seem to suppose, but very rich. The wealth of France is enormous, and, I suspect, increasing as rapidly as that of any other State in Europe. In estimating the social and physical condition of the French man, you must not overlook this remarkable fact that the Frenchman rarely emigrates, and never without the animo revertendi.

"You will see by these observations that I do not share at all the popular impressions about the French, nor about their sovereign, who is a man like the rest of us, and is animated by substantially the same motives as other men, with ability enough to place himself at the head of forty millions of people, would be."

I can only add to this, that French figures seem to sustain the view I have presented.


BE not thy heart devoured by love of fame,
That hound wild-howling ever to the moon!

Should'st thou the world may smile a realm of June
Brimful of flowers, and not a hue shall claim
Thy look ;-ho, what is fame! a transient thing
Treacherous as transient! shadow of a wing
Swift gliding over, leaving thee forever;
Wishing the shadow's blest return, and never
Hailing its mocking balm ;-yea, what is fame!
A bubble blown by chance, an echoing name

And dying with the echo; Genius bears

No certain claim; what gloom its splendor wears,

Missing the sun at which its wing was bent

No! seek not praise but peace, not clamor but content.

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