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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 permitted 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 intelleet 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, "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 Administration 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 recruited. 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 contracted 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.




MR. DASSEL's first visit to the tenement-house was not his last. Little Toddle would shout with delight when he heard the voice of the beautiful gentleman; while Abby, the girl, a thin child, with light hair and angular motions like her mother's, would brighten up into a shy smile not ugly to see, though rather colorless. Their wonderful visitor was a Prince, like the one she had read about in her torn picturebook, and his gifts were lavish in their magnificence, for they included a real hobby-horse for Toddle and a splendid pink dress for herself, besides bon-bons innumerable.

With Mrs. Bellows he was quite intimate. That severe and chilling woman had conceived a blind admiration for her visitor which, in any one but a genuine New England wife, might have made her husband shake in his shoes; but with this descendant of the Pilgrims not a spark of sentiment or romance mingled with her affection for the man who understood her and sympathized with her as Abel never could or would! Mrs. Bellows once had been pretty, like the gingham dress she wore; like that, she was now faded and limp, and yet, she was younger in years than the handsome man who dandled her baby on his knee while he talked with her. But about this she had no fancies. She never ran to the glass when she heard him on the stairs, greeting those he chanced to meet in his cheery, foreign fashion, to see if her hair were smooth or her collar pinned straight; therefore, if a flush of pleasure did mount to her face it was not a flush to conceal from the father of her children. It was a great relief to her careworn mind to tell, at full length, the trials of her lot to an appreciative listener, including all those which arose

from the besetting weakness of Abel,— that sad dissipation of his which wasted the means already too narrow for his family. He did not drink, he did not smoke, he was saving of his clothes,— only those wicked lotteries beguiled him and led him astray. Mr. Dassel shook his head over this failing, casting glances of almost tender pity at the poor apartment and the complaining occupant, promising to use all the influence he possessed to win Bellows off from so foolish a passion.

It is true that the street upon which the Bellows resided formed a "cut-off” on Dassel's route from his boardinghouse to the store of Borden & De Witt, of which it was but natural that he should avail himself, to shorten his long walk. Then, in passing, after having once proved his kindness by calling to inquire after a sick child, it might also be natural that he should repeat the deed which had seemed to give so much pleasure. At first, there was the excuse of the baby's picture, which he desired to see; then, he promised Abby a slate and pencil, and must bring them when he passed again. Mrs. Bellows was not a simpleton; she had plenty of shrewdness; and she never doubted, delighted as she was with the gentleman's civilities, and confidential as she became in her disclosures to him, but that he had some object in calling, be youd her or her children. She could see no object but Miss Bayles.

In the eyes of all the family that young lady was perfection; she was pretty enough for any man, and her manners were not to be surpassed. To be sure, Mr. Dassel was a remarkable gentleman; but that was only to make the fairy-tale come out as it should; they always had expected that some wonderful being would see Miss Bayles and her pictures, fall in love with her, and carry her off to live in a brownstone palace in the gorgeous regions of

up-town. So that when Mr. Dassel brought confectionery to the little Bellows, and talked long with the mother, no doubt his eyes, mentally, were on the sweet face of the artist in the adjoining room; and the good woman, fascinated as she was by the enjoyment of pouring forth her own troubles into an attentive ear, was not so selfish but that she cut herself off, as it were, and put herself away, to summon Miss Bayles, with transparent pretexts, into her room to meet her destined prince. All the more delighted was she when she learned, through their conversation, that they had dwelt under the same roof and sat at the same table, during those days of absence in which the artist was at the country-house of her rich friends. The Fates themselves had a hand in it, thought Mrs. Bellows, and the harder, plainer, and more humble her own lot, the more lavishly did she build up castles-in-the-air for her fair neighbor.

An opulent future was slowly unrolling itself before the blind footsteps of the young artist, but Mr. Dassel had no part in it such as the imagination of his humble friend allotted him. Yet he ook a deep interest in Miss Bayles; he devoted many hours to her, both in the tenement-house and at the villa, paying her attentions delicate and impressive.

Mrs. Bellows did not open her mind as freely, on these subjects, to Abel, as she would have done, had not a halfguilty consciousness that she was holding up the faults of her husband to a stranger, restrained her. Abel knew that Mr. Dassel came often to his house; he saw the presents received by the children; also, the guest was as apt to come when he was at home as when away. Indeed, to no one did he make himself more agreeable than to the porter. He frequently spent whole evenings with him playing draughts and backgammon, chatting, between-times, to the wife and Miss Bayles.

On many occasions the subject of the robbery at the store came up. The murder had made a profound impression upon Abel. He never could speak of it without nervousness, and a slight

pallor over his ruddy face. The shock to him had been great, for he very well knew that chance might have made him the victim, in place of his unfortunate comrade; while visits of aid and sympathy to the mourning widow kept alive those feelings of horror which he had at first experienced.

Yet, by a curious fascination, it seemed that he and Mr. Dassel could hardly sit down together for a quiet game, but that the subject was introduced. Dassel naturally enough had a great interest in it. Being correspondent for the house, he was interested in their concerns; and then, as he told the little man opposite -whose blue eyes were fixed upon him, as he spoke, with an indescribable, halfeager, half-withdrawn look-he had an inborn taste for disentangling the threads of mysterious crimes or complicated legal troubles-he should have been a lawyer, and had almost decided to study, yet, for the profession.

"I have no doubt I could now pass an examination, having read law, all my life, in pursuance of my natural inclinations," he remarked, one evening. "And, about this robbery, I never told you, Abel, that since my return from St. Louis, I have come upon a clue which I think will lead me to the guilty parties."

"Is that so?"

The two men looked at each other across the table. They were alone, Mrs. Bellows having gone down to spend the evening with the school-teacher's wife, and the children were in bed.

It was a cool night, carly in November. It was a common thing for the visitor to send out for a pitcher of lager, from which he and Abel would drink moderately as they played their harmless game; but this evening, Dassel, complaining of chilliness, had asked permission to make some hot whiskey punch. Abel, consenting, drew the coals under the kettle, heated the water, and then told his guest to suit his own taste; as for himself, he seldom tasted whiskey. "Of course not, except to keep off chills," the visitor responded in his cheery manner; but, when his

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