Chapter VI: Part 6

If the old proverb be true, that a man is known by the company he keeps, it is equally true, on the other hand, that a statesman may be rightly known by examining the character of his opponents. And who are the opponents of Napoleon III.? With the exception of a few partisans of the Bourbons, (whose opposition to the Napoleon dynasty is an hereditary complaint,) they are radical demagogues, who delight to mislead the fickle multitude with the words, "Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity," on their lips, but the designs of anarchy and bloodshed in their hearts. Their ranks are swelled by a number of visionary "philanthropists," and a large number of newspaper scribblers deprived of their occupation by Napoleon's salutary laws against abuse of the liberty of the press, and lacking ambition to earn an honest livelihood. Among them may be found a few literary men of high reputation, who have espoused some impracticable theory of government, and would blindly throw away their well-earned fame, and shed the last drop of their ink in forcing it upon an unwilling nation.

Slander, like Death, loves a shining mark. The fact cannot be doubted, if we look at the lives of the greatest and best men the world has ever seen. In truth, a large part of the heroism of the noblest patriots, and the purest philanthropists, has been created by the necessity they have been under to bear up against the obloquy with which enmity or envy has assailed them. The Emperor Napoleon is, beyond a doubt, the best abused man in Christendom. There probably never existed a man whose every act and every motive have been more studiously misrepresented and systematically lied about than his. It cannot be wondered at, either; for he exercises too much power in the state councils of Europe, and fills too large a space in the public eye, not to be assailed by those whose evil prophecies have been falsified by his brilliant reign, and whose lawless schemes have been frustrated by his unexampled prudence and firmness.

And what right has he to complain? If St. Gregory VII. were obliged to submit for centuries to being represented as an ambitious self-seeker and unscrupulous politician, instead of a wise and far-seeing pontiff, a vanquisher of tyrants, and a self-denying saint; if St. Thomas of Canterbury be held up, in hundreds of volumes, as a monster of ingratitude towards a beneficent sovereign, and a haughty and overbearing supporter of prelatical tyranny, instead of a martyr, in defence of religious liberty against the encroachments of the civil authority; if Cardinal Wolsey be held up to public scorn as a proud and selfish prince of the Church, a glutton, and a wine-bibber, instead of a skilful administrator of government, a liberal patron of learning, and all good arts, and the sole restrainer of the evil passions of the most shameless tyrant who ever sat upon the English throne; if Cardinal Richelieu be handed down from generation to generation, painted in the blackest colours, as a scheming politician, in whose heart, wile and cruelty were mixed up in equal parts, instead of a sagacious and inflexible statesman, and a patriot who made every thing (even his religion) bend to his devotion to the glory of his beloved France; if these great men have been thus misrepresented in that history which De Maistre aptly calls "a conspiracy against truth," I do not think that Napoleon III. can reasonably complain of finding himself denounced as a tyrant, a perjurer, and a victim of all the bad passions that vex the human heart, instead of a liberator of his country from that many-headed monstrosity, miscalled the _Republique Francaise_, an unswerving supporter of the cause of law and religion, and the architect of the present glory and prosperity of France. It must be a great consolation to the Emperor, under the slanders which have been heaped upon him, to reflect that their authors and the enemies who hate him worst, are, for the most part, infidels and assassins, and enemies of social order. Whatever errors a man may commit, he cannot be far from the course of right so long as he is hated and feared by people of that desperate stamp. The ancient adage tells us that "a cat may look at a king"; and it is, perhaps, a merciful provision of the law of compensation that the base reptiles which fatten on the offal of slander are permitted to trail their slime over a name which is the synonyme of the power and glory of France.

When the prejudices of the present day shall have died out, the historian will relate how devoted Napoleon III. was to every thing that concerned his country's welfare. He will tell of his ceaseless care for the most common wants of his people, and of his vigilance in enforcing laws against those who wronged the poor by their dishonest dealings in the necessaries of life. He will relate how promptly he turned his back upon nobles and ambassadors to visit some of his people who had been overwhelmed by a terrible calamity, and will describe the kind, fatherly manner in which he went among them, carrying succour and consolation to all. He will not compare the Emperor to his great warrior-uncle; he will _contrast_ the two. He will show how the uncle made all Europe fear and hate him, and how the nephew converted his enemies into allies; how the uncle manured the soil of Europe with the bones of his soldiers, and the nephew, having given splendid proofs of his ability to make war, won for himself the title of "the Pacificator of Europe"; how the uncle, through his hot-headed ambition, finally made France the prey of a hostile alliance, and the nephew brought the representatives of all the European powers around him in his capital to make peace under his supervision.

The man who, after thirty years of exile and six years of close imprisonment, can take a country in the chaotic condition in which France found itself after the revolution of 1848, and reorganize its government, place its financial affairs on a better footing than they have been before within the memory of man, double its commerce, and raise it to the highest place among the states of Europe, cannot be an ordinary man. In 1852, the Emperor said, "France, in crowning me, crowns herself;" and he has proved the literal truth of his words. He has given France peace, prosperity, and a stable government. He has imitated Napoleon I. in every one of his great and praiseworthy actions in his civil capacity, while he has not made a single one of his mistakes. And if "he that ruleth his own spirit is greater than he that taketh a city," this remarkable man, whose self-control is undisturbed by his most unparalleled success, is destined to be known in history as Napoleon the Great.

The character of Napoleon III. is marked by a unity and a consistency such as invariably have distinguished the greatest men. We can see this consistency in his fidelity to the cause of law and order, whether it be manifested in his services as a special constable against the Chartists of England, or as the chief magistrate of his nation against the Chartists of France. And to this conspicuous virtue of steadfastness he adds a wonderful universality of acquirements and natural genius. We see him contracting favourable loans and averting impending dangers in the monetary affairs of France, and it would seem as if his early life had been spent amid the clamours of the Bourse; we see him concentrating troops in his capital against the threats of the revolutionists, or designing campaigns against the greatest military powers of Europe; we see him maintaining a perfect composure in the midst of deadly missiles which were expected to terminate his reign and dynasty, and it would seem as if the camp had always been his home, and the dangers of the battle-field his familiar associations; we see him buying up grain to prevent speculators from oppressing his people during a season of scarcity, or imprisoning bakers for a deficiency in the weight of their loaves, or regulating the sales of meats and vegetables,--and it would seem as if he always had been a prudent housekeeper and a profound student of domestic economy; we see him laying out parks, projecting new streets and public buildings, and we question whether he has paid most attention to architecture, engineering, or landscape-gardening; we see him visiting his subjects when they have been overwhelmed by a great calamity, and he would seem to have been a disciple of St. Thomas of Villanueva, or of St. Vincent of Paul; we see him taking the lead amid the chief statesmen and diplomatists of the world, we read his powerful state papers and speeches, and we wonder where he acquired his experience; we see him, in short, under all circumstances, and it appears that there is nothing that concerns his country's welfare or glory too difficult for him to grapple with, nor any thing affecting the happiness of his poorest subject trivial enough for him to overlook. By his advocacy of the cause of the Church, he has won a place in history by the side of Constantine and Charlemagne; by his internal policy and care for the needs of his subjects, his name deserves to be inscribed with those of St. Louis and Alfred. The language which Bulwer has put into the mouth of Cardinal Richelieu might be used by Napoleon III., and would from him be only the language of historical truth:--

"I found France rent asunder,
Sloth in the mart and schism within the temple,
Brawls festering to rebellion, and weak laws
Rotting away with rust-- * * * *
_I have re-created France_, and from the ashes
Civilization on her luminous wings
Soars phoenix-like to Jove!"

THE PHILOSOPHY OF FOREIGN TRAVEL

Foreign travel is one of the most useful branches of our education, but, like a great many other useful branches, it appears to be "gone through with" by many persons merely as a matter of course. It is astonishing how few people out of the great number constantly making the tour of Europe really carry home any thing to show for it except photographs and laces. Foreign travel ought to rub the corners off a man's character, and give him a polish such as "home-keeping youth" can never acquire; yet how many we see who seem to have increased their natural rudeness and inconsiderateness by a continental trip! Foreign travel ought to soften prejudices, religious or political, and liberalize a man's mind; but how many there are who seem to have travelled for the purpose of getting up their rancour against all that is opposed to their notions, making themselves illustrations of Tom Hood's remark, that "some minds resemble copper wire or brass, and get the narrower by going farther." Foreign travel, while it shows a man more clearly the faults of his own country, ought to make him love his country more dearly than before; yet how often does it have the effect of making a man undervalue his home and his old friends! There must be some general reason why foreign travel produces its legitimate fruits in so few instances; and I have, during several European tours, endeavoured to ascertain it. I am inclined to think that it is a general lack of preparation for travel, and a mistaken notion that "sight-seeing" is the chief end of travelling. The expenses of the passage across the Atlantic are diminishing every year, and when the motive power in electricity is discovered and applied, the expense of the trip will be a mere trifle; and in view of these considerations, I feel that, though I might find a more entertaining subject for a letter, I cannot find a more instructive one than the philosophy of European travel.

Concerning the expense of foreign travel, there are many erroneous notions afloat. There are hundreds of persons in America--artists, and students, and persons of small means--who are held back from what is to them a land of promise, by the mistaken idea that it is expensive to travel in Europe. They know that Bayard Taylor made a tour on an incredibly small sum, and they think that they have not his tact in management, nor his self-denial in regard to the common wants of life; but if they will put aside a few of their false American prejudices, they will find that they can travel in Europe almost as cheaply as they can live at home. In America, we have an aristocracy of the pocket, which is far more tyrannical, and much less respectable, than any aristocracy of blood on this side of the water; for every man feels an instinctive respect for another who can trace his lineage back to some brave soldier whose deeds have shone in his country's history for centuries; but it requires a peculiarly constituted mind to bow down to a man whose chief claim to respect is founded in the fact of his having made a large fortune in the pork or dry goods line. Jinkins is a rich man; he lives in style, and fares sumptuously every day. Jones is one of Jinkins's neighbours; he is not so rich as Jinkins, but he feels a natural ambition to keep up with him in his establishment, and he does so; the rivalry becomes contagious, and the consequence is, that a score of well-meaning people find, to their dismay, at the end of the year, that they have been living beyond their means. Now, if people wish to travel reasonably in Europe, the first thing that they must do is to get rid of the Jones and Jinkins standard of respectability. I have seen many people who were content to live at home in a very moderate sort of way, who, when they came to travel, seemed to require all the style and luxury of a foreign prince. Such people may go all over Europe, and see very little of it except the merest outside crust. They might just as well live in a fashionable hotel in America, and visit Mr. Sattler's cosmoramas. They resemble those unfortunate persons who have studied the classics from Anthon's text-books--they have got a general notion, but of the mental discipline of the study they are entirely ignorant. But let me go into particulars concerning the expenses of travelling. I know that a person can go by a sailing vessel from Boston to Genoa, spend a week or more in Genoa and on the road to Florence, pass two or three weeks in that delightful city, and two months in Rome, then come to Paris, and stay here two or three weeks, then go to London for a month or more, and home by way of Liverpool in a steamer, for less than four hundred dollars; for I did it myself several years ago. During this trip, I lived and travelled respectably all the time--that is, what is called respectably in Europe. I went in the second class cars, and in the forward cabins of the steamers. Jones and Jinkins went in the first class cars and in the after cabins, and paid a good deal more money for the same pleasure that cost me so little. I know, too, that a person can sail from Boston to Liverpool, make a summer trip of two months and a half to Paris, _via_ London and the cities of Belgium, and back to Boston _via_ London and Liverpool, for a trifle over two hundred and fifty dollars. A good room in London can be got for two dollars and a half a week, in Paris for eight dollars a month, in Rome and Florence for four dollars a month, and in the cities of Germany for very considerably less. And a good dinner costs about thirty cents in London, thirty-five in Paris, fifteen to twenty-five in Florence or Rome, and even less in Germany. Breakfast, which is made very little of on the continent, generally damages one's exchequer to the extent of five to ten cents. It will be seen from this scale of prices that one can live very cheaply if he will; and, as the inhabitants of a country may be supposed to know the requirements of its climate better than strangers, common sense would dictate the adoption of their style of living.

I need not say that some knowledge of the French language is absolutely indispensable to one who would travel with any satisfaction in Europe. This is the most important general preparation that can be made for going abroad. Next after it, I should place a review of the history of the countries about to be visited. The outlines of the history of the different countries of Europe, published by the English _Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge_, are admirably adapted to this purpose. This gives a reality to the scenes you are about to visit that they would not otherwise possess; it peoples the very roadside for you with heroes. And not only does it impart a reality to your travels, but history itself becomes a reality to you, instead of being a mere barren record of events, hard to be remembered. At this time, when the neglect of classical studies is apparent in almost every book, newspaper, and magazine, I am afraid that I shall be thought somewhat old-fashioned and out of date, if I say that some acquaintance with the Latin classics is necessary before a man can really enjoy Italy. Yet it is so; and it will be a great satisfaction to any man to find that Horace and Virgil, and Cicero and Livy, are something more than the hard tasks of childhood. Should a man's classical studies, however, be weak, the deficiency can be made up in some measure by the judicious use of translations, and by Eustace's Classical Tour. Murray's admirable hand-books of course will supply a vast amount of information; but it will not do to trust to reading them upon the spot. Some preparation must be made beforehand,--some capital is necessary to start in business. "If you would bring home the wealth of the Indies, you must carry out the wealth of the Indies." It would be well, too, for a person about to visit Europe to prepare himself for a quieter life than he has been leading at home. I mean, to tone himself down so as to be able to enjoy the freedom from excitement which awaits him here. It is now more than a year since I left America, and likewise more than a year since I have seen any disorderly conduct, or a quarrel, or even have heard high words between two parties in the street, or have known of an alarm of fire. In the course of the year, too, I have not seen half a dozen intoxicated persons. When we reflect what a fruitful source of excitement all these things are in America, it will be easy to see that a man may have, comparatively, a very quiet life where they are not to be found. It will not do any harm, either, to prepare one's self by assuming a little more consideration for the feelings of others than is generally seen among us, and by learning to address servants with a little less of the imperious manner which is so common in America. Strange as it may seem, there is much less distinction of classes on the continent, than in republican America. You are astonished to find the broadcloth coat and the blouse interchanging the civilities of a "light" in the streets, and the easy, familiar way of servants towards their masters is a source of great surprise. You seldom see a Frenchman or an Italian receive any thing from a servant without thanking him for it. Yet there appears to be a perfectly good understanding between all parties as to their relative position, and with all their familiarity, I have never seen a servant presume upon the good nature of his employer, as they often do with us. We receive our social habits in a great measure from England, and therefore we have got that hard old English way of treating servants, as if our object was to make them feel that they are inferiors. So the sooner a man who is going to travel on the continent, can get that notion out of his head, and replace it with the continental one, which seems to be, that a servant, so long as he is faithful in the discharge of his duties, is quite as respectable a member of society as his employer, the better it will be for him, and the pleasanter will be his sojourn in Europe.

One of the first mistakes Americans generally make in leaving for Europe is, to take too much luggage. Presupposing a sufficiency of under-clothing, all that any person really needs is a good, substantial travelling suit, and a suit of black, including a black dress coat, which is indispensable for all occasions of ceremony. The Sistine Chapel is closed to frock coats, and so is the Opera--and as for evening parties, a man might as well go in a roundabout as in any thing but a dress coat. Clothing is at least one third cheaper in Europe than it is with us, and any deficiency can be supplied with ease, without carrying a large wardrobe around with one, and paying the charges for extra luggage exacted by the continental railways.

Let us now suppose a person to have got fairly off, having read up his classics and his history, and got his luggage into a single good-sized valise,--let us suppose him to have got over the few days of seasickness, which made him wish that Europe had been submerged by the broad ocean (as Mr. Choate would say) or ever he had left his native land,--and to have passed those few pleasant days, which every one remembers in his Atlantic passage, when the ship was literally getting along "by degrees" on her course,--and to have arrived safely in some European port. The custom house officers commence the examination of the luggage, looking especially for tobacco; and if our friend is a wise man, he will not attempt to bribe the officers, as in nine cases out of ten he will increase his difficulties by so doing, and cause his effects to be examined with double care; but he will open his trunk, and, if he have any cigars, will show them to the examiner, and if he have not, he will undoubtedly be told to close it again, and will soon be on his way to his hotel. I suppose him to have selected a hotel before arriving in port--which would be done by carefully avoiding those houses which make a great show, or are highly commended in Murray's guide-books. He will find a neat, quiet European hotel a delightful place, after the gilding and red velvet of the great caravanseries of his native country. If he is going to stop more than a single night, he will ask the price of the room to which he is shown, and if it seems too expensive, will look until he finds one that suits him. When he has selected a room, and his valise has been brought up, he will probably observe that the servant (if it is evening) has lighted both of the candles on the mantel-piece. He will immediately blow one of them out and hand it to the waiter, with a look that will show him that he is dealing with an experienced traveller, who knows that he has to pay for candles as he burns them. When he leaves the hotel, he will make it a principle always to carry the unconsumed candle or candles with him, for use as occasion may require; for it is the custom of the country, and will secure him against the little impositions which are always considered fair play upon outsiders. It is possible that he will find, when he goes to wash his hands, that there is no soap in the wash stand, and will thank me for having reminded him to carry a cake with him rolled up in a bit of oiled silk. When he wishes to take lodgings in any city, he will be particular to avoid that part of the town where English people mostly do inhabit, and will be very shy of houses where apartments to let are advertised on a placard in phrases which the originator probably intended for English. He will look thoroughly before he decides, and so will save himself a great deal of dissatisfaction which he might feel on finding afterwards that others had done much better than he. Besides, "room-hunting" is not the least profitable, nor least amusing part of a traveller's experience. He will, when settled in his rooms, attend in person to the purchase of his candles and his fuel, and to the delivery of the same in his apartments; for by so doing he will save money, and will see more of the common people of the place.

Of course he will see all the "sights" that every stranger is under a sort of moral obligation to see, however much it may fatigue him; but he must not stop there. He must not think, as so many appear to, that, when he has seen the palaces, and picture galleries, and gardens, and public monuments of a country, he knows that country. He must try to see and know as much as he can of the people of the country, for they (Louis Quatorze to the contrary, notwithstanding) are the state. Let him cultivate the habit of early rising, and frequent market places and old parish churches in the twilight of the morning, and he will learn more of the people in one month than a year of reading or ordinary sight-seeing could teach him. Let him choose back alleys, instead of crowded and fashionable thoroughfares for his walks; when he falls in with a wandering musician and juggler, exhibiting in public, let him stop, not to see the exhibition, but the spectators; when he goes to the theatre, let him not shut himself up in the privacy of a box, but go into the pit, where all he will see and hear around him will be full as amusing as the performance itself; and when he uses an omnibus, let him always choose a seat by the driver, in preference to one inside. I have learnt more of the religious character of the poorer class in Paris, by a visit to a little out-of-the-way church at sunrise, than could be acquired by hours of conversation with the people themselves. And I have learned equally as much of the brutality and degradation of the same class in England, by going into a gin-shop late at night, calling for a glass of ale, and drinking it slowly, while I was inspecting the company. There is many a man who travels through Europe, communicating only with hotel keepers, couriers, and ciceroni, and learning less of the people than he could by walking into a market-place alone, and buying a sixpence worth of fruit. Yet such men presume to write books, and treat not merely of the governments of these countries, but of the social condition of the people! I once met a man in Italy, who could not order his breakfast correctly in Italian, who knew only one Italian, and he was the waiter who served him in a restaurant; and yet this man was a correspondent of a respectable paper in Boston, and had the effrontery to write column after column upon Italian social life, and to speak of political affairs as if he were Cardinal Antonelli's sole confidant. There are such people here in Paris now, who send over to America, weekly, batches of falsehood about the household of the Tuileries, which the intelligent public of America accepts as being true; for it seems to be a part of some people's republicanism to believe nothing but evil of a ruler who wears a crown. I need not say in this connection, that the traveller who wishes to enjoy Europe must put away the habit (if he be so unfortunate as to have it) of looking upon every thing through the green spectacles of republicanism, and regarding that form of government as the only one calculated to benefit mankind. He must remember that the government of his own country is a mere experiment, compared with the old monarchies of Europe, and he must try to judge impartially between them. He must judge each system by its results, and if on comparison he finds that there is really less slavery in his own country than in Europe; that the government is administered more impartially; that the judiciary is purer; that there is less of mob law and violence, and less of political bargaining and trickery, and that life and property are more secure in his own country than they are here,--why, he will return to America a better republican than before, from the very fact of having done justice to the governments of Europe.

As I have before said, it is better for a traveller to endeavour to live as nearly as possible in the manner of the inhabitants of the country in which he is sojourning. I do not mean that he should feel bound to make as general a use of garlic as some of the people of Europe do, for in some places I verily believe that a custard or a blanc mange would be thought imperfect if they were not seasoned with that savory vegetable; but, _ceteris_ being _paribus_, if the general manner of living were followed, the traveller would find it conducive to health and to economy. The habits of life among every people are not founded on a mere caprice; and experience proves that under the warm sun of Italy, a light vegetable diet is healthier and more really invigorating than all the roast beef of Old England would be.

In Europe, no man is ever ashamed of economy. Few Englishmen even shrink from acknowledging that they cannot afford to do this or that, and on the continent profuseness in the use of money is considered the sure mark of a _parvenu_. Every man is free to do as he pleases; he can travel in the first, second, or third class on the railways, and not excite the surprise of any body; and whatever class he may be in, he will be treated with equal respect by all. It is well to bear this in mind, for, taken in connection with the principle of paying for one's room and meals separately according to what one has, it puts it within one's power to travel all over Europe for a ridiculously small sum. You can live in Paris, by going over into the Latin quarter, on thirty cents a day, and be treated by every body, except your own countrymen, with as much consideration as if you abode among the mirrors and gilding of the Hotel de Louvre. Not that I would advise any one to go over there for the sake of saving money, and live on salads and meats in which it is difficult to have confidence, when he can afford to do better. I only wish to encourage those who are kept from visiting Europe by the idea that it requires a great outlay of money. You can live in Europe for just what you choose to spend, and in a style of independence to which America is a total stranger. Every body does not know here what every body else has for dinner. You may live on the same floor with a man for months and years, and not know any more of him than can be learned from a semi-occasional meeting on the staircase, and an interchange of hat civilities. This seems so common to a Frenchman, that it would be considered by him hardly worth notice; but to any one who knows what a sharp look-out neighbours keep over each other in America, it is a most pleasing phenomenon. It is indeed a delightful thing to live among people who have formed a habit of minding their own business, and at the same time have a spirit of consideration for the rights and feelings of their neighbours.

If, in the above hints concerning the way to travel pleasantly and cheaply in Europe, I have succeeded in removing any of the bugbear obstacles which hold back so many from the great advantages they might here enjoy, I shall feel that I have not tasked my poor eyes and brain for nothing. We are a long way behind Europe in many things, and it is only by frequent communication that we can make up our deficiencies. It cannot be done by boasting, nor by claiming for America all the enterprise and enlightenment of the nineteenth century. Neither can it be done by setting up the United States as superior to every historical precedent, and an exception to every rule. Most men (as the old French writer says) are mortal; and we Americans shall find that our country, with all its prosperity and unequalled progress, is subject to the same vicissitudes as the countries we now think we can afford to despise; and that our history is

"----but the same rehearsal of the past--
First Freedom, and then Glory; when that fails,
Wealth, vice, corruption,--barbarism at last."

No, we cannot safely scorn the lesson which Europe teaches us; for if we do, we shall have to learn it at the expense of much adversity and wounding of our pride. Every American who comes abroad, if he knows how to travel, ought to carry home with him a new idea of the amenities of life, and of moderation in the pursuit and the use of wealth, such as will make itself felt in the course of time, and make the fast living and recklessness of authority and tendency to bankruptcy of the present day, give way to a spirit of moderation and obedience to law such as always produces private prosperity and public stability.

PARIS TO BOULOGNE

It was a delicious morning when I packed my trunk to leave Paris. Indeed it was so bright and cloudless that it seemed wrong to go away and leave so fine a combination of perfections. It was more than the "bridal of the earth and sky"; it was the bridal of all the created beings around one and their works with the sky. The deep blue of the heavens, the glittering sunbeams, the clean streets, the fair house fronts, the gay shop windows, the white caps, and shining morning faces of the _bonnes_ and market women, the busy, prosperous look of the passers by, were all blended together in one harmonious whole, more touching and poetical than any scene of mere natural beauty that the dewy morn, "with breath all incense and with cheek all bloom," ever looked upon. "Earth hath not any thing to show more fair." Others may delight in communing with solitary nature, and may rave in rhyme about the glories of woods, lakes, mountains, and Ausonian skies; but what is all that compared to the awakening of a great city to the life of day? What are the floods of golden light that every morning bathe the mountain tops, and are poured down into the valleys and fields below, compared to the playing of the sunbeams in the smoke from ten thousand chimneys, and the din of toil displacing the silence of night? I have seen the sunsets of the Archipelago--I have seen Lesbos and Egina clad in those robes of purple and gold, which till then I had thought were a mere figment of the painter's brain--I have enjoyed that "hush of world's expectation as day died"--I have often drunk in the glory of a cloudless sunrise on the Atlantic, and even now my heart leaps up at the remembrance of it; but after all, commend me to the deeper and more sympathetic feelings inspired by the dingy walls and ungraceful chimney-pots of a metropolis. Thousands of human hearts are there, throbbing with hope, or joy, or sorrow,--weighed down perchance by guilt; and humanity with all its imperfections is a noble thing. A single human heart, though erring, is a grander creation than the Alps or the Andes, for it shall outlive them. It is moved by aspirations that outrun the universe, and possesses a destiny that shall outlive the stars. It is the better side of human nature that we see in the early morning in large cities. Vice flourishes best under the glare of gas-lights, and does not salute the rising sun. The bloated form, the sunken eye, the painted cheek, shrink from that which would make their deformity more hideous, and hide themselves in places which their presence makes almost pestilential. Honest, healthful labour meets us at every step, and imparts to us something of its own hopefulness and activity. We miss the dew-drops glittering like jewels in the grass, but the loss is more than made up to us by the bright eyes of happy children, helping their parents in their work, or sporting together on their way to school.

There was a time when I thought it very poetical to roam the broad fields in that still hour when the golden light seems to clasp every object that it meets, as if it loved it; but of late years a comfortable sidewalk has been more suggestive of poetry and less productive of wet feet. Give me a level pavement before all your groves and fields. The only _rus_ that wears well in the long run is _Russ in urbe_. Nine tenths of all the fine things in our literature concerning the charms of country life, have been written, not beneath the shade of overarching boughs, but within the crowded city's smoke-stained walls. Depend upon it, Shakespeare could never have written about the moonlight sleeping on the bank any where but in the city; had the realities of country life been present to him, he would have rejected any such metaphor, for he loved the moonlight too dearly to subject it to the rheumatic attack that would inevitably have followed such a nap as that. It is with country life very much as it is with life at sea. Mr. Choate, who pours out his noblest eloquence on the glories and romance of the sea, seldom sees the outside of his state-room while he is out of sight of land, and all his glowing periods are forgotten in the realities of his position. So, too, the man who wishes to destroy the poetry and romance of country life, has only to walk about in the wet grass or the scorching heat, or to be obliged to pick the pebbles out of his shoes, or a caterpillar off his neck, or to be mocked at by unruly cattle, or pestered by any of the myriads of insect and reptiles which abound in every well-regulated country.

The excellent Madame Busque (_la dame aux pumpkin pies_) had prepared for me a viaticum in the shape of a small loaf of as good gingerbread as was ever made west of Cape Cod--a motherly attention quite in keeping with her ordinary way of taking care of her customers. All who frequent the _cremerie_ are her _enfans_, and if she does not show them every little maternal attention, and tie a bib upon every one's neck, it is only that we may know better how to behave when we are beyond the reach of her kindly hand. Fortified with the gingerbread, I found myself whirling out of the terminus of the Northern Railway, and Paris, with its far-stretching fortifications, its domes and towers, and its windmill-crowned Montmartre, was soon out of sight.

The train was very full, and the weather very warm. Two of my car-companions afforded me a good deal of amusement. They were a fat German and his wife. He was one of the jolliest old gentlemen I ever had the good fortune to travel with. His silvery hair was cropped close to his head, and he rode along with his cuffs turned up and his waistcoat open. He seemed to feel that he was occupying a good deal of room; but he was the only one there who felt it. No one of us would have had his circumference reduced an inch, but we should all of us have delighted to put a thin man who was there out by the roadside. His wife--a bright-eyed little woman, whose hair was just getting a little silvery--had a small box-cage in which she carried a large, intelligent-looking parrot. Before we had gone very far, the bird began to carry on an animated conversation with its mistress, but finally disgusted her and surprised us all by swearing in French and German at the whole company, with all the vehemence of a regiment of troopers. The lady tried hard to stop him, but it was useless. The old gentleman (like a great many good people who would not swear themselves, but rather like to hear a good round oath occasionally) seemed to enjoy it intensely, and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks. At noon the worthy pair made solemn preparations for a dinner. A basket, a carpet-bag, and sundry paper parcels were brought out. The lady spread a large checked handkerchief over their laps for a table cloth, and then produced a staff of life about two feet in length, and cut off a good thick slice for each of them. Cheese was added to it, and also a species of sausage about a foot in length, and three inches in diameter. From these they made a comfortable meal--not eating by stealth, as we Americans should have done--but diving in heartily, and chatting together all the while as cosily as if they had been at home. A bottle of wine was then brought out from the magic carpet-bag, and a glass, also a nice dessert of peaches and grapes. There was a charming at-home-ativeness about the whole proceeding that contrasted strongly with our American way of doing such things, and all the other passengers apparently took no notice of it.

We arrived at Boulogne in the midst of a storm as severe as the morning had been serene. So fair and foul a day I have not seen. An omnibus whisked me to a hotel in what my venerable grandmother used to call a _jiffy_, and I was at once independent of the weather's caprices. A comfortable dinner at the _table d'hote_ repaired the damages of the journey, and I spent the evening with some good friends, whose company was made the more delightful by the months that had separated us. The storm raged without, and we chatted within. The old hotel creaked and sighed as the blast assailed it, and I dreamed all night of close-reefed topsails.

"'Tis a wild night out of doors;
The wind is mad upon the moors.
And comes into the rocking town,
Stabbing all things up and down:
And then there is a weeping rain
Huddling 'gainst the window pane;
And good men bless themselves in bed;
The mother brings her infant's head
Closer with a joy like tears,
And thinks of angels in her prayers,
Then sleeps with his small hand in hers."

Having in former years merely passed through Boulogne, I had never known before what a pleasant old city it is. Its clean streets and well-built houses, and the air of respectable antiquity which pervades it, make a very pleasant impression upon the mind. As you stand on the quay, and look across at the white cliffs on the other side of the Channel, which are distinctly visible on a clear day, the differences in the character of the two nations so slightly separated from one another, strike you more forcibly than ever. The very fish taken on the French side of the channel are different from any that you see in England; and as to the fishwomen, whose sunburnt legs, bare to the knee, are the astonishment of all new-comers,--go over all Europe, and you will find nothing like them. That superb cathedral, the shrine of our Lady of Boulogne, upon which the storm of the first French revolution beat with such fury, is now beginning to wear a look of completion. Its dome, one of the loftiest and most graceful in the world, is a striking and beautiful feature in the view of the city. For more than twelve centuries this has been a famous shrine. Kings and princes have visited it, not with the pomp and circumstance of royalty, but in the humble garb of the pilgrim. Henry VIII. made a pilgrimage hither in his unenlightened days, before the pious Cranmer had taught him how wicked it was to honour the Mother whom his Saviour honoured, and how godly and just it was to divorce and put to death the mothers of his children. Here it was that the heroic crusader, Godfrey, kindled the flame of that devotion which nerved his arm against the foes of Christianity, and added a new lustre to his knightly fame. It is a fashion of the present day to sneer at the age of chivalry and the crusades, and some of our best writers have been enticed into the following of it. While we have so many subjects deserving the treatment of the satirist, at our very doors,--while we have the fashionable world to draw upon,--while we can look around on political parsons, professional philanthropists and patriots, politicians who talk of principle, and followers who are weak enough to believe in them--it would really seem as if we might allow the crusaders and troubadours to rest. Supposing, for the sake of argument, Christianity to be a true religion,--supposing it to be a fact that eighteen hundred years ago the plains of Palestine were trodden by the blessed feet that were "nailed for our advantage on the bitter cross"--the redemption of the land which had been the scene of the sacred history, from the sacrilegious hands of the Saracens, was certainly an enterprise creditable to St. Louis, and Richard the lion-hearted, and Godfrey, and the other gentlemen who sacrificed so much in it. It was certainly as respectable an undertaking as any of the crusades of modern times,--as that of the Spaniards in America, the English in India, or the United States in Mexico,--with this exception, that it was not so profitable. I am afraid that some of our modern satirists are lacking in the spirit of their profession, and allow themselves to be made the mouthpieces of that worldly wisdom which it is their office to rebuke. I can see nothing to sneer at in the crusader exiling himself from his native land, and forfeiting his life in the defence of the Holy Sepulchre; indeed, I am inclined to respect a man who makes such a sacrifice to a conscientious conviction: it is a noble conquest of the visible temporal by the unseen eternal. I can well understand how such efforts for the protection of a mere empty tomb would seem worthy of laughter and ridicule to those who can find no food for satire in the _auri sacra fames_ which has been the motive of modern foreign expeditions. It would be well for the world could we bring back something of that age of chivalry which Edmund Burke regretted so eloquently. We need it sorely; for we are every day sliding farther down from its high standard of honour and of unselfish devotion to principle.

There is a little fishing village about a mile and a half from Boulogne, on the sea coast towards Calais, which is celebrated in history as having been the scene of the landing of Prince Louis Napoleon and his companions in their unsuccessful attempt to overthrow the government of Louis Philippe. Napoleon III. has not distinguished the spot by any memorial; but he has erected a colossal statue of Napoleon I. on the spot where that insatiable conqueror, with his mighty army around him, looked longingly at the coast of England. There is something of a contrast between the day thus commemorated and that on which the "nephew of his uncle" received Queen Victoria at Boulogne, when she visited France. It must have been a great satisfaction to Louis Napoleon, after his life of exile, and particularly after the studied neglect which he experienced from the English nobility, to have welcomed the British Queen to his realm with that kiss which is the token of equality among sovereigns. Waterloo must have been blotted out when he saw the Queen--in whose realm he had served the cause of good order in the rank of special constable--bending down at his knee to confer upon him the order of the garter.

In spite of its geographical situation, Boulogne can hardly be considered a French town. The police department and the custom house are in the hands of the French, to be sure; but in the course of a walk through its streets, you hear much more of the English than of the French language. You meet those brown shooting jackets, and checked trousers, and thick shoes and gaiters that are at home every where in the "inviolate island of the sage and free." You cannot turn a corner without coming upon some of those beefy and beery countenances which symbolize so perfectly the genius of British civilization, and hearing the letter H exasperated to a wonderful degree. Every where you see bevies of young ladies wearing those peculiar brown straw hats, edged with black lace, with a brown feather put in horizontally on one side of the crown, a style of head dress to which the French and Italians have given the name of "_Ingleesh spoken here_." There is a large class among the English population of Boulogne upon which the disinterested spectator will look with interest and with pity. I mean those unfortunate persons who have been obliged by "force of circumstances" and the importunity of creditors to exile themselves for a time from their native land. You see them on every side; and all ranks in society are represented among them, from the distinguished-looking man, with the tortoise-shell spectacles, who ran through his wife's property at the club, to the pale, unhappy-looking fellow in the loose thread gloves and sleepless coat. You can distinguish them at a glance from their fellow-countrymen who have gone over for purposes of recreation, the poor devils walk about with such an evident wish to appear to be doing something or going somewhere. The condition of the prisoners, or rather the "collegians," in the old Marshalsea prison, must have been an enviable one, compared to these unfortunates, condemned to gaze at the cliffs of Old England from a distance, and wait vainly for something to turn up.