  Paris, January 12th, 1829. Dearest Julia, It certainly is a fine thing to have such a walk as the Louvre daily at one’s command, and to take refuge from snow and rain in the hall of gods, and among the creations of genius.—‘Vive le roi!’ for this liberality at least. I spent my forenoon in the magnificent gallery, and also visited the Egyptian Museum, of which I shall tell you more anon. At dinner, I found an interesting companion in a GÉnÉral de l’Empire, whom I accidentally met, and whose conversation I preferred to the theatre. He related a number of incidents of which he had been eye and ear-witness:—they give a more vivid picture and a deeper view of all the bearings and relations of things at that time, than are to be gathered from memoirs, in which the truth can never be revealed wholly without concealment or colouring. It would occupy too much time to repeat them all to you now; and besides, they would lose much of their vivacity: I therefore reserve the greater part for oral relations.—Only one or two. It is not to be denied, said my informant, that many vulgarities were observable in the interior of Napoleon’s family, which betrayed ‘roture.’ (By this he did not mean inferior birth, but a defective and ignoble education.) The greatest hatred and the most pitiful mutual intrigues reigned between the Bonaparte family and the Empress Josephine, who at length fell their victim. At first, Napoleon took the part of his wife, and was often reproached for it by his mother, who called him tyrant, Tiberius, Nero, and other considerably less classical names, to his face. The General assured me, that Madame had frequently told him that Napoleon, from his earliest infancy, had always tried to rule despotically, and had never shown the slightest regard for any one but himself and those immediately belonging to him. He had tyrannized over all his brothers, with the exception of Lucien, who never suffered the least offence or injury to go unrevenged. She had often, she said, observed with astonishment how perfectly the brothers had retained their relative characters. The General affirmed, that Madame Letitia had the firmest persuasion that Napoleon would end ill; and made no secret of it, that she hoarded only against that catastrophe. Lucien shared in this persuasion; and as early as the year 1811, used the following remarkable words in speaking to the General: “L’ambition de cet homme est insatiable, et vous vivrez peut-Être pour voir sa carcasse et toute sa famille jettÉes dans les Égouts de Paris.” At Napoleon’s coronation, the Empress-mother, in whose household the General held some office after he had quitted the military service (what, he did not tell me,) gave him strict charge to observe how many arm-chairs, chairs, and stools, had been placed for the imperial family, and to make his report to her unobserved as soon as she entered. The General, who had but little experience in court etiquette, wondered at this strange commission, executed it, however, punctually, and informed her there were but two ‘fauteuils,’ one chair, and so many ‘tabourets.’ “Ah! je le pensais bien,” cried Madame MÈre, red with rage, “la chaise est pour moi—mais ils se trompent Napoleon was brought up a bigot; and although too acute to remain so, or indeed perhaps ever to have been so sincerely, habit—which exercises so strong an influence over us all—rendered it impossible for him ever to divest himself entirely of first impressions. When any thing suddenly struck him, he sometimes involuntarily made the sign of the Cross,—a gesture which appeared most extraordinary to the sceptical children of the revolution. Now for one amiable trait of Charles the Fourth, whom the world would be so little apt to suspect of any delicate attention. Those who knew him intimately, however, know that he was liberal and kind, though weak and ignorant; and much better as a man than as a king. When Lucien went to Spain as ambassador from the Republic, the General, my informant, accompanied him as secretary of legation. Lucien’s predecessor had ‘affichÉ’ all the coarseness of republican manners, to the infinite scandal of the most formal and stately court in the world; and the Spaniards dreaded still greater rudeness and arrogance from the brother of the First Consul. Lucien, however, had the good taste to take the completely opposite course; appeared at court in shoes and bag-wig, and fulfilled all the duties of ceremony and etiquette with such punctuality, that the whole court was in a perfect ecstacy of delight and gratitude. Lucien was not only extremely popular, but the perfect idol of the whole royal family. He returned their friendship, the General affirmed, sincerely, and often earnestly warned the King against the Prince of the Peace, as well as against the insatiable ambition of his own brother, of whom he spoke on every occasion without the slightest reserve. The confidence, however, of the old King in his ‘grand ami,’ as he called Napoleon, remained unshaken to the last. Before his departure, Lucien crowned his popularity by a magnificent fÊte, the like of which had never been seen in Spain, and which cost nearly four hundred thousand francs. The highest persons about the court, a number of grandees, and the whole royal family honoured it with their presence; and the latter seemed not to know how sufficiently to express their attachment to the ambassador. A few days The General asserted that Lucien was very intimate with the Queen of Portugal, who gave him a political rendezvous at Badajoz. He thought D—— M—— was the result of this meeting. Certain it is, as you may remember I wrote you from London, that that prince is strikingly like Napoleon. January 13th. The turn of the GaiÉtÉ came to-day in my inspection of theatres, and I make bold to declare that I was very much amused. These little melodrames and vaudevilles are now—the French may be as grand about it as they please—their real and proper national drama; and perhaps they are not altogether innocent of the striking defection of the public to the romantic banner. People were heartily tired of the meagre fare of the There was one evening on which I gave you no theatrical intelligence. The cause of this was the horrible ennui I had suffered at the ThÉatre FranÇais. Mademoiselle Mars did not play, and I found the parts of the great and matchless Talma and Fleury sunk into the most deplorable hands. In full contrast with this classical dulness, was the excellence of the melodrame of the GaiÉtÉ; and in spite of all the long litany that may be repeated by classicists as to coarse colouring, ‘coups de thÉatre,’ improbabilities, and so forth, I am persuaded that no unprejudiced fresh mind could see it without lively interest.—Let us now go back to the ThÉatre FranÇais. After a Greco-French tragedy, in which antique dresses vainly Setting aside ‘que tous les genres sont bons hors le genre ennuyeux,’ the contents of this latter piece were really better fitted to a booth in a fair. What appears still more extraordinary is, that this stately, classical, national theatre, has itself been driven to give melodrames, (as to their contents at least,) though without music; and that these are the only representations which draw audiences. The only profitable modern piece, L’Espion, is a sufficient proof of this. Thus does one theatre after another plant the romantic standard with more or less success; and tragedies and plays ‘a la Shakspeare,’ as the French call them, daily make their appearance, in which all the time-honoured unities are thrown over the shoulder without any more qualms of conscience on the part of authors or the public. The revolution has regenerated France in every respect,—even their poetry is new; and ungrudging, never-envying Germany calls out joyfully to her, “GlÜck auf.” January 14th. To-day I visited some new buildings; among others the Bourse. It is surrounded with a stately colonnade, whose magnitude and total effect is imposing; but the long narrow-arched windows behind the pillars are in very bad taste. Modern necessities harmonize ill with ancient architecture. The interior is grand, and the illusion produced by the painting on the roof complete: you would swear they were bas-reliefs,—and very bad ones. I remarked to-day for the first time how much the Boulevards are improved by the removal of several houses: the Portes St. Martin and St DÉnis are seen to much greater advantage than before. Louis the Fourteenth deserves these monuments; for in truth, all that is grand and beautiful in Paris may be ascribed to him or to Napoleon. The rows of trees have been carefully preserved; and not, as on the DÖnhofsplatz in Berlin, large trees cut down and little miserable sticks planted in their stead. The numerous ‘Dames blanches’ and Omnibuses have a most singular appearance. These are carriages containing twenty or thirty persons: they traverse the Boulevards incessantly, and convey the weary foot-passenger at a very moderate price. These ponderous machines are drawn by three unfortunate horses. In the present slippery state of the pavement I have several times seen all three fall together. It is said that England is the hell of horses: if, however, the metempsychosis should be realized, I beg leave to be an English horse rather than a French one. It rouses one’s indignation to see how these unhappy animals are often treated, and it were to be wished that the police would here, as in England, take them under Omnibuses are to be found in other parts of the city, and the longest ‘course’ costs only a few sous.—I know few things more amusing than to ride about in them in an evening, without any definite aim, and only for the sake of the rich caricatures one meets with, and the odd conversations one hears. I was often tempted to believe that I was at the VariÉtÉs; and I recognised the originals of many of Brunets and Odry’s faithful portraits. You know how much I like to wander about the world thus, an observer of men and manners; especially of the middle classes, among whom alone any characteristic peculiarities are now-a-days to be found, and who are also the happiest,—for the medal is completely reversed. The middle classes, down to the artisan, are now the really privileged, by the character of the times and of public opinion. The higher classes find themselves, with their privileges and pretensions, condemned to a state of incessant opposition and humiliation. If their claims be adequately supported by wealth, their condition is tolerable; though even then, from ostentation,—the hereditary vice of those among the rich who are not slaves to avarice,—their money procures them far less substantial enjoyment than it does to those a step or two below them. If their rank is not upheld by property, they are of all classes in society,—except criminals and those who suffer from actual hunger,—the most pitiable. Every man ought therefore maturely to estimate his position in the world, and to sacrifice nothing to vanity or ambition; for no epoch of the world was ever less fertile in rewards for such deference to the bad and frivolous part of public opinion. I do not mean, of course, the ambition of true merit, which is rewarded by its own results, and can be adequately rewarded by them alone. We nobles are now cheaply instructed in wise forbearance and practical philosophy of every kind;—and Heaven be thanked! With such thoughts I arrived in a ‘Dame blanche’ at Franconi’s theatre, to which a blind man might find his way by the scent. The performances are certainly in odiously bad taste, and a public which had no better amusements must end by becoming but one degree above the animals they look at. I speak of the senseless dramatic pieces acted here;—the mere feats of activity and skill are often very interesting. I was particularly delighted with the slack rope-dancer called Il Diavolo, who outdoes all his competitors as completely as Vestris surpasses his. A finer form, greater agility and steadiness and more finished grace, are hardly conceivable. He is the flying Mercury descended again on earth in human shape; the air appears his natural element, and the rope a mere superfluity, with which he enwreathes himself as with a garland. You see him at an enormous height lie along perfectly at his ease when the rope is in full swing; then float close to the boxes with the classic grace of an antique; then, with his head hanging down and his legs upwards, execute an ‘entrechat Jan. 14th. As appendix to my yesterday’s letter, I bought you a ‘Dame blanche’ filled with bonbons; and, as a present for Mademoiselle H—— next Christmas, a bronze pendule with a running fountain at its foot, and a real working telegraph on the top. Tell her she may use the latter to keep up conversations which none but the initiated can understand. Paris is inexhaustible in such knicknacks: they are generally destined for foreigners; the French seldom buy them, and think them, justly enough, ‘de mauvais goÛt.’ To have done with theatres I visited three this evening. First I saw two acts of the new and most miserable tragedy, Isabelle de BaviÈre, at the ThÉatre FranÇais. My previous impressions were confirmed; and not only were the performers (with the exception of Joanny, who acted the part of Charles the Sixth pretty well) mediocrity itself, but the costumes, scenery, and all the appointments were below those of the smallest theatre on the Boulevards. The populace of Paris was represented by seven men and two women; the ‘Pairs de France’ by three or four wretched sticks, literally in rags, with gold paper crowns on their heads, like those in a puppet-show. The house was empty, and the cold insufferable. I drove as quickly as I could to the ‘Ambigu Comique,’ where I found a pretty new house with very fresh decorations. As interlude, a sort of ballet was performed, which contained not a bad parody on the German Landwehr, and at any rate was not tiresome. I could not help wondering, however, that the French do not feel about the Landwehr and the Prussian horns, as the Burgundians did about the Alp horns of the Swiss, whose tones they were not particularly fond of recalling; for, as the Chronicle says, ‘À Granson les avoient trop ouis.’ My evening closed with the Italian Opera. Here you find the most select audience; it is the fashionable house. The theatre is prettily decorated, the lighting brilliant, and the singing exceeds expectation. Still it is curious, that even with a company composed entirely of Italians the singing is never the same,—there is never that complete and inimitable whole, which you find in Italy: their fire seems chilled in these colder regions,—their humour dried up; they know that they shall be applauded, but that they no longer form one family with the audience; the buffo, as well as the first tragic singer, feels that he is but half understood, and, even musically speaking, but half felt. In Italy the Opera is nature, necessity; in Germany, England, and France, an enjoyment of art, or a way of killing time. The Opera was La Cenerentola. Madame Malibran Garcia does not, in my opinion, equal Sontag in this part: she has, however, her own ‘genre,’ which is the more attractive the longer one hears her; and I do not doubt that she too has parts in which she would bear away the palm from all competitors. She has married an American; and her style of singing appeared to me quite American,—that is, free, daring, and republican: whilst Pasta, like an aristocrat, or rather like an autocrat, hurries one despotically away with her; and Sontag warbles forth melting and ‘mezza-voce’ tones, as if from the heavenly regions. Bordogni, the tenore, had the difficult task of singing without On my return to my hotel, I was surprised by one of those Parisian ‘agrÉmens’ which are really a disgrace to such a city. Though my hotel is one of the most respectable, and in the most frequented part of the town, I thought I was alighting at a ‘cloaque.’ They were clearing certain excavations, an operation by which the houses here are poisoned twice a year. I have already burned a dozen pastiles, but can create no radical reaction. Jan 15th. I seated myself in a cabriolet early this morning, to make a wider excursion than usual. I directed the driver first to NÔtre Dame, and regretted as I passed the Pont Neuf that this spot had been assigned to the statue of Henry the Fourth. It stands most disproportionately on the naked base of the obelisk which Napoleon had projected, and for which the spot was chosen with great sagacity; whereas now, surrounded by the broad and high masses of building which form the back-ground of the little statue and enclose it in a colossal triangle, the prancing horse looks like a skipping insect. While I was following this train of observations, and thinking what Paris would have become had Napoleon’s reign been prolonged, my driver suddenly cried out “VoilÀ la Morgue!” I told him to stop (‘car j’aime les Émotions lugubres),’ and entered this house of death, which I had never before seen. Behind a lattice is a clean little room with eight wooden biers painted black, placed in a row, the heads turned to the wall, the feet towards the spectator. Upon these the dead bodies are laid naked, and the clothes and effects of each hung upon the white wall behind him, so that they can easily be recognised. There was only one; an old man with a genuine French physiognomy, rings in his ears and on his fingers. He lay with a smile on his face and open eyes like a wax figure, and with exactly such a mien as if he were about to offer his neighbour a pinch of snuff, when death surprised him. His clothes were good,—“superbes,” as a ragged fellow near me said, while he looked at them with longing eyes. There were no marks of violence visible on the body; so that the stroke of death had probably surprised the old man in some remote part of the city, and was still unknown to his relatives: misery seemed to have no share in his fate. One of the guardians of the place told me a curious fact;—in winter, the number of deaths by drowning, which is now the fashionable mode of self-destruction in Paris, is less by two-thirds than in summer. The cause of this can be no other, however ridiculous it may sound, than that the water is too cold, for the Seine is scarcely ever frozen. But as trifles and every-day things govern the great events of life much more than we are apt to think, so they appear to exercise their power even in death, and despair itself is still ‘douillet,’ and enthralled by the senses. You remember the three portals of NÔtre Dame, with the oaken doors ornamented with beautiful designs and arabesques in bronze, and how striking is the whole faÇade, how interesting its details. Continuing my drive, I alighted for a minute at the PanthÉon. It is a pity that the situation and entourage of this building are so unfavourable. The interior appeared to me almost too simple and bare of ornament, which does not suit this style; and Girodet’s new ceiling is hardly visible without a telescope. The opening of the cupola is too small and too high to enable one to see anything of the painting distinctly. I saw a piece of carpet hanging to one of the pillars, and asked what it meant: I was told that it was the work of the unhappy Marie Antoinette, and presented to the church by Madame. Over the side altar was written ‘Autel privilÉgiÉ.’ The association of ideas which this inscription suggested, led me to the neighbouring mÉnagerie, and I drove to the Jardin des Plantes. It was too cold for the animals, and almost all, living and dead, were shut up, so that I could only visit a Polar bear. I found him patiently and quietly clearing out his den with his fore paws. He did not suffer my presence to interrupt him in the least, but went on working like a labourer. He used his paws as brooms, then brought the straw and snow into his hole to make himself a comfortable bed, and at length with a sort of grumble of satisfaction slowly stretched himself out upon it. His neighbour Martin, the brown bear who once on a time ate a sentinel, is quite well, but not visible to-day. On my way back I visited a third church, St. Eustache. The interior is grander than that of the PanthÉon or NÔtre Dame, and is enlivened by a few painted windows and pictures. There was indeed a sort of exhibition of the latter, on occasion of some festival: I cannot say that much good taste was conspicuous in it. A more agreeable thing was the fine music, in which the trumpets produced an overpowering effect. Why is not this sublime instrument oftener introduced into church music? As I drove across the Place des Victoires, I sent up a sigh to Heaven over the nothingness of fame and its monuments. On this place, as you well remember, stood DÉsaix’s statue, which he had really deserved of France. Now it is thrown aside, and a Louis the Fourteenth in Roman armour, with a long wig, and mounted on a horse which looks like a wooden one, occupies its place. I had some difficulty in silencing the melancholy moralizings which this sight excited in me, by the more sensual impressions I received in the ‘salon des FrÈres ProvenÇaux,’ from excellent truffles, and the perusal of a somewhat less praiseworthy fashionable novel. I was even forced to drink a whole bottle of champagne before I could exclaim with Solomon, “All is vanity!” and add, “Therefore enjoy the present moment without thinking too much about it.” In this good frame of mind I passed through, for the last time, the Palais Royal, where so many gay ‘colifichets’ and new inventions sparkled upon me from the well-lighted shops, that I almost took the full moon, which hung small and yellow over one of the opposite chimneys, for a new toy; and should not have been much surprised if the man in the moon or Mademoiselle Garnerin had stepped out of it, and vanished again down one of VÉry’s chimneys. But as nothing of this sort happened, I followed the brilliant front of the VariÉtÉs, which eclipsed the dim oil lamps around, and entered, ‘pour y faire ma digestion en riant.’ This end Jan. 16th. Formerly Anas were the fashion; now it is Amas, ‘et le change est pour le mieux.’ To these Amas I dedicated my morning, and began with the Ama of geography, the Georama. Here you suddenly find yourself in the centre of the globe,—which Dr. NÜrnberger has not yet reached with his projected shaft; but in which you find the hypothesis of a sea of light confirmed, for it is so light that the whole crust of the earth is rendered transparent, and you can distinctly see even the political boundaries of countries. The excessive cold somewhat chilled my curiosity, so that I can only tell you that no globe elucidates geography so well as the Georama. It were to be wished that all Lancasterian schools could be thus introduced into the bowels of the earth: such a company too might warm themselves ‘mutuellement.’ The lakes appear, as in reality, beautifully blue and transparent, the volcanoes little fiery points, and the black chains of mountains are easily followed by the eye. I was amused to see that the great lakes in China had the precise outline of the grotesque and frightful faces of Chinese gods. The largest was really, without any effort of the imagination, the exact copy of the flying dragon so frequent on their porcelain. I hug myself amazingly on this discovery;—who knows if it will not throw some light on Chinese mythology? I was much displeased at seeing no notice taken of the recent discoveries at the North Pole, in Africa, and the Himalaya mountains. The whole affair appeared to me somewhat ‘en dÉcadence.’ Instead of the pretty woman who generally sits at the bureau of all exhibitions of this sort in Paris, there was a terrific person who might have passed for the LÉpreux d’Aosta. The Diorama, a mile or so further, on the Boulevards, contains views of St. Gothard and of Venice. The former, on the Italian side, which I have seen ‘in naturÂ,’ was well painted and very like; but as there is no change of light and shadow, as in the far superior Diorama in London, there is not the same variety and charm. Venice was a bad painting, and the light so yellow that it looked as if its just indignation at the French, who destroyed its political existence and then did not even keep it, had given it the jaundice. The Neorama places you in the centre of St. Peter’s; the illusion however is but faint, and the crowd of motionless figures, in a thing which pretends to perfect imitation, tends to break it. Only the sleeping or the dead can be appropriately introduced into such a scene. The festival of St. Peter is represented. Pope, cardinals, priests, and the Pope’s guard ‘en haye,’ fill the church; and are so badly painted to boot, that I took His Holiness for an old dressing-gown hung before the Jove-like statue of Peter. Passing over the well-known Panoramas and Cosmoramas, I bring Thus then I began with the central point of the earth, then admired the various glories of its surface, and after a cursory visit to the planets, left off in the sun. There wanted nothing but a final Ama representing the seventh heaven and the houris, to complete my journey: I should have seen more than the Egyptian dervise in the five seconds during which his head was immersed in the pail of water. It is better that I drop the curtain here over my sayings and doings. When it is drawn up again in your presence, I shall stand before you. After I have refreshed all the powers of my mind there, I shall tell you my further plans;—to dream away a winter amid pomegranates and oleanders; to wander awhile under the palm-trees of Africa, and to look down on the wonders of Egypt from the summit of her pyramids. Till then, no more letters. Yours most faithfully, THE END. After this comes an account of the mad attempt of Mr. Montague, the ci-devant sweep, together with a Mr. Barnett, to descend the falls of Schaffhausen in a boat, where both were of course lost. All this, being both familiar to us, and inaccurately told, has been omitted. The cicerone, who professed to have been a servant of this Mr. Montague, had probably heard the incident related of Mr. Sedley Burdett and Lord Frederick Montague. It only proves how necessary was the author’s disclaimer of responsibility.—Transl. With the exception of a man of very exalted merit, there are no Princes in Germany who are not of old family and high rank, with the appurtenant rights and privileges; therefore Princes have in that country the first rank immediately after the reigning houses. In Russia, on the other hand, the title of Prince is as good as nothing, since the service alone gives rank, privilege or importance; and in Italy, the title is not worth much more. The English mix all this up together, and seldom know what sort of tone to take with a foreigner, or what place to assign to him. “To the Unknown. “In these pages, hard words have, as I hear, been applied to me and to the new Church. Strike, my friends, but hear. Only one word, to warn you of the sin. Again I say, it draws near, raising up the veil more and more,—a glory which the tongue of man cannot express, and the spirit of man can only faintly imagine. If we can scarcely conceive that all will become new, how can we so suddenly conceive a new All? But to fall violently on the vanguard, and to insult the banner, before we know the hosts which are approaching, and the mighty men who lead them, is not advisable. Beloved brethren, how were it with you, if, with scoffing still on your lips, you recognized Him? He comes in an hour when ye think not.”—Editor. “Nicht um PlÄtze zu erlangen, nicht um ReichthÜmer zu erwerben ja nicht einmal um den Catholiken unsres Landes ihr natÜrliches und menschliches Recht wiedergegeben zu sehen, eine Wohlthat, um die ich seit 25 Jahren Gott und die Nation vergebens anrufe, nicht fÜr alles dieses habe ich mich dem neuen Ministerium angeschlossen, nein, sondern nur, weil, wohin ich mein Auge wende, nach Europa’s civilisirten Staaten, oder nach Amerika’s ungeheurem Continent, nach dem Orient oder Occident, ich Überall die MorgenrÖthe der Freiheit tagen sehe,—ja, ihr allein habe ich mich angeschlossen, indem ich dem Manne folge, der ihr Vorfechter zu seyn, eben so wÜrdig als willig ist!” A boy born in the month of October Will be a critic, and a right surly one.—Transl. “Nix is halt dÜmmer,” sagte er, “als sich um de Zukunft grÄme! Schaun’s, als i hierher kam, war’s grade Sommer, und die Season schon vorbei. Nu hatt’ en Andrer sich gegrÄmt, grad in so schlechter Zeit herkommen zu seyn; aber i dacht, ‘s wird sich schon hinziehen, und richtig, ‘s hat sich bis zum November hingezogen! Unterdessen hat mich der Esterhazy ufs Land genemmen, wo i mich gar herrlich amÜsirt hab, und nu is noch a Monat schlecht, dann wird’s wieder full, die BÄlle und die Routs gehn an, und i kann’s nie mehr besser wÜnschen! WÄr’ i nu nich a rechter Narr gewesen, mi zu grÄme ohne Noth? hab i ni recht? Man muss in der Welt grad wie ne H—— leben und nimmer zuviel an die Zukunft denken.” “Oh what were Love made for, if ’tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart; I but know that I love thee—whatever thou art.” {*} village festival.—Transl. “You put down your money,” said he, “and I deal the cards right and left. What falls to the left I win; what falls to the right you lose.”—Editor. {*} This is a joke which will be understood only by those who are acquainted with the peculiarities of the Berlin dialect. The inhabitants continually confound verbs which govern the dative mir (to me,) with those which require the accusative mich (me); for which they are much laughed at by the rest of Germany. The first syllable of course alludes to the sandy plain in which Berlin stands.—Transl. If I did not fear to appear to treat the matter too lightly, I should almost be inclined to say that we ought to begin by converting savages into Jews, before we attempt to make them Christians. This would also harmonize in a peculiar way with that powerful lever, commercial interest. Men would be civilized much more quickly by the business of buying and selling, than by Paul’s Epistles to the Corinthians. This might also serve as an index or guide; and the conformity of such a course with the laws of nature would be proved by repeated experience, wherever the same process were to be gone through. To try to make men Christians who are in so low a state of civilization as the almost merely animal inhabitants of parts of Africa, appears to me nearly as unreasonable as to send teachers of the European languages to the apes. To this stage of human culture two things are applicable, self-interest, and force beneficently employed: and in this point of view, even conversions by the sword are not so injudicious and absurd as those by Bible Societies; always provided, that they are accomplished without unnecessary cruelty, and undertaken from truly benevolent motives.{*} {*} It cannot be denied that the most efficient attempts at conversion, and those which left the most permanent consequences, were those of Charlemagne, and of the Spaniards in South America. It was only a pity that the Spaniards forced their own idolatry upon men who were, in fact, better Christians than themselves. (It is assumed, be it observed, that we have a vocation and a right to endeavour to raise people to our state of civilization without any will of theirs; but this we shall not discuss here.) The other method, namely, to work upon savages by their own present and obvious interest, can be accomplished only by trade, and appears to be the most just and mild of all; but it must also be accompanied by a certain degree of compulsion and constraint, to produce any rapid and permanent results. The worst effect of the attempts to hasten on the universality of Christianity is doubtless this; that as soon as the savage comes in collision with Christians, they must perceive that the latter,—whether governments, corporations, or individuals—while they preach benevolence, do in fact, in almost every case, act hostilely both to each other and to them. Their simple understandings, which are not rectified by higher culture, can in no way reconcile this contradiction. And as they, like children, take in little of a new faith but the mythos, it is not much to be wondered at if the liberals or free-thinkers among them exclaim, “Fable for fable, murder for murder, slave-dealing for slave-dealing, where is the difference?” Had the Christian powers really abolished the slave-trade, and destroyed the nest of robbers which, to the shame of Europe, still exist on the coast of Africa; had England, instead of sending one solitary traveller after another (men who made themselves ridiculous and contemptible by displaying their Anglo-Christian arrogance without the means of supporting it,) to be assassinated by the natives, or to die of the climate,—sent into the interior an expedition fitted to command respect, and seasoned by previous residence on the coast;—had this expedition been so constituted as, by its dignity and by beneficent compulsion, to give a more humane character to trade; and had it sought to remove all obstacles to this object, even were it sometimes by force of arms;—it is indubitable that a great part of Africa would at this moment be infinitely more civilized than it will be by centuries of missions and Bible importations. Some may ask, ‘A quoi bon tout cela?’ others, what right have we to meddle in other people’s affairs? The answer to these questions would lead us too far. For my own part, I confess I so far agree with the Jesuits, that I acknowledge that a noble end,—that is, a project calculated for the greatest possible advantage of others, and united with the power of carrying it into effect,—sanctifies all appropriate means which are, in the same sense, noble, so far at least as open force is concerned; for deceit, treachery, and dishonesty can never lead to good.—Edit. The sky is changed!—and such a change! Oh night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! And this is in the night:—Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,— A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again ’tis black,—and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.
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