In Birmingham I heard two discourses from one of the rising lights of

England, George Dawson, a young man of whom I had earlier heard much

in praise. He is a friend of the people, in the sense of brotherhood,

not of a social convenience or patronage; in literature catholic; in

matters of religion antisectarian, seeking truth in aspiration and

love. He is eloquent, with good method in his discourse, fire and

dignity when wanted, with a frequent homeliness in enforcement and

illustration which offends the etiquettes of England, but fits him the

better for the class he has to address. His powers are uncommon and

unfettered in their play; his aim is worthy. He is fulfilling and will

fulfil an important task as an educator of the people, if all be

not marred by a taint of self-love and arrogance now obvious in his

discourse. This taint is not surprising in one so young, who has

done so much, and in order to do it has been compelled to great

self-confidence and light heed of the authority of other minds, and

who is surrounded almost exclusively by admirers; neither is it,

at present, a large speck; it may be quite purged from him by the

influence of nobler motives and the rise of his ideal standard; but,

on the other hand, should it spread, all must be vitiated. Let us hope

the best, for he is one that could ill be spared from the band who

have taken up the cause of Progress in England.

In this connection I may as well speak of James Martineau, whom I

heard in Liverpool, and W.J. Fox, whom I heard in London.

Mr. Martineau looks like the over-intellectual, the partially

developed man, and his speech confirms this impression. He is

sometimes conservative, sometimes reformer, not in the sense of

eclecticism, but because his powers and views do not find a true

harmony. On the conservative side he is scholarly, acute,--on the

other, pathetic, pictorial, generous. He is no prophet and no sage,

yet a man full of fine affections and thoughts, always suggestive,

sometimes satisfactory; he is well adapted to the wants of that class,

a large one in the present day, who love the new wine, but do not feel

that they can afford to throw away _all_ their old bottles.

Mr. Fox is the reverse of all this: he is homogeneous in his materials

and harmonious in the results he produces. He has great persuasive

power; it is the persuasive power of a mind warmly engaged in seeking

truth for itself. He sometimes carries homeward convictions with great

energy, driving in the thought as with golden nails. A glow of kindly

human sympathy enlivens his argument, and the whole presents thought

in a well-proportioned, animated body. But I am told he is far

superior in speech on political or social problems, than on such as I

heard him discuss.

I was reminded, in hearing all three, of men similarly engaged in our

country, W.H. Charming and Theodore Parker. None of them compare

in the symmetrical arrangement of extempore discourse, or in pure

eloquence and communication of spiritual beauty, with Charming, nor in

fulness and sustained flow with Parker, but, in power of practical and

homely adaptation of their thought to common wants, they are superior

to the former, and all have more variety, finer perceptions, and are

more powerful in single passages, than Parker.

And now my pen has run to 1st October, and still I have such

notabilities as fell to my lot to observe while in London, and these

that are thronging upon me here in Paris to record for you. I am sadly

in arrears, but 't is comfort to think that such meats as I have to

serve up are as good cold as hot. At any rate, it is just impossible

to do any better, and I shall comfort myself, as often before, with

the triplet which I heard in childhood from a sage (if only sages wear

wigs!):--

"As said the great Prince Fernando,

What _can_ a man do,

More than he can do?"

LETTER VIII.

RECOLLECTIONS OF LONDON.--THE ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.--LONDON CLIMATE.--OUT

OF SEASON.--LUXURY AND MISERY.--A DIFFICULT PROBLEM.--TERRORS

OF POVERTY.--JOANNA BAILLIE AND MADAME ROLAND.--HAMPSTEAD.--MISS

BERRY.--FEMALE ARTISTS.--MARGARET GILLIES.--THE PEOPLE'S

JOURNAL.--THE TIMES.--THE HOWITTS.--SOUTH WOOD SMITH.--HOUSES FOR THE

POOR.--SKELETON OF JEREMY BENTHAM.--COOPER THE POET.--THOM.

Paris, December, 1846.

I sit down here in Paris to narrate some recollections of London.

The distance in space and time is not great, yet I seem in wholly a

different world. Here in the region of wax-lights, mirrors, bright

wood fires, shrugs, vivacious ejaculations, wreathed smiles, and

adroit courtesies, it is hard to remember John Bull, with his

coal-smoke, hands in pockets, except when extended for ungracious

demand of the perpetual half-crown, or to pay for the all but

perpetual mug of beer. John, seen on that side, is certainly the most

churlish of clowns, and the most clownish of churls. But then

there are so many other sides! When a gentleman, he is so truly the

gentleman, when a man, so truly the man of honor! His graces, when he

has any, grow up from his inmost heart.

Not that he is free from humbug; on the contrary, he is prone to the

most solemn humbug, generally of the philanthrophic or otherwise moral

kind. But he is always awkward beneath the mask, and can never impose

upon anybody--but himself. Nature meant him to be noble, generous,

sincere, and has furnished him with no faculties to make himself

agreeable in any other way or mode of being. 'Tis not so with your

Frenchman, who can cheat you pleasantly, and move with grace in the

devious and slippery path. You would be almost sorry to see him quite

disinterested and straightforward, so much of agreeable talent and

naughty wit would thus lie hid for want of use. But John, O John, we

must admire, esteem, or be disgusted with thee.

As to climate, there is not much to choose at this time of year. In

London, for six weeks, we never saw the sun for coal-smoke and fog. In

Paris we have not been blessed with its cheering rays above three or

four days in the same length of time, and are, beside, tormented with

an oily and tenacious mud beneath the feet, which makes it almost

impossible to walk. This year, indeed, is an uncommonly severe one at

Paris; but then, if they have their share of dark, cold days, it must

be admitted that they do all they can to enliven them.

But to dwell first on London,--London, in itself a world. We arrived

at a time which the well-bred Englishman considers as no time at

all,--quite out of "the season," when Parliament is in session, and

London thronged with the equipages of her aristocracy, her titled

wealthy nobles. I was listened to with a smile of contempt when I

declared that the stock shows of London would yield me amusement and

employment more than sufficient for the time I had to stay. But

I found that, with my way of viewing things, it would be to me an

inexhaustible studio, and that, if life were only long enough, I would

live there for years obscure in some corner, from which I could issue

forth day by day to watch unobserved the vast stream of life, or to

decipher the hieroglyphics which ages have been inscribing on the

walls of this vast palace (I may not call it a temple), which human

effort has reared for means, not yet used efficaciously, of human

culture.

And though I wish to return to London in "the season," when that city

is an adequate representative of the state of things in England, I

am glad I did not at first see all that pomp and parade of wealth and

luxury in contrast with the misery, squalid, agonizing, ruffianly,

which stares one in the face in every street of London, and hoots at

the gates of her palaces more ominous a note than ever was that of owl

or raven in the portentous times when empires and races have crumbled

and fallen from inward decay.

It is impossible, however, to take a near view of the treasures

created by English genius, accumulated by English industry, without a

prayer, daily more fervent, that the needful changes in the condition

of this people may be effected by peaceful revolution, which shall

destroy nothing except the shocking inhumanity of exclusiveness,

which now prevents their being used, for the benefit of all. May their

present possessors look to it in time! A few already are earnest in

a good spirit. For myself, much as I pitied the poor, abandoned,

hopeless wretches that swarm in the roads and streets of England, I

pity far more the English noble, with this difficult problem before

him, and such need of a speedy solution. Sad is his life, if a

conscientious man; sadder still, if not. Poverty in England has

terrors of which I never dreamed at home. I felt that it would be

terrible to be poor there, but far more so to be the possessor of that

for which so many thousands are perishing. And the middle class, too,

cannot here enjoy that serenity which the sages have described as

naturally their peculiar blessing. Too close, too dark throng the

evils they cannot obviate, the sorrows they cannot relieve. To a man

of good heart, each day must bring purgatory which he knows not how to

bear, yet to which he fears to become insensible.

From these clouds of the Present, it is pleasant to turn the thoughts

to some objects which have cast a light upon the Past, and which, by

the virtue of their very nature, prescribe hope for the Future. I have

mentioned with satisfaction seeing some persons who illustrated

the past dynasty in the progress of thought here: Wordsworth, Dr.

Chalmers, De Quincey, Andrew Combe. With a still higher pleasure,

because to one of my own sex, whom I have honored almost above any,

I went to pay my court to Joanna Baillie. I found on her brow, not

indeed a coronal of gold, but a serenity and strength undimmed and

unbroken by the weight of more than fourscore years, or by the scanty

appreciation which her thoughts have received.

I prize Joanna Baillie and Madame Roland as the best specimens which

have been hitherto offered of women of a Roman strength and singleness

of mind, adorned by the various culture and capable of the various

action opened to them by the progress of the Christian Idea. They are

not sentimental; they do not sigh and write of withered flowers of

fond affection, and woman's heart born to be misunderstood by the

object or objects of her fond, inevitable choice. Love (the passion),

when spoken of at all by them, seems a thing noble, religious, worthy

to be felt. They do not write of it always; they did not think of it

always; they saw other things in this great, rich, suffering world. In

superior delicacy of touch, they show the woman, but the hand is firm;

nor was all their speech, one continued utterance of mere personal

experience. It contained things which are good, intellectually,

universally.

I regret that the writings of Joanna Baillie are not more known in

the United States. The Plays on the Passions are faulty in their

plan,--all attempts at comic, even at truly dramatic effect, fail; but

there are masterly sketches of character, vigorous expressions of wise

thought, deep, fervent ejaculations of an aspiring soul!

We found her in her little calm retreat at Hampstead, surrounded by

marks of love and reverence from distinguished and excellent friends.

Near her was the sister, older than herself, yet still sprightly and

full of active kindness, whose character and their mutual relation she

has, in one of her last poems, indicated with such a happy mixture of

sagacity, humor, and tender pathos, and with so absolute a truth of

outline. Although no autograph collector, I asked for theirs, and when

the elder gave hers as "sister to Joanna Baillie," it drew a tear from

my eye,--a good tear, a genuine pearl,--fit homage to that fairest

product of the soul of man, humble, disinterested tenderness.

Hampstead has still a good deal of romantic beauty. I was told it was

the favorite sketching-ground of London artists, till the railroads

gave them easy means of spending a few hours to advantage farther

off. But, indeed, there is a wonderful deal of natural beauty lying in

untouched sweetness near London. Near one of our cities it would all

have been grabbed up the first thing. But we, too, are beginning to

grow wiser.

At Richmond I went to see another lady of more than threescore years'

celebrity, more than fourscore in age, Miss Berry the friend of Horace

Walpole, and for her charms of manner and conversation long and still

a reigning power. She has still the vivacity, the careless nature, or

refined art, that made her please so much in earlier days,--still is

girlish, and gracefully so. Verily, with her was no sign of labor or

sorrow.

From the older turning to the young, I must speak with pleasure

of several girls I know in London, who are devoting themselves to

painting as a profession. They have really wise and worthy views of

the artist's avocation; if they remain true to them, they will enjoy

a free, serene existence, unprofaned by undue care or sentimental

sorrow. Among these, Margaret Gillies has attained some celebrity;

she may be known to some in America by engravings in the "People's

Journal" from her pictures; but, if I remember right, these are

coarse things, and give no just notion of her pictures, which are

distinguished for elegance and refinement; a little mannerized, but

she is improving in that respect.

The "People's Journal" comes nearer being a fair sign of the times

than any other publication of England, apparently, if we except Punch.

As for the Times, on which you all use your scissors so industriously,

it is managed with vast ability, no doubt, but the blood would tingle

many a time to the fingers' ends of the body politic, before that

solemn organ which claims to represent the heart would dare to beat in

unison. Still it would require all the wise management of the Times,

or wisdom enough to do without it, and a wide range and diversity of

talent, indeed, almost sweeping the circle, to make a People's Journal

for England. The present is only a bud of the future flower.

Mary and William Howitt are its main support. I saw them several times

at their cheerful and elegant home. In Mary Howitt I found the same

engaging traits of character we are led to expect from her books

for children. Her husband is full of the same agreeable information,

communicated in the same lively yet precise manner we find in his

books; it was like talking with old friends, except that now the

eloquence of the eye was added. At their house I became acquainted

with Dr. Southwood Smith, the well-known philanthropist. He is at

present engaged on the construction of good tenements calculated to

improve the condition of the working people. His plans look promising,

and should they succeed, you shall have a detailed account of them. On

visiting him, we saw an object which I had often heard celebrated,

and had thought would be revolting, but found, on the contrary, an

agreeable sight; this is the skeleton of Jeremy Bentham. It was at

Bentham's request that the skeleton, dressed in the same dress he

habitually wore, stuffed out to an exact resemblance of life, and with

a portrait mark in wax, the best I ever saw, sits there, as assistant

to Dr. Smith in the entertainment of his guests and companion of his

studies. The figure leans a little forward, resting the hands on a,

stout stick which Bentham always carried, and had named "Dapple";

the attitude is quite easy, the expression of the whole quite mild,

winning, yet highly individual. It is a pleasing mark of that unity

of aim and tendency to be expected throughout the life of such a mind,

that Bentham, while quite a young man, had made a will, in which, to

oppose in the most convincing manner the prejudice against dissection

of the human subject, he had given his body after death to be used in

service of the cause of science. "I have not yet been able," said the

will, "to do much service to my fellow-men by my life, but perhaps I

may in this manner by my death." Many years after, reading a pamphlet

by Dr. Smith on the same subject, he was much pleased with it,

became his friend, and bequeathed his body to his care and use, with

directions that the skeleton should finally be disposed of in the way

I have described.

The countenance of Dr. Smith has an expression of expansive, sweet,

almost childlike goodness. Miss Gillies has made a charming picture of

him, with a favorite little granddaughter nestling in his arms.

Another marked figure that I encountered on this great showboard was

Cooper, the author of "The Purgatory of Luicides," a very remarkable

poem, of which, had there been leisure before my departure, I should

have made a review, and given copious extracts in the Tribune. Cooper

is as strong a man, and probably a milder one, than when in the prison

where that poem was written. The earnestness in seeking freedom

and happiness for all men, which drew upon him that penalty, seems

unabated; he is a very significant type of the new era, and also an

agent in bringing it near. One of the poets of the people, also, I

saw,--the sweetest singer of them all,--Thom. "A Chieftain unknown

to the Queen" is again exacting a cruel tribute from him. I wish much

that some of those of New York who have taken an interest in him would

provide there a nook in which he might find refuge and solace for the

evening of his days, to sing or to work as likes him best, and where

he could bring up two fine boys to happier prospects than the parent

land will afford them. Could and would America but take from other

lands more of the talent, as well as the bone and sinew, she would be

rich.

But the stroke of the clock warns me to stop now, and begin to-morrow

with fresher eye and hand on some interesting topics. My sketches are

slight; still they cannot be made without time, and I find none to be

had in this Europe except late at night. I believe it is what all the

inhabitants use, but I am too sleepy a genius to carry the practice

far.

LETTER IX.

WRITING AT NIGHT.--LONDON.--NATIONAL GALLERY.--MURILLO.--THE FLOWER

GIRL.--NURSERY-MAIDS AND WORKING-MEN.--HAMPTON COURT.--ZOÖLOGICAL

GARDENS.--KING OF ANIMALS.--ENGLISH PIETY.--EAGLES.--SIR JOHN SOANE'S

MUSEUM.--KEW GARDENS.--THE GREAT CACTUS.--THE REFORM CLUB HOUSE.--MEN

COOKS.--ORDERLY KITCHEN.--A GILPIN EXCURSION.--THE BELL AT EDMONTON.--

OMNIBUS.--CHEAPSIDE.--ENGLISH SLOWNESS.--FREILIGRATH.--ARCADIA.--

ITALIAN SCHOOL.--MAZZINI.--ITALY.--ITALIAN REFUGEES.--CORREGGIO.--

HOPE OF ITALIANS.--ADDRESSES.--SUPPER.--CARLYLE, HIS APPEARANCE,

CONVERSATION, &C.

Again I must begin to write late in the evening. I am told it is the

custom of the literati in these large cities to work in the night. It

is easy to see that it must be almost impossible to do otherwise; yet

not only is the practice very bad for the health, and one that brings

on premature old age, but I cannot think this night-work will prove as

firm in texture and as fair of hue as what is done by sunlight. Give

me a lonely chamber, a window from which through the foliage you can

catch glimpses of a beautiful prospect, and the mind finds itself

tuned to action.

But London, London! I have yet some brief notes to make on London. We

had scarcely any sunlight by which to see pictures, and I postponed

all visits to private collections, except one, in the hope of being in

England next time in the long summer days. In the National Gallery I

saw little except the Murillos; they were so beautiful, that with me,

who had no true conception of his kind of genius before, they took

away the desire to look into anything else at the same time. They

did not affect me much either, except with a sense of content in this

genius, so rich and full and strong. It was a cup of sunny wine that

refreshed but brought no intoxicating visions. There is something

very noble in the genius of Spain, there is such an intensity and

singleness; it seems to me it has not half shown itself, and must have

an important part to play yet in the drama of this planet.

At the Dulwich Gallery I saw the Flower Girl of Murillo, an enchanting

picture, the memory of which must always

"Cast a light upon the day,

A light that will not pass away,

A sweet forewarning."

Who can despair when he thinks of a form like that, so full of life

and bliss! Nature, that made such human forms to match the butterfly

and the bee on June mornings when the lime-trees are in blossom, has

surely enough of happiness in store to satisfy us all, somewhere, some

time.

It was pleasant, indeed, to see the treasures of those galleries, of

the British Museum, and of so charming a place as Hampton Court,

open to everybody. In the National Gallery one finds a throng of

nursery-maids, and men just come from their work; true, they make a

great deal of noise thronging to and fro on the uncarpeted floors

in their thick boots, and noise from which, when penetrated by

the atmosphere of Art, men in the thickest boots would know how to

refrain; still I felt that the sight of such objects must be gradually

doing them a great deal of good. The British Museum would, in itself,

be an education for a man who should go there once a week, and think

and read at his leisure moments about what he saw.

Hampton Court I saw in the gloom, and rain, and my chief recollections

are of the magnificent yew-trees beneath whose shelter--the work

of ages--I took refuge from the pelting shower. The expectations

cherished from childhood about the Cartoons were all baffled; there

was no light by which they could be seen. But I must hope to visit

Hampton Court again in the time of roses.

The Zoölogical Gardens are another pleasure of the million, since,

although something is paid there, it is so little that almost all can

afford it. To me, it is a vast pleasure to see animals where they can

show out their habits or instincts, and to see them assembled from,

all climates and countries, amid verdure and with room enough, as they

are here, is a true poem. They have a fine lion, the first I ever saw

that realized the idea we have of the king of the animal world; but

the groan and roar of this one were equally royal. The eagles were

fine, but rather disgraced themselves. It is a trait of English piety,

which would, no doubt, find its defenders among ourselves, not to feed

the animals on Sunday, that their keepers may have rest; at least

this was the explanation given us by one of these men of the state of

ravenous hunger in which we found them on the Monday. I half hope

he was jesting with us. Certain it is that the eagles were wild with

famine, and even the grandest of them, who had eyed us at first as if

we were not fit to live in the same zone with him, when the meat came

round, after a short struggle to maintain his dignity, joined in wild

shriek and scramble with the rest.

Sir John Soane's Museum I visited, containing the sarcophagus

described by Dr. Waagen, Hogarth's pictures, a fine Canaletto, and

a manuscript of Tasso. It fills the house once the residence of his

body, still of his mind. It is not a mind with which I have sympathy;

I found there no law of harmony, and it annoyed me to see things all

jumbled together as if in an old curiosity-shop. Nevertheless it was a

generous bequest, and much may perhaps be found there of value to him

who takes time to seek.

The Gardens at Kew delighted me, thereabouts all was so green, and

still one could indulge at leisure in the humorous and fantastic

associations that cluster around the name of Kew, like the curls of

a "big wig" round the serene and sleepy face of its wearer. Here are

fourteen green-houses: in one you find all the palms; in another,

the productions of the regions of snow; in another, those squibs and

humorsome utterances of Nature, the cactuses,--ay! there I saw the

great-grandfather of all the cactuses, a hoary, solemn plant, declared

to be a thousand years old, disdaining to say if it is not really

much, older; in yet another, the most exquisitely minute plants,

delicate as the tracery of frostwork, too delicate for the bowers of

fairies, such at least as visit the gross brains of earthly poets.

The Reform Club was the only one of those splendid establishments that

I visited. Certainly the force of comfort can no farther go, nor can

anything be better contrived to make dressing, eating, news-getting,

and even sleeping (for there are bedrooms as well as dressing-rooms

for those who will), as comfortable as can be imagined. Yet to me this

palace of so many "single gentlemen rolled into one" seemed _stupidly_

comfortable, in the absence of that elegant arrangement and vivacious

atmosphere which only women can inspire. In the kitchen, indeed, I

met them, and on that account it seemed the pleasantest part of the

building,--though even there they are but the servants of servants.

There reigned supreme a genius in his way, who has published a work

on Cookery, and around him his pupils,--young men who pay a handsome

yearly fee for novitiate under his instruction. I was not sorry,

however, to see men predominant in the cooking department, as I hope

to see that and washing transferred to their care in the progress of

things, since they are "the stronger sex."

The arrangements of this kitchen were very fine, combining great

convenience with neatness, and even elegance. Fourier himself might

have taken pleasure in them. Thence we passed into the private

apartments of the artist, and found them full of pictures by his wife,

an artist in another walk. One or two of them had been engraved. _She_

was an Englishwoman.

A whimsical little excursion we made on occasion of the anniversary of

the wedding-day of two of my friends. They had often enjoyed reading

the account of John Gilpin's in America, and now thought that, as they

were in England and near enough, they would celebrate theirs also at

"the Bell at Edmonton." I accompanied them with "a little foot-page,"

to eke out the train, pretty and graceful and playful enough for

the train of a princess. But our excursion turned out somewhat of a

failure, in an opposite way to Gilpin's. Whereas he went too fast, we

went too slow. First we took coach and went through Cheapside to take

omnibus at (strange misnomer!) the Flower-Pot. But Gilpin could never

have had his race through Cheapside as it is in its present crowded

state; we were obliged to proceed at a funeral pace. We missed the

omnibus, and when we took the next one it went with the slowness of a

"family horse" in the old chaise of a New England deacon, and, after

all, only took us half-way. At the half-way house a carriage was to

be sought. The lady who let it, and all her grooms, were to be allowed

time to recover from their consternation at so unusual a move as

strangers taking a carriage to dine at the little inn at Edmonton, now

a mere alehouse, before we could be allowed to proceed. The English

stand lost in amaze at "Yankee notions," with their quick come and

go, and it is impossible to make them "go ahead" in the zigzag

chain-lightning path, unless you push them. A rather old part of the

plan had been a pilgrimage to the grave of Lamb, with a collateral

view to the rural beauties of Edmonton, but night had fallen on all

such hopes two hours at least before we reached the Bell. _There_,

indeed, we found them somewhat more alert to comprehend our wishes;

they laughed when we spoke of Gilpin, showed us a print of the race

and the window where Mrs. Gilpin must have stood,--balcony, alas!

there was none; allowed us to make our own fire, and provided us a

wedding dinner of tough meat and stale bread. Nevertheless we danced,

dined, paid (I believe), and celebrated the wedding quite to our

satisfaction, though in the space of half an hour, as we knew

friends were even at that moment expecting us to _tea_ at some miles'

distance. But it is always pleasant in this world of routine to act

out a freak. "Such a one," said an English gentleman, "one of _us_

would rarely have dreamed of, much, less acted." "Why, was it not

pleasant?" "Oh, _very_! but _so_ out of the way!"

Returning, we passed the house where Freiligrath finds a temporary

home, earning the bread, of himself and his family in a commercial

house. England houses the exile, but not without house-tax,

window-tax, and head-tax. Where is the Arcadia that dares invite

all genius to her arms, and change her golden wheat for their green

laurels and immortal flowers? Arcadia?--would the name were America!

And now returns naturally to my mind one of the most interesting

things I have seen here or elsewhere,--the school for poor Italian

boys, sustained and taught by a few of their exiled compatriots, and

especially by the mind and efforts of Mazzini. The name of Joseph

Mazzini is well known to those among us who take an interest in the

cause of human freedom, who, not content with the peace and ease

bought for themselves by the devotion and sacrifices of their fathers,

look with anxious interest on the suffering nations who are preparing

for a similar struggle. Those who are not, like the brutes that

perish, content with the enjoyment of mere national advantages,

indifferent to the idea they represent, cannot forget that the human

family is one,

"And beats with one great heart."

They know that there can be no genuine happiness, no salvation for

any, unless the same can be secured for all.

To this universal interest in all nations and places where man,

understanding his inheritance, strives to throw off an arbitrary rule

and establish a state of things where he shall be governed as becomes

a man, by his own conscience and intelligence,--where he may speak

the truth as it rises in his mind, and indulge his natural emotions

in purity,--is added an especial interest in Italy, the mother of

our language and our laws, our greatest benefactress in the gifts

of genius, the garden of the world, in which our best thoughts have

delighted to expatiate, but over whose bowers now hangs a perpetual

veil of sadness, and whose noblest plants are doomed to removal,--for,

if they cannot bear their ripe and perfect fruit in another climate,

they are not permitted to lift their heads to heaven in their own.

Some of these generous refugees our country has received kindly, if

not with a fervent kindness; and the word _Correggio_ is still in

my ears as I heard it spoken in New York by one whose heart long

oppression could not paralyze. _Speranza_ some of the Italian youth

now inscribe on their banners, encouraged by some traits of apparent

promise in the new Pope. However, their only true hope is in

themselves, in their own courage, and in that wisdom winch may only be

learned through many disappointments as to how to employ it so that it

may destroy tyranny, not themselves.

Mazzini, one of these noble refugees, is not only one of the heroic,

the courageous, and the faithful,--Italy boasts many such,--but he is

also one of the wise;--one of those who, disappointed in the outward

results of their undertakings, can yet "bate no jot of heart and

hope," but _must_ "steer right onward "; for it was no superficial

enthusiasm, no impatient energies, that impelled him, but an

understanding of what _must_ be the designs of Heaven with regard to

man, since God is Love, is Justice. He is one who can live fervently,

but steadily, gently, every day, every hour, as well as on great,

occasions, cheered by the light of hope; for, with Schiller, he is

sure that "those who live for their faith shall behold it living."

He is one of those same beings who, measuring all things by the ideal

standard, have yet no time to mourn over failure or imperfection;

there is too much to be done to obviate it.

Thus Mazzini, excluded from publication in his native language, has

acquired the mastery both of French and English, and through his

expressions in either shine the thoughts which animated his earlier

effort with mild and steady radiance. The misfortunes of his country

have only widened the sphere of his instructions, and made him an

exponent of the better era to Europe at large. Those who wish to form

an idea of his mind could not do better than to read his sketches of

the Italian Martyrs in the "People's Journal." They will find there,

on one of the most difficult occasions, an ardent friend speaking of

his martyred friends with, the purity of impulse, warmth of sympathy,

largeness and steadiness of view, and fineness of discrimination which

must belong to a legislator for a CHRISTIAN commonwealth.

But though I have read these expressions with great delight, this

school was one to me still more forcible of the same ideas. Here these

poor boys, picked up from the streets, are redeemed from bondage and

gross ignorance by the most patient and constant devotion of time and

effort. What love and sincerity this demands from minds capable of

great thoughts, large plans, and rapid progress, only their peers can

comprehend, yet exceeding great shall he the reward; and as among

the fishermen, and poor people of Judæa were picked up those who have

become to modern Europe a leaven that leavens the whole mass, so may

these poor Italian boys yet become more efficacious as missionaries

to their people than would an Orphic poet at this period. These youths

have very commonly good faces, and eyes from which that Italian

fire that has done so much to warm the world glows out. We saw the

distribution of prizes to the school, heard addresses from Mazzini,

Pistracci, Mariotti (once a resident in our country), and an English

gentleman who takes a great interest in the work, and then adjourned

to an adjacent room, where a supper was provided for the boys and

other guests, among whom we saw some of the exiled Poles. The whole

evening gave a true and deep pleasure, though tinged with sadness. We

saw a planting of the kingdom of Heaven, though now no larger than a

grain of mustard-seed, and though perhaps none of those who watch the

spot may live to see the birds singing in its branches.

I have not yet spoken of one of _our_ benefactors, Mr. Carlyle, whom I

saw several times. I approached him with more reverence after a little

experience of England and Scotland had taught me to appreciate the

strength and height of that wall of shams and conventions which he

more than any man, or thousand men,--indeed, he almost alone,--has

begun to throw down. Wherever there was fresh thought, generous hope,

the thought of Carlyle has begun the work. He has torn off the veils

from hideous facts; he has burnt away foolish illusions; he has

awakened thousands to know what it is to be a man,--that we must live,

and not merely pretend to others that we live. He has touched the

rocks and they have given forth musical answer; little more was

wanting to begin to construct the city.

But that little was wanting, and the work of construction is left to

those that come after him: nay, all attempts of the kind he is the

readiest to deride, fearing new shams worse than the old, unable to

trust the general action of a thought, and finding no heroic man, no

natural king, to represent it and challenge his confidence.

Accustomed to the infinite wit and exuberant richness of his writings,

his talk is still an amazement and a splendor scarcely to be faced

with steady eyes. He does not converse,--only harangues. It is the

usual misfortune of such marked men (happily not one invariable or

inevitable) that they cannot allow other minds room to breathe and

show themselves in their atmosphere, and thus miss the refreshment

and instruction, which the greatest never cease to need from the

experience of the humblest. Carlyle allows no one a chance, but

bears down all opposition, not only by his wit and onset of words,

resistless in their sharpness as so many bayonets, but by actual

physical superiority, raising his voice and rushing on his opponent

with a torrent of sound. This is not the least from unwillingness to

allow freedom to others; on the contrary, no man would more enjoy

a manly resistance to his thought; but it is the impulse of a mind

accustomed to follow out its own impulse as the hawk its prey, and

which knows not how to stop in the chase. Carlyle, indeed, is arrogant

and overbearing, but in his arrogance there is no littleness or

self-love: it is the heroic arrogance of some old Scandinavian

conqueror,--it is his nature and the untamable impulse that has given

him power to crush the dragons. You do not love him, perhaps, nor

revere, and perhaps, also, he would only laugh at you if you did; but

you like him heartily, and like to see him the powerful smith, the

Siegfried, melting all the old iron in his furnace till it glows to a

sunset red, and burns you if you senselessly go too near. He seemed to

me quite isolated, lonely as the desert; yet never was man more fitted

to prize a man, could he find one to match his mood. He finds such,

but only in the past. He sings rather than talks. He pours upon you a

kind of satirical, heroical, critical poem, with regular cadences, and

generally catching up near the beginning some singular epithet, which,

serves as a _refrain_ when his song is full, or with which as with a

knitting-needle he catches up the stitches if he has chanced now

and then to let fall a row. For the higher kinds of poetry he has no

sense, and his talk on that subject is delightfully and gorgeously

absurd; he sometimes stops a minute to laugh at it himself, then

begins anew with fresh vigor; for all the spirits he is driving before

him seem to him as Fata Morganas, ugly masks, in fact, if he can but

make them turn about, but he laughs that they seem to others such

dainty Ariels. He puts out his chin sometimes till it looks like the

beak of a bird, and his eyes flash bright instinctive meanings like

Jove's bird; yet he is not calm and grand enough for the eagle: he

is more like the falcon, and yet not of gentle blood enough for that

either. He is not exactly like anything but himself, and therefore you

cannot see him without the most hearty refreshment and good-will, for

he is original, rich, and strong enough to afford a thousand, faults;

one expects some wild land in a rich kingdom. His talk, like his

books, is full of pictures, his critical strokes masterly; allow for

his point of view, and his survey is admirable. He is a large subject;

I cannot speak more or wiselier of him now, nor needs it; his works

are true, to blame and praise him, the Siegfried of England, great and

powerful, if not quite invulnerable, and of a might rather to destroy

evil than legislate for good. At all events, he seems to be what

Destiny intended, and represents fully a certain side; so we make no

remonstrance as to his being and proceeding for himself, though we

sometimes must for us.

I had meant some remarks on some fine pictures, and the little I saw

of the theatre in England; but these topics must wait till my next,

where they may connect themselves naturally enough with what I have to

say of Paris.

LETTER X.

MORE OF LONDON.--THE MODEL PRISON AT PENTONVILLE.--BATHING

ESTABLISHMENT FOR THE POOR.--ALSO ONE FOR WASHING CLOTHES.--THE

CRÈCHES OF PARIS, FOR POOR PEOPLE'S CHILDREN.--OLD DRURY

IN LONDON.--SADLER'S WELLS.--ENGLISH AND FRENCH ACTING COMPARED.--

MADEMOISELLE RACHEL.--FRENCH TRAGEDY.--ROSE CHENY.--DUMAS.--GUIZOT.--

THE PRESENTATION AT COURT OF THE YOUNG DUCHESS.--BALL AT THE

TUILERIES.--AMERICAN AND FRENCH WOMEN.--LEVERRIER.--THE SORBONNE.--

ARAGO.--DISCUSSIONS ON SUICIDE AND THE CRUSADES.--RÉMUSAT.--THE

ACADEMY.--LA MENNAIS.--BÉRANGER.--REFLECTIONS.

Paris.

When I wrote last I could not finish with London, and there remain

yet two or three things I wish to speak of before passing to my

impressions of this wonder-full Paris.

I visited the model prison at Pentonville; but though in some

respects an improvement upon others I have seen,--though there was the

appearance of great neatness and order in the arrangements of life,

kindness and good judgment in the discipline of the prisoners,--yet

there was also an air of bleak forlornness about the place, and it

fell far short of what my mind demands of such abodes considered as

redemption schools. But as the subject of prisons is now engaging the

attention of many of the wisest and best, and the tendency is in what

seems to me the true direction, I need not trouble myself to make

prude and hasty suggestions; it is a subject to which persons who

would be of use should give the earnest devotion of calm and leisurely

thought.

The same day I went to see an establishment which gave me unmixed

pleasure; it is a bathing establishment put at a very low rate to

enable the poor to avoid one of thee worst miseries of their lot, and

which yet promises _to pay_. Joined with this is an establishment for

washing clothes, where the poor can go and hire, for almost nothing,

good tubs, water ready heated, the use of an apparatus for rinsing,

drying, and ironing, all so admirably arranged that a poor woman

can in three hours get through an amount of washing and ironing

that would, under ordinary circumstances, occupy three or four days.

Especially the drying closets I contemplated with great satisfaction,

and hope to see in our own country the same arrangements throughout

the cities, and even in the towns and villages. Hanging out the

clothes is a great exposure for women, even when they have a good

place for it; but when, as is so common in cities, they must dry them

in the house, how much they suffer! In New York, I know, those poor

women who take in washing endure a great deal of trouble and toil from

this cause; I have suffered myself from being obliged to send

back what had cost them so much toil, because it had been, perhaps

inevitably, soiled in the drying or ironing, or filled with the smell

of their miscellaneous cooking. In London it is much worse. An eminent

physician told me he knew of two children whom he considered to have

died because their mother, having but one room to live in, was obliged

to wash and dry clothes close to their bed when they were ill. The

poor people in London naturally do without washing all they can, and

beneath that perpetual fall of soot the result may be guessed. All but

the very poor in England put out their washing, and this custom ought

to be universal in civilized countries, as it can be done much better

and quicker by a few regular laundresses than by many families,

and "the washing day" is so malignant a foe to the peace and joy of

households that it ought to be effaced from the calendar. But as long

as we are so miserable as to have any very poor people in this world,

_they_ cannot put out their washing, because they cannot earn enough

money to pay for it, and, preliminary to something better, washing

establishments like this of London are desirable.

One arrangement that they have here in Paris will be a good one, even

when we cease to have any very poor people, and, please Heaven, also

to have any very rich. These are the _Crèches_,--houses where poor

women leave their children to be nursed during the day while they are

at work.

I must mention that the superintendent of the washing establishment

observed, with a legitimate triumph, that it had been built without

giving a single dinner or printing a single puff,--an extraordinary

thing, indeed, for England!

To turn to something a little gayer,--the embroidery on this tattered

coat of civilized life,--I went into only two theatres; one the Old

Drury, once the scene of great glories, now of execrable music and

more execrable acting. If anything can be invented more excruciating

than an English opera, such as was the fashion at the time I was in

London, I am sure no sin of mine deserves the punishment of bearing

it.

At the Sadler's Wells theatre I saw a play which I had much admired in

reading it, but found still better in actual representation; indeed,

it seems to me there can be no better acting play: this is "The

Patrician's Daughter," by J.W. Marston. The movement is rapid, yet

clear and free; the dialogue natural, dignified, and flowing; the

characters marked with few, but distinct strokes. Where the tone

of discourse rises with manly sentiment or passion, the audience

applauded with bursts of generous feeling that gave me great pleasure,

for this play is one that, in its scope and meaning, marks the new era

in England; it is full of an experience which is inevitable to a man

of talent there, and is harbinger of the day when the noblest commoner

shall be the only noble possible in England.

But how different all this acting to what I find in France! Here the

theatre is living; you see something really good, and good throughout.

Not one touch of that stage strut and vulgar bombast of tone, which

the English actor fancies indispensable to scenic illusion, is

tolerated here. For the first time in my life I saw something

represented in a style uniformly good, and should have found

sufficient proof, if I had needed any, that all men will prefer what

is good to what is bad, if only a fair opportunity for choice

be allowed. When I came here, my first thought was to go and see

Mademoiselle Rachel. I was sure that in her I should find a true

genius, absolutely the diamond, and so it proved. I went to see her

seven or eight times, always in parts that required great force of

soul and purity of taste even to conceive them, and only once had

reason to find fault with her. On one single occasion I saw her

violate the harmony of the character to produce effect at a particular

moment; but almost invariably I found her a true artist, worthy

Greece, and worthy at many moments to have her conceptions

immortalized in marble.

Her range even in high tragedy is limited. She can only express the

darker passions, and grief in its most desolate aspects. Nature has

not gifted her with those softer and more flowery attributes that lend

to pathos its utmost tenderness. She does not melt to tears, or calm

or elevate the heart by the presence of that tragic beauty that needs

all the assaults of Fate to make it show its immortal sweetness. Her

noblest aspect is when sometimes she expresses truth in some severe

shape, and rises, simple and austere, above the mixed elements around

her. On the dark side, she is very great in hatred and revenge. I

admired her more in Phedre than in any other part in which I saw her.

The guilty love inspired by the hatred of a goddess was expressed in

all its symptoms with a force and terrible naturalness that almost

suffocated the beholder. After she had taken the poison, the

exhaustion and paralysis of the system, the sad, cold, calm submission

to Fate, were still more grand.

I had heard so much about the power of her eye in one fixed look, and

the expression she could concentrate in a single word, that the utmost

results could only satisfy my expectations. It is, indeed, something

magnificent to see the dark cloud give out such sparks, each one fit

to deal a separate death; but it was not that I admired most in her:

it was the grandeur, truth, and depth of her conception of each part,

and the sustained purity with which she represented it.

For the rest, I shall write somewhere a detailed _critique_ upon the

parts in which I saw her. It is she who has made me acquainted with

the true way of viewing French tragedy. I had no idea of its powers

and symmetry till now, and have received from the revelation high

pleasure and a crowd of thoughts.

The French language from her lips is a divine dialect; it is stripped

of its national and personal peculiarities, and becomes what any

language must, moulded by such a genius, the pure music of the heart

and soul. I never could remember her tone in speaking any word; it

was too perfect; you had received the thought quite direct. Yet, had

I never heard her speak a word, my mind would, be filled by her

attitudes. Nothing more graceful can be conceived, nor could the

genius of sculpture surpass her management of the antique drapery.

She has no beauty except in the intellectual severity of her outline,

and bears marks of age which will grow stronger every year, and make

her ugly before long. Still it will be a _grandiose_, gypsy, or rather

Sibylline ugliness, well adapted to the expression of some tragic

parts. Only it seems as if she could not live long; she expends force

enough upon a part to furnish out a dozen common lives.

Though the French tragedy is well acted throughout, yet unhappily

there is no male actor now with a spark of fire, and these men seem

the meanest pigmies by the side of Rachel;--so on the scene, beside

the tragedy intended by the author, you see also that common tragedy,

a woman of genius who throws away her precious heart, lives and dies

for one unworthy of her. In parts this effect is productive of too

much pain. I saw Rachel one night with her brother and sister. The

sister imitated her so closely that you could not help seeing she

had a manner, and an imitable manner. Her brother was in the play her

lover,--a wretched automaton, and presenting the most unhappy family

likeness to herself. Since then I have hardly cared to go and see her.

We could wish with geniuses, as with the Phoenix, to see only one of

the family at a time.

In the pathetic or sentimental drama Paris boasts another young

actress, nearly as distinguished in that walk as Rachel in hers.

This is Rose Cheny, whom we saw in her ninety-eighth personation of

Clarissa Harlowe, and afterward in Genevieve and the _Protégé sans

le Savoir_,--a little piece written expressly for her by Scribe.

The "Miss Clarisse" of the French drama is a feeble and partial

reproduction of the heroine of Richardson; indeed, the original in all

its force of intellect and character would have been too much for

the charming Rose Cheny, but to the purity and lovely tenderness of

Clarissa she does full justice. In the other characters she was

the true French girl, full of grace and a mixture of _naïveté_ and

cunning, sentiment and frivolity, that is winning and _piquant_, if

not satisfying. Only grief seems very strange to those bright eyes; we

do not find that they can weep much and bear the light of day, and the

inhaling of charcoal seems near at hand to their brightest pleasures.

At the other little theatres you see excellent acting, and a sparkle

of wit unknown to the world out of France. The little pieces in which

all the leading topics of the day are reviewed are full of drolleries

that make you laugh at each instant. _Poudre-Colon_ is the only one of

these I have seen; in this, among other jokes, Dumas, in the character

of Monte-Christo and in a costume half Oriental, half juggler, is made

to pass the other theatres in review while seeking candidates for his

new one.

Dumas appeared in court yesterday, and defended his own cause against

the editors who sue him for evading some of his engagements. I was

very desirous to hear him speak, and went there in what I was assured

would be very good season; but a French audience, who knew the ground

better, had slipped in before me, and I returned, as has been too

often the case with me in Paris, having seen nothing but endless

staircases, dreary vestibules, and _gens d'armes_. The hospitality of

_le grande nation_ to the stranger is, in many respects, admirable.

Galleries, libraries, cabinets of coins, museums, are opened in the

most liberal manner to the stranger, warmed, lighted, ay, and guarded,

for him almost all days in the week; treasures of the past are at his

service; but when anything is happening in the present, the French run

quicker, glide in more adroitly, and get possession of the ground. I

find it not the most easy matter to get to places even where there is

nothing going on, there is so much tiresome fuss of getting _billets_

from one and another to be gone through; but when something is

happening it is still worse. I missed hearing M. Guizot in his speech

on the Montpensier marriage, which would have given a very good idea

of his manner, and which, like this defence of M. Dumas, was a skilful

piece of work as regards evasion of the truth. The good feeling toward

England which had been fostered with so much care and toil seems to

have been entirely dissipated by the mutual recriminations about this

marriage, and the old dislike flames up more fiercely for having been

hid awhile beneath the ashes. I saw the little Duchess, the innocent

or ignorant cause of all this disturbance, when presented at court.

She went round the circle on the arm of the Queen. Though only

fourteen, she looks twenty, but has something fresh, engaging, and

girlish about her. I fancy it will soon be rubbed out under the drill

of the royal household.

I attended not only at the presentation, but at the ball given at

the Tuileries directly after. These are fine shows, as the suite

of apartments is very handsome, brilliantly lighted, and the French

ladies surpass all others in the art of dress; indeed, it gave me

much, pleasure to see them. Certainly there are many ugly ones, but

they are so well dressed, and have such an air of graceful vivacity,

that the general effect was that of a flower-garden. As often happens,

several American women were among the most distinguished for positive

beauty; one from Philadelphia, who is by many persons considered

the prettiest ornament of the dress circle at the Italian Opera, was

especially marked by the attention of the king. However, these ladies,

even if here a long time, do not attain the air and manner of French

women; the magnetic atmosphere that envelops them is less brilliant

and exhilarating in its attractions.

It was pleasant to my eye, which has always been so wearied in

our country by the sombre masses of men that overcloud our public

assemblies, to see them now in so great variety of costume, color, and

decoration.

Among the crowd wandered Leverrier, in the costume of Academician,

looking as if he had lost, not found, his planet. French _savants_ are

more generally men of the world, and even men of fashion, than those

of other climates; but, in his case, he seemed not to find it easy to

exchange the music of the spheres for the music of fiddles.

Speaking of Leverrier leads to another of my disappointments. I went

to the Sorbonne to hear him lecture, nothing dreaming that the old

pedantic and theological character of those halls was strictly kept up

in these days of light. An old guardian of the inner temple, seeing

me approach, had his speech all ready, and, manning the entrance, said

with a disdainful air, before we had time to utter a word, "Monsieur

may enter if he pleases, but Madame must remain here" (i.e. in

the court-yard). After some exclamations of surprise, I found an

alternative in the Hotel de Clugny, where I passed an hour very

delightfully while waiting for my companion. The rich remains of other

centuries are there so arranged that they can be seen to the best

advantage; many of the works in ivory, china, and carved wood are

truly splendid or exquisite. I saw a dagger with jewelled hilt which

talked whole poems to my mind. In the various "Adorations of the

Magi," I found constantly one of the wise men black, and with the

marked African lineaments. Before I had half finished, my companion

came and wished me at least to visit the lecture-rooms of the

Sorbonne, now that the talk, too good for female ears, was over.

But the guardian again interfered to deny me entrance. "You can go,

Madame," said he, "to the College of France; you can go to this and

t'other place, but you cannot enter here." "What, sir," said I, "is

it your institution alone that remains in a state of barbarism?" "Que

voulez vous, Madame?" he replied, and, as he spoke, his little

dog began to bark at me,--"Que voulez vous, Madame? c'est la

regle,"--"What would you have, Madam? IT IS THE RULE,"--a reply which

makes me laugh even now, as I think how the satirical wits of former

days might have used it against the bulwarks of learned dulness.

I was more fortunate in hearing Arago, and he justified all my

expectations. Clear, rapid, full and equal, his discourse is worthy

its celebrity, and I felt repaid for the four hours one is obliged to

spend in going, in waiting, and in hearing; for the lecture begins at

half past one, and you must be there before twelve to get a seat, so

constant and animated is his popularity.

I have attended, with some interest, two discussions at the

Athenée,--one on Suicide, the other on the Crusades. They are amateur

affairs, where, as always at such times, one hears much, nonsense and

vanity, much making of phrases and sentimental grimace; but there was

one excellent speaker, adroit and rapid as only a Frenchman could be.

With admirable readiness, skill, and rhetorical polish, he examined

the arguments of all the others, and built upon their failures

a triumph for himself. His management of the language, too,

was masterly, and French is the best of languages for such a

purpose,--clear, flexible, full of sparkling points and quick,

picturesque turns, with a subtile blandness that makes the dart tickle

while it wounds. Truly he pleased the fancy, filled the ear, and

carried us pleasantly along over the smooth, swift waters; but then

came from the crowd a gentleman, not one of the appointed orators

of the evening, but who had really something in his heart to say,--a

grave, dark man, with Spanish eyes, and the simple dignity of honor

and earnestness in all his gesture and manner. He said in few and

unadorned words his say, and the sense of a real presence filled the

room, and those charms of rhetoric faded, as vanish the beauties of

soap-bubbles from the eyes of astonished childhood.

I was present on one good occasion at the Academy the day that M.

Rémusat was received there in the place of Royer-Collard. I looked

down from one of the tribunes upon the flower of the celebrities of

France, that is to say, of the celebrities which are authentic, _comme

il faut_. Among them were many marked faces, many fine heads; but

in reading the works of poets we always fancy them about the age of

Apollo himself, and I found with pain some of my favorites quite old,

and very unlike the company on Parnassus as represented by Raphael.

Some, however, were venerable, even noble, to behold. Indeed, the

literary dynasty of France is growing old, and here, as in England

and Germany, there seems likely to occur a serious gap before the

inauguration of another, if indeed another is coming.

However, it was an imposing sight; there are men of real distinction

now in the Academy, and Molière would have a fair chance if he

were proposed to-day. Among the audience I saw many ladies of fine

expression and manner, as well as one or two _precieuses ridicules_, a

race which is never quite extinct.

M. Rémusat, as is the custom on these occasions, painted the portrait

of his predecessor; the discourse was brilliant and discriminating

in the details, but the orator seemed to me to neglect drawing some

obvious inferences which would have given a better point of view for

his subject.

A _séance_ to me much more impressive find interesting was one which

borrowed nothing from dress, decorations, or the presence of titled

pomp. I went to call on La Mennais, to whom I had a letter, I found

him in a little study; his secretary was writing in a larger room

through which I passed. With him was a somewhat citizen-looking,

but vivacious, elderly man, whom I was at first sorry to see,

having wished for half an hour's undisturbed visit to the apostle of

Democracy. But how quickly were those feelings displaced by joy when

he named to me the great national lyrist of France, the unequalled

Béranger. I had not expected to see him at all, for he is not one to

be seen in any show place; he lives in the hearts of the people, and

needs no homage from their eyes. I was very happy in that little study

in presence of these two men, whose influence has been so great, so

real. To me Béranger has been much; his wit, his pathos, his exquisite

lyric grace, have made the most delicate strings vibrate, and I can

feel, as well as see, what he is in his nation and his place. I have

not personally received anything from La Mennais, as, born under other

circumstances, mental facts which he, once the pupil of Rome, has

learned by passing through severe ordeals, are at the basis of all

my thoughts. But I see well what he has been and is to Europe, and of

what great force of nature and spirit. He seems suffering and pale,

but in his eyes is the light of the future.

These are men who need no flourish of trumpets to announce their

coming,--no band of martial music upon their steps,--no obsequious

nobles in their train. They are the true kings, the theocratic kings,

the judges in Israel. The hearts of men make music at their approach;

the mind of the age is the historian of their passage; and only men of

destiny like themselves shall be permitted to write their eulogies, or

fill their vacant seats.

Wherever there is a genius like his own, a germ of the finest fruit

still hidden beneath the soil, the "_Chante pauvre petit_" of Béranger

shall strike, like a sunbeam, and give it force to emerge, and

wherever there is the true Crusade,--for the spirit, not the tomb of

Christ,--shall be felt an echo of the "_Que tes armes soient benis

jeune soldat_" of La Mennais.

LETTER XI.

FRANCE AND HER ARTISTIC EXCELLENCE.--THE PICTURES OF HORACE

VERNET.--DE LA ROCHE.--LEOPOLD ROBERT.--CONTRAST BETWEEN THE FRENCH

AND ENGLISH SCHOOLS OF ART.--THE GENERAL APPRECIATION OF TURNER'S

PICTURES.--BOTANICAL MODELS IN WAX.--MUSIC.--THE OPERA.--DUPREZ.--

LABLACHE.--RONCONI.--GRISI.--PERSIANA.--"SEMIRAMIDE" AS PERFORMED BY

THE NEW YORK AND PARIS OPERAS.--MARIO.--COLETTI.--GARDINI.--

"DON GIOVANNI."--THE WRITER'S TRIAL OF THE "LETHEON."--ITS EFFECTS.

It needs not to speak in this cursory manner of the treasures of Art,

pictures, sculptures, engravings, and the other riches which France

lays open so freely to the stranger in her Musées. Any examination

worth writing of such objects, or account of the thoughts they

inspire, demands a place by itself, and an ample field in which to

expatiate. The American, first introduced to some good pictures by the

truly great geniuses of the religious period in Art, must, if capable

at all of mental approximation to the life therein embodied, be too

deeply affected, too full of thoughts, to be in haste to say anything,

and for me, I bide my time.

No such great crisis, however, is to be apprehended from acquaintance

with the productions of the modern French school. They are, indeed,

full of talent and of vigor, but also melodramatic and exaggerated to

a degree that seems to give the nightmare passage through the fresh

and cheerful day. They sound no depth of soul, and are marked with the

signet of a degenerate age.

Thus speak I generally. To the pictures of Horace Vernet one cannot

but turn a gracious eye, they are so faithful a transcript of the life

which circulates around us in the present state of things, and we

are willing to see his nobles and generals mounted on such excellent

horses. De la Roche gives me pleasure; there is in his pictures a

simple and natural poesy; he is a man who has in his own heart a well

of good water, whence he draws for himself when the streams are mixed

with strange soil and bear offensive marks of the bloody battles of

life.

The pictures of Leopold Robert I find charming. They are full of vigor

and nobleness; they express a nature where all is rich, young, and on

a large scale. Those that I have seen are so happily expressive of the

thoughts and perceptions of early manhood, I can hardly regret he

did not live to enter on another stage of life, the impression now

received is so single.

The effort of the French school in Art, as also its main tendency in

literature, seems to be to turn the mind inside out, in the coarsest

acceptation of such a phrase. Art can only be truly Art by presenting

an adequate outward symbol of some fact in the interior life. But then

it _is_ a symbol that Art seeks to present, and not the fact itself.

These French painters seem to have no idea of this; they have not

studied the method of Nature. With the true artist, as with Nature

herself, the more full the representation, the more profound and

enchanting is the sense of mystery. We look and look, as on a flower

of which we cannot scrutinize the secret life, yet b; looking seem

constantly drawn nearer to the soul that causes and governs that life.

But in the French pictures suffering is represented by streams of

blood,--wickedness by the most ghastly contortions.

I saw a movement in the opposite direction in England; it was in

Turner's pictures of the later period. It is well known that Turner,

so long an idol of the English public, paints now in a manner which

has caused the liveliest dissensions in the world of connoisseurs.

There are two parties, one of which maintains, not only that the

pictures of the late period are not good, but that they are not

pictures at all,--that it is impossible to make out the design, or

find what Turner is aiming at by those strange blotches of color.

The other party declare that these pictures are not only good, but

divine,--that whoever looks upon them in the true manner will not fail

to find there somewhat ineffably and transcendently admirable,--the

soul of Art. Books have been written to defend this side of the

question.

I had become much interested about this matter, as the fervor of

feeling on either side seemed to denote that there was something real

and vital going on, and, while time would not permit my visiting other

private collections in London and its neighborhood, I insisted on

taking it for one of Turner's pictures. It was at the house of one of

his devoutest disciples, who has arranged everything in the rooms to

harmonize with them. There were a great many of the earlier period;

these seemed to me charming, but superficial, views of Nature. They

were of a character that he who runs may read,--obvious, simple,

graceful. The later pictures were quite a different matter;

mysterious-looking things,--hieroglyphics of picture, rather than

picture itself. Sometimes you saw a range of red dots, which, after

long looking, dawned on you as the roofs of houses,--shining streaks

turned out to be most alluring rivulets, if traced with patience and

a devout eye. Above all, they charmed the eye and the thought. Still,

these pictures, it seems to me, cannot be considered fine works of

Art, more than the mystical writing common to a certain class of minds

in the United States can be called good writing. A great work of Art

demands a great thought, or a thought of beauty adequately expressed.

Neither in Art nor literature more than in life can an ordinary

thought be made interesting because well dressed. But in a transition

state, whether of Art or literature, deeper thoughts are imperfectly

expressed, because they cannot yet be held and treated masterly.

This seems to be the case with Turner. He has got beyond the English

gentleman's conventional view of Nature, which implies a _little_

sentiment and a _very_ cultivated taste; he has become awake to what

is elemental, normal, in Nature,--such, for instance, as one sees in

the working of water on the sea-shore. He tries to represent these

primitive forms. In the drawings of Piranesi, in the pictures of

Rembrandt, one sees this grand language exhibited more truly. It is

not picture, but certain primitive and leading effects of light and

shadow, or lines and contours, that captivate the attention. I saw a

picture of Rembrandt's at the Louvre, whose subject I do not know

and have never cared to inquire. I cannot analyze the group, but I

understand and feel the thought it embodies. At something similar

Turner seems aiming; an aim so opposed to the practical and outward

tendency of the English mind, that, as a matter of course, the

majority find themselves mystified, and thereby angered, but for the

same reason answering to so deep and seldom satisfied a want in the

minds of the minority, as to secure the most ardent sympathy where any

at all can be elicited.

Upon this topic of the primitive forms and operations of nature, I am

reminded of something interesting I was looking at yesterday. These

are botanical models in wax, with microscopic dissections, by an

artist from Florence, a pupil of Calamajo, the Director of the

Wax-Model Museum there. I saw collections of ten different genera,

embracing from fifty to sixty species, of Fungi, Mosses, and Lichens,

detected and displayed in all the beautiful secrets of their lives;

many of them, as observed by Dr. Leveillé of Paris. The artist told me

that a fisherman, introduced to such acquaintance with the marvels

of love and beauty which we trample under foot or burn in the chimney

each careless day, exclaimed, "'Tis the good God who protects us

on the sea that made all these"; and a similar recognition, a

correspondent feeling, will not be easily evaded by the most callous

observer. This artist has supplied many of these models to the

magnificent collection of the _Jardin des Plantes_, to Edinburgh, and

to Bologna, and would furnish them, to our museums at a much cheaper

rate than they can elsewhere be obtained. I wish the Universities of

Cambridge, New York, and other leading institutions of our country,

might avail themselves of the opportunity.

In Paris I have not been very fortunate in hearing the best music.

At the different Opera-Houses, the orchestra is always good, but the

vocalization, though far superior to what I have heard at home,

falls so far short of my ideas and hopes that--except to the Italian

Opera--I have not been often. The _Opera Comique_ I visited only

once; it was tolerably well, and no more, and, for myself, I find the

tolerable intolerable in music. At the Grand Opera I heard _Robert le

Diable_ and _Guillaume Tell_ almost with ennui; the decorations and

dresses are magnificent, the instrumental performance good, but not

one fine singer to fill these fine parts. Duprez has had a great

reputation, and probably has sung better In former days; still he

has a vulgar mind, and can never have had any merit as an artist. At

present I find him unbearable. He forces his voice, sings in the most

coarse, showy style, and aims at producing effects without regard to

the harmony of his part; fat and vulgar, he still takes the part of

the lover and young chevalier; to my sorrow I saw him in Ravenswood,

and he has well-nigh disenchanted for me the Bride of Lammermoor.

The Italian Opera is here as well sustained, I believe, as anywhere in

the world at present; all about it is certainly quite good, but alas!

nothing excellent, nothing admirable. Yet no! I must not say nothing:

Lablache is excellent,--voice, intonation, manner of song, action.

Ronconi I found good in the Doctor of "_L'Elisire d'Amore_". For the

higher parts Grisi, though now much too large for some of her parts,

and without a particle of poetic grace or dignity, has certainly

beauty of feature, and from nature a fine voice. But I find her

conception of her parts equally coarse and shallow. Her love is the

love of a peasant; her anger, though having the Italian picturesque

richness and vigor, is the anger of an Italian fishwife, entirely

unlike anything in the same rank elsewhere; her despair is that of a

person with the toothache, or who has drawn a blank in the lottery.

The first time I saw her was in _Norma_; then the beauty of her

outline, which becomes really enchanting as she recalls the first

emotions of love, the force and gush of her song, filled my ear, and

charmed the senses, so that I was pleased, and did not perceive her

great defects; but with each time of seeing her I liked her less, and

now I do not like her at all.

Persiani is more generally a favorite here; she is indeed skilful

both as an actress and in the management of her voice, but I find

her expression meretricious, her singing mechanical. Neither of these

women is equal to Pico in natural force, if she had but the same

advantages of culture and environment. In hearing _Semiramide_ here,

I first learned to appreciate the degree of talent with which it

was cast in New York. Grisi indeed is a far better Semiramis than

Borghese, but the best parts of the opera lost all their charm from

the inferiority of Brambilla, who took Pico's place. Mario has a

charming voice, grace and tenderness; he fills very well the part of

the young, chivalric lover, but he has no range of power. Coletti is

a very good singer; he has not from Nature a fine voice or personal

beauty; but he has talent, good taste, and often surpasses the

expectation he has inspired. Gardini, the new singer, I have only

heard once, and that was in a lovesick-shepherd part; he showed

delicacy, tenderness, and tact. In fine, among all these male singers

there is much to please, but little to charm; and for the women, they

never fail absolutely to fill their parts, but no ray of the Muse has

fallen on them.

_Don Giovanni_ conferred on me a benefit, of which certainly its great

author never dreamed. I shall relate it,--first begging pardon of

Mozart, and assuring him I had no thought of turning his music to

the account of a "vulgar utility." It was quite by accident. After

suffering several days very much with the toothache, I resolved to get

rid of the cause of sorrow by the aid of ether; not sorry, either, to

try its efficacy, after all the marvellous stories I had heard.

The first time I inhaled it, I did not for several seconds feel the

effect, and was just thinking, "Alas! this has not power to soothe

nerves so irritable as mine," when suddenly I wandered off, I

don't know where, but it was a sensation like wandering in long

garden-walks, and through many alleys of trees,--many impressions, but

all pleasant and serene. The moment the tube was removed, I started

into consciousness, and put my hand to my cheek; but, sad! the

throbbing tooth was still there. The dentist said I had not seemed to

him insensible. He then gave me the ether in a stronger dose, and this

time I quitted the body instantly, and cannot remember any detail of

what I saw and did; but the impression was as in the Oriental tale,

where the man has his head in the water an instant only, but in his

vision a thousand years seem to have passed. I experienced that same

sense of an immense length of time and succession of impressions;

even, now, the moment my mind was in that state seems to me a far

longer period in time than my life on earth does as I look back upon

it. Suddenly I seemed to see the old dentist, as I had for the

moment before I inhaled the gas, amid his plants, in his nightcap

and dressing-gown; in the twilight the figure had somewhat of a

Faust-like, magical air, and he seemed to say, "_C'est inutile._"

Again I started up, fancying that once more he had not dared to

extract the tooth, but it was gone. What is worth, noticing is the

mental translation I made of his words, which, my ear must have

caught, for my companion tells me he said, "_C'est le moment_," a

phrase of just as many syllables, but conveying just the opposite

sense.

Ah! I how I wished then, that you had settled, there in the United

States, who really brought this means of evading a portion of the

misery of life into use. But as it was, I remained at a loss whom to

apostrophize with my benedictions, whether Dr. Jackson, Morton, or

Wells, and somebody thus was robbed of his clue;--neither does Europe

know to whom to address her medals.

However, there is no evading the heavier part of these miseries. You

avoid the moment of suffering, and escape the effort of screwing up

your courage for one of these moments, but not the jar to the whole

system. I found the effect of having taken the ether bad for me. I

seemed to taste it all the time, and neuralgic pain continued; this

lasted three days. For the evening of the third, I had taken a ticket

to _Don Giovanni_, and could not bear to give up this opera, which I

had always been longing to hear; still I was in much suffering, and,

as it was the sixth day I had been so, much weakened. However, I went,

expecting to be obliged to come out; but the music soothed the

nerves at once. I hardly suffered at all during the opera; however, I

supposed the pain would return as soon as I came out; but no! it left

me from that time. Ah! if physicians only understood the influence

of the mind over the body, instead of treating, as they so often do,

their patients like machines, and according to precedent! But I must

pause here for to-day.

LETTER XII.

ADIEU TO PARIS.--ITS SCENES.--THE PROCESSION OF THE FAT

OX.--DESTITUTION OF THE POORER CLASSES.--NEED OF A REFORM.--THE

DOCTRINES OF FOURIER MAKING PROGRESS.--REVIEW OF FOURIER'S LIFE AND

CHARACTER.--THE PARISIAN PRESS ON THE SPANISH MARRIAGE.--GUIZOT'S

POLICY.--NAPOLEON.--THE MANUSCRIPTS OF ROUSSEAU IN THE CHAMBER

OF DEPUTIES.--HIS CHARACTER.--SPEECH OF M. BERRYER IN THE

CHAMBER.--AMERICAN AND FRENCH ORATORY.--THE AFFAIR OF CRACOW.--DULL

SPEAKERS IN THE CHAMBER.--FRENCH VIVACITY.--AMUSING SCENE.--GUIZOT

SPEAKING.--INTERNATIONAL EXCHANGE OF BOOKS.--THE EVENING SCHOOL OF THE

_FRÈRES CHRETIENS_.--THE GREAT GOOD ACCOMPLISHED BY THEM.--SUGGESTIONS

FOR THE LIKE IN AMERICA.--THE INSTITUTION OF THE DEACONESSES.--THE

NEW YORK "HOME."--SCHOOL FOR IDIOTS NEAR PARIS.--THE RECLAMATION OF

IDIOTS.

I bade adieu to Paris on the 25th of February, just as we had had

one fine day. It was the only one of really delightful weather, from

morning till night, that I had to enjoy all the while I was at Paris,

from the 13th of November till the 25th of February. Let no one abuse

our climate; even in winter it is delightful, compared to the Parisian

winter of mud and mist.

This one day brought out the Parisian world in its gayest colors. I

never saw anything more animated or prettier, of the kind, than

the promenade that day in the _Champs Elysées_. Such crowds of gay

equipages, with _cavaliers_ and their _amazons_ flying through their

midst on handsome and swift horses! On the promenade, what groups of

passably pretty ladies, with excessively pretty bonnets, announcing in

their hues of light green, peach-blossom, and primrose the approach

of spring, and charming children, for French children are charming! I

cannot speak with equal approbation of the files of men sauntering

arm in arm. One sees few fine-looking men in Paris: the air,

half-military, half-dandy, of self-esteem and _savoir-faire_, is not

particularly interesting; nor are the glassy stare and fumes of bad

cigars exactly what one most desires to encounter, when the heart

is opened by the breath of spring zephyrs and the hope of buds and

blossoms.

But a French crowd is always gay, full of quick turns and drolleries;

most amusing when most petulant, it represents what is so agreeable

in the character of the nation. We have now seen it on two good

occasions, the festivities of the new year, and just after we came was

the procession of the _Fat Ox_, described, if I mistake not, by Eugene

Sue. An immense crowd thronged the streets this year to see it,

but few figures and little invention followed the emblem of plenty;

indeed, few among the people could have had the heart for such a sham,

knowing how the poorer classes have suffered from hunger this winter.

All signs of this are kept out of sight in Paris. A pamphlet, called

"The Voice of Famine," stating facts, though in the tone of vulgar

and exaggerated declamation, unhappily common to productions on the

radical side, was suppressed almost as soon as published; but the fact

cannot be suppressed, that the people in the provinces have suffered

most terribly amid the vaunted prosperity of France.

While Louis Philippe lives, the gases, compressed by his strong grasp,

may not burst up to light; but the need of some radical measures of

reform is not less strongly felt in France than elsewhere, and the

time will come before long when such will be imperatively demanded.

The doctrines of Fourier are making considerable progress, and

wherever they spread, the necessity of some practical application of

the precepts of Christ, in lieu of the mummeries of a worn-out ritual,

cannot fail to be felt. The more I see of the terrible ills which

infest the body politic of Europe, the more indignation I feel at

the selfishness or stupidity of those in my own country who oppose

an examination of these subjects,--such as is animated by the hope of

prevention. The mind of Fourier was, in many respects, uncongenial to

mine. Educated in an age of gross materialism, he was tainted by its

faults. In attempts to reorganize society, he commits the error of

making soul the result of health of body, instead of body the clothing

of soul; but his heart was that of a genuine lover of his kind, of a

philanthropist in the sense of Jesus,--his views were large and noble.

His life was one of devout study on these subjects, and I should

pity the person who, after the briefest sojourn in Manchester and

Lyons,--the most superficial acquaintance with the population of

London and Paris,--could seek to hinder a study of his thoughts, or

be wanting in reverence for his purposes. But always, always, the

unthinking mob has found stones on the highway to throw at the

prophets.

Amid so many great causes for thought and anxiety, how childish has

seemed the endless gossip of the Parisian press on the subject of

the Spanish marriage,--how melancholy the flimsy falsehoods of M.

Guizot,--more melancholy the avowal so naïvely made, amid those

falsehoods, that to his mind expediency is the best policy! This is

the policy, said he, that has made France so prosperous. Indeed, the

success is correspondent with the means, though in quite another sense

than that he meant.

I went to the _Hotel des Invalides_, supposing I should be admitted

to the spot where repose the ashes of Napoleon, for though I love not

pilgrimages to sepulchres, and prefer paying my homage to the living

spirit rather than to the dust it once animated, I should have

liked to muse a moment beside his urn; but as yet the visitor is

not admitted there. In the library, however, one sees the picture of

Napoleon crossing the Alps, opposite to that of the present King of

the French. Just as they are, these should serve as frontispieces to

two chapters of history. In the first, the seed was sown in a field of

blood indeed, yet was it the seed of all that is vital in the present

period. By Napoleon the career was really laid open to talent, and all

that is really great in France now consists in the possibility that

talent finds of struggling to the light.

Paris is a great intellectual centre, and there is a Chamber of

Deputies to represent the people, very different from the poor,

limited Assembly politically so called. Their tribune is that of

literature, and one needs not to beg tickets to mingle with the

audience. To the actually so-called Chamber of Deputies I was indebted

for two pleasures. First and greatest, a sight of the manuscripts

of Rousseau treasured in their Library. I saw them and touched

them,--those manuscripts just as he has celebrated them, written on

the fine white paper, tied with ribbon. Yellow and faded age has

made them, yet at their touch I seemed to feel the fire of youth,

immortally glowing, more and more expansive, with which his soul has

pervaded this century. He was the precursor of all we most prize.

True, his blood was mixed with madness, and the course of his actual

life made some detours through villanous places, but his spirit was

intimate with the fundamental truths of human nature, and fraught with

prophecy. There is none who has given birth to more life for this age;

his gifts are yet untold; they are too present with us; but he who

thinks really must often think with Rousseau, and learn of him even

more and more: such is the method of genius, to ripen fruit for the

crowd of those rays of whose heat they complain.

The second pleasure was in the speech of M. Berryer, when the Chamber

was discussing the Address to the King. Those of Thiers and Guizot

had been, so far, more interesting, as they stood for more that was

important; but M. Berryer is the most eloquent speaker of the House.

His oratory is, indeed, very good; not logical, but plausible, full

and rapid, with occasional bursts of flame and showers of sparks,

though indeed no stone of size and weight enough to crush any man was

thrown out of the crater. Although the oratory of our country is

very inferior to what might be expected from the perfect freedom

and powerful motive for development of genius in this province, it

presents several examples of persons superior in both force and scope,

and equal in polish, to M. Berryer.

Nothing can be more pitiful than the manner in which the infamous

affair of Cracow is treated on all hands. There is not even the

affectation of noble feeling about it. La Mennais and his coadjutors

published in _La Reforme_ an honorable and manly protest, which the

public rushed to devour the moment it was out of the press;--and no

wonder! for it was the only crumb of comfort offered to those who have

the nobleness to hope that the confederation of nations may yet be

conducted on the basis of divine justice and human right. Most men who

touched the subject apparently weary of feigning, appeared in their

genuine colors of the calmest, most complacent selfishness. As

described by Körner in the prayer of such a man:--

"O God, save me,

My wife, child, and hearth,

Then my harvest also;

Then will I bless thee,

Though thy lightning scorch to blackness

All the rest of human kind."

A sentiment which finds its paraphrase in the following vulgate of our

land:--

"O Lord, save me,

My wife, child, and brother Sammy,

Us four, _and no more_."

The latter clause, indeed, is not quite frankly avowed as yet by

politicians.

It is very amusing to be in the Chamber of Deputies when some dull

person is speaking. The French have a truly Greek vivacity; they

cannot endure to be bored. Though their conduct is not very dignified,

I should like a corps of the same kind of sharp-shooters in our

legislative assemblies when honorable gentlemen are addressing their

constituents and not the assembly, repeating in lengthy, windy, clumsy

paragraphs what has been the truism of the newspaper press for

months previous, wickedly wasting the time that was given us to learn

something for ourselves, and help our fellow-creatures. In the French

Chamber, if a man who has nothing to say ascends the tribune, the

audience-room is filled with the noise as of myriad beehives; the

President rises on his feet, and passes the whole time of the speech

in taking the most violent exercise, stretching himself to look

imposing, ringing his bell every two minutes, shouting to the

representatives of the nation to be decorous and attentive. In vain:

the more he rings, the more they won't be still. I saw an orator in

this situation, fighting against the desires of the audience, as only

a Frenchman could,--certainly a man of any other nation would have

died of embarrassment rather,--screaming out his sentences, stretching

out both arms with an air of injured dignity, panting, growing red in

the face; but the hubbub of voices never stopped an instant. At last

he pretended to be exhausted, stopped, and took out his snuff-box.

Instantly there was a calm. He seized the occasion, and shouted out a

sentence; but it was the only one he was able to make heard. They

were not to be trapped so a second time. When any one is speaking that

commands interest, as Berryer did, the effect of this vivacity is very

pleasing, the murmur of feeling that rushes over the assembly is so

quick and electric,--light, too, as the ripple on the lake. I heard

Guizot speak one day for a short time. His manner is very deficient

in dignity,--has not even the dignity of station; you see the man of

cultivated intellect, but without inward strength; nor is even his

panoply of proof.

I saw in the Library of the Deputies some books intended to be sent

to our country through M. Vattemare. The French have shown great

readiness and generosity with regard to his project, and I earnestly

hope that our country, if it accept these tokens of good-will, will

show both energy and judgment in making a return. I do not speak from

myself alone, but from others whose opinion is entitled to the highest

respect, when I say it is not by sending a great quantity of documents

of merely local interest, that would be esteemed lumber in our garrets

at home, that you pay respect to a nation able to look beyond, the

binding of a book. If anything is to be sent, let persons of ability

be deputed to make a selection honorable to us and of value to

the French. They would like documents from our Congress,--what is

important as to commerce and manufactures; they would also like much

what can throw light on the history and character of our aborigines.

This project of international exchange could not be carried on to any

permanent advantage without accredited agents on either side, but in

its present shape it wears an aspect of good feeling that is valuable,

and may give a very desirable impulse to thought and knowledge.

M. Vattemare has given himself to the plan with indefatigable

perseverance, and I hope our country will not be backward to accord

him that furtherance he has known how to conquer from his countrymen.

To his complaisance I was indebted for opportunity of a leisurely

survey of the _Imprimeri Royale_, which gave me several suggestions

I shall impart at a more favorable time, and of the operations of the

Mint also. It was at his request that the Librarian of the Chamber

showed me the manuscripts of Rousseau, which are not always seen by

the traveller. He also introduced me to one of the evening schools of

the _Frères Chretiens_, where I saw, with pleasure, how much can be

done for the working classes only by evening lessons. In reading and

writing, adults had made surprising progress, and still more so in

drawing. I saw with the highest pleasure, excellent copies of good

models, made by hard-handed porters and errand-boys with their brass

badges on their breasts. The benefits of such an accomplishment are,

in my eyes, of the highest value, giving them, by insensible degrees,

their part in the glories of art and science, and in the tranquil

refinements of home. Visions rose in my mind of all that might be done

in our country by associations of men and women who have received the

benefits of literary culture, giving such evening lessons throughout

our cities and villages. Should I ever return, I shall propose to

some of the like-minded an association for such a purpose, and try the

experiment of one of these schools of Christian brothers, with the vow

of disinterestedness, but without the robe and the subdued priestly

manner, which even in these men, some of whom seemed to me truly good,

I could not away with.

I visited also a Protestant institution, called that of the

Deaconesses, which pleased me in some respects. Beside the regular

_Crèche_, they take the sick children of the poor, and nurse them till

they are well. They have also a refuge like that of the Home which,

the ladies of New York have provided, through which members of

the most unjustly treated class of society may return to peace and

usefulness. There are institutions of the kind in Paris, but too

formal,--and the treatment shows ignorance of human nature. I see

nothing that shows so enlightened a spirit as the Home, a little germ

of good which I hope flourishes and finds active aid in the community.

I have collected many facts with regard to this suffering class of

women, both in England and in France. I have seen them under the thin

veil of gayety, and in the horrible tatters of utter degradation. I

have seen the feelings of men with regard to their condition, and the

general heartlessness in women of more favored and protected lives,

which I can only ascribe to utter ignorance of the facts. If a

proclamation of some of these can remove it, I hope to make such a one

in the hour of riper judgment, and after a more extensive survey.

Sad as are many features of the time, we have at least the

satisfaction of feeling that if something true can be revealed, if

something wise and kind shall be perseveringly tried, it stands a

chance of nearer success than ever before; for much light has been let

in at the windows of the world, and many dark nooks have been touched

by a consoling ray. The influence of such a ray I felt in visiting

the School for Idiots, near Paris,--idiots, so called long time by

the impatience of the crowd; yet there are really none such, but only

beings so below the average standard, so partially organized, that it

is difficult for them to learn or to sustain themselves. I wept the

whole time I was in this place a shower of sweet and bitter tears; of

joy at what had been done, of grief for all that I and others possess

and cannot impart to these little ones. But patience, and the Father

of All will give them all yet. A good angel these of Paris have in

their master. I have seen no man that seemed to me more worthy of

envy, if one could envy happiness so pure and tender. He is a man

of seven or eight and twenty, who formerly came there only to give

lessons in writing, but became so interested in his charge that he

came at last to live among them and to serve them. They sing the hymns

he writes for them, and as I saw his fine countenance looking in

love on those distorted and opaque vases of humanity, where he had

succeeded in waking up a faint flame, I thought his heart could never

fail to be well warmed and buoyant. They sang well, both in parts and

in chorus, went through gymnastic exercises with order and pleasure,

then stood in a circle and kept time, while several danced extremely

well. One little fellow, with whom the difficulty seemed to be that

an excess of nervous sensibility paralyzed instead of exciting the

powers, recited poems with a touching, childish grace and perfect

memory. They write well, draw well, make shoes, and do carpenter's

work. One of the cases most interesting to the metaphysician is that

of a boy, brought there about two years and a half ago, at the age of

thirteen, in a state of brutality, and of ferocious brutality. I read

the physician's report of him at that period. He discovered no ray of

decency or reason; entirely beneath the animals in the exercise of the

senses, he discovered a restless fury beyond that of beasts of prey,

breaking and throwing down whatever came in his way; was a voracious

glutton, and every way grossly sensual. Many trials and vast patience

were necessary before an inlet could be obtained to his mind; then it

was through the means of mathematics. He delights in the figures, can

draw and name them all, detects them by the touch when blindfolded.

Each, mental effort of the kind he still follows up with an imbecile

chuckle, as indeed his face and whole manner are still that of an

idiot; but he has been raised from his sensual state, and can now

discriminate and name colors and perfumes which before were all alike

to him. He is partially redeemed; earlier, no doubt, far more might

have been done for him, but the degree of success is an earnest which

must encourage to perseverance in the most seemingly hopeless cases. I

thought sorrowfully of the persons of this class whom I have known

in our country, who might have been so raised and solaced by similar

care. I hope ample provision may erelong be made for these Pariahs of

the human race; every case of the kind brings its blessings with it,

and observation on these subjects would be as rich in suggestion for

the thought, as such acts of love are balmy for the heart.

LETTER XIII.

MUSIC IN PARIS.--CHOPIN AND THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.--ADIEU TO PARIS.--A

MIDNIGHT DRIVE IN A DILIGENCE.--LYONS AND ITS WEAVERS.--THEIR MANNER

OF LIFE.--A YOUNG WIFE.--THE WEAVERS' CHILDREN.--THE BANKS OF

THE RHONE.--DREARY WEATHER FOR SOUTHERN FRANCE.--THE OLD ROMAN

AMPHITHEATRE AT ARLES.--THE WOMEN OF ARLES.--MARSEILLES.--PASSAGE

TO GENOA.--ITALY.--GENOA AND NAPLES.--BAIÆ.--VESUVIUS.--THE ITALIAN

CHARACTER AT HOME.--PASSAGE FROM LEGHORN IN A SMALL STEAMER.--NARROW

ESCAPE.--A CONFUSION OF LANGUAGES.--DEGRADATION OF THE NEAPOLITANS.

Naples.

In my last days at Paris I was fortunate in hearing some delightful

music. A friend of Chopin's took me to see him, and I had the

pleasure, which the delicacy of Iris health makes a rare one for the

public, of hearing him play. All the impressions I had received from

hearing his music imperfectly performed were justified, for it has

marked traits, which can be veiled, but not travestied; but to feel

it as it merits, one must hear himself; only a person as exquisitely

organized as he can adequately express these subtile secrets of the

creative spirit.

It was with, a very different sort of pleasure that I listened to the

Chevalier Neukomm, the celebrated composer of "David," which has

been so popular in our country. I heard him improvise on the _orgue

expressif_, and afterward on a great organ which has just been built

here by Cavaille for the cathedral of Ajaccio. Full, sustained,

ardent, yet exact, the stream, of his thought bears with it the

attention of hearers of all characters, as his character, full of

_bonhommie_, open, friendly, animated, and sagacious, would seem to

have something to present for the affection and esteem of all kinds of

men.

Chopin is the minstrel, Neukomm the orator of music: we want them

both,--the mysterious whispers and the resolute pleadings from the

better world, which calls us not to slumber here, but press daily

onward to claim our heritage.

Paris! I was sad to leave thee, thou wonderful focus, where ignorance

ceases to be a pain, because there we find such means daily to lessen

it. It is the only school where I ever found abundance of teachers who

could bear being examined by the pupil in their special branches. I

must go to this school more before I again cross the Atlantic, where

often for years I have carried about some trifling question without

finding the person who could answer it. Really deep questions we must

all answer for ourselves; the more the pity, then, that we get not

quickly through with a crowd of details, where the experience of

others might accelerate our progress.

Leaving by _diligence_, we pursued our way from twelve o'clock on

Thursday till twelve at night on Friday, thus having a large share of

magnificent moonlight upon the unknown fields we were traversing. At

Chalons we took boat and reached Lyons betimes that afternoon. So

soon as refreshed, we sallied out to visit some of the garrets of the

weavers. As we were making inquiries about these, a sweet little girl

who heard us offered to be our guide. She led us by a weary, winding

way, whose pavement was much easier for her feet in their wooden

_sabots_ than for ours in Paris shoes, to the top of a hill, from

which we saw for the first time "the blue and arrowy Rhone." Entering

the light buildings on this high hill, I found each chamber

tenanted by a family of weavers,--all weavers; wife, husband, sons,

daughters,--from nine years old upward,--each was helping. On one side

were the looms; nearer the door the cooking apparatus; the beds were

shelves near the ceiling: they climbed up to them on ladders. My sweet

little girl turned out to be a wife of six or seven years' standing,

with two rather sickly-looking children; she seemed to have the

greatest comfort that is possible amid the perplexities of a hard and

anxious lot, to judge by the proud and affectionate manner in which

she always said "_mon mari_," and by the courteous gentleness of his

manner toward her. She seemed, indeed, to be one of those persons on

whom "the Graces have smiled in their cradle," and to whom a natural

loveliness of character makes the world as easy as it can be made

while the evil spirit is still so busy choking the wheat with tares.

I admired her graceful manner of introducing us into those dark little

rooms, and she was affectionately received by all her acquaintance.

But alas! that voice, by nature of such bird-like vivacity, repeated

again and again, "Ah! we are all very unhappy now." "Do you sing

together, or go to evening schools?" "We have not the heart. When we

have a piece of work, we do not stir till it is finished, and then we

run to try and get another; but often we have to wait idle for weeks.

It grows worse and worse, and they say it is not likely to be any

better. We can think of nothing, but whether we shall be able to pay

our rent. Ah! the workpeople are very unhappy now." This poor, lovely

little girl, at an age when the merchant's daughters of Boston and New

York are just gaining their first experiences of "society," knew to

a farthing the price of every article of food and clothing that is

wanted by such a household. Her thought by day and her dream by night

was, whether she should long be able to procure a scanty supply of

these, and Nature had gifted her with precisely those qualities,

which, unembarrassed by care, would have made her and all she loved

really happy; and she was fortunate now, compared with many of her sex

in Lyons,--of whom a gentleman who knows the class well said: "When

their work fails, they have no resource except in the sale of their

persons. There are but these two ways open to them, weaving or

prostitution, to gain their bread." And there are those who dare to

say that such a state of things is _well enough_, and what Providence

intended for man,--who call those who have hearts to suffer at the

sight, energy and zeal to seek its remedy, visionaries and fanatics!

To themselves be woe, who have eyes and see not, ears and hear not,

the convulsions and sobs of injured Humanity!

My little friend told me she had nursed both her children,--though

almost all of her class are obliged to put their children out

to nurse; "but," said she, "they are brought back so little, so

miserable, that I resolved, if possible, to keep mine with me." Next

day in the steamboat I read a pamphlet by a physician of Lyons in

which he recommends the establishment of _Crèches_, not merely like

those of Paris, to keep the children by day, but to provide wet-nurses

for them. Thus, by the infants receiving nourishment from more healthy

persons, and who under the supervision of directors would treat them

well, he hopes to counteract the tendency to degenerate in this race

of sedentary workers, and to save the mothers from too heavy a burden

of care and labor, without breaking the bond between them and their

children, whom, under such circumstances, they could visit often, and

see them taken care of as they, brought up to know nothing except how

to weave, cannot take care of them. Here, again, how is one reminded

of Fourier's observations and plans, still more enforced by the recent

developments at Manchester as to the habit of feeding children on

opium, which has grown out of the position of things there.

Descending next day to Avignon, I had the mortification of finding the

banks of the Rhone still sheeted with white, and there waded through

melting snow to Laura's tomb. We did not see Mr. Dickens's Tower and

Goblin,--it was too late in the day,--but we saw a snowball fight

between two bands of the military in the castle yard that was gay

enough to make a goblin laugh. And next day on to Arles, still

snow,--snow and cutting blasts in the South of France, where everybody

had promised us bird-songs and blossoms to console us for the

dreary winter of Paris. At Arles, indeed, I saw the little saxifrage

blossoming on the steps of the Amphitheatre, and fruit-trees in flower

amid the tombs. Here for the first time I saw the great handwriting of

the Romans in its proper medium of stone, and I was content. It looked

us grand and solid as I expected, as if life in those days was thought

worth the having, the enjoying, and the using. The sunlight was warm

this day; it lay deliciously still and calm upon the ruins. One old

woman sat knitting where twenty-five thousand persons once gazed down

in fierce excitement on the fights of men and lions. Coming back, we

were refreshed all through the streets by the sight of the women of

Arles. They answered to their reputation for beauty; tall, erect, and

noble, with high and dignified features, and a full, earnest gaze of

the eye, they looked as if the Eagle still waved its wings over their

city. Even the very old women still have a degree of beauty, because

when the colors are all faded, and the skin wrinkled, the face

retains this dignity of outline. The men do not share in these

characteristics; some priestess, well beloved of the powers of old

religion, must have called down an especial blessing on her sex in

this town.

Hence to Marseilles,--where is little for the traveller to see, except

the mixture of Oriental blood in the crowd of the streets. Thence

by steamer to Genoa. Of this transit, he who has been on the

Mediterranean in a stiff breeze well understands I can have nothing to

say, except "I suffered." It was all one dull, tormented dream to me,

and, I believe, to most of the ship's company,--a dream too of thirty

hours' duration, instead of the promised sixteen.

The excessive beauty of Genoa is well known, and the impression upon

the eye alone was correspondent with what I expected; but, alas! the

weather was still so cold I could not realize that I had actually

touched those shores to which I had looked forward all my life, where

it seemed that the heart would expand, and the whole nature be turned

to delight. Seen by a cutting wind, the marble palaces, the gardens,

the magnificent water-view of Genoa, failed to charm,--"I _saw, not

felt_, how beautiful they were." Only at Naples have I found _my_

Italy, and here not till after a week's waiting,--not till I began

to believe that all I had heard in praise of the climate of Italy

was fable, and that there is really no spring anywhere except in the

imagination of poets. For the first week was an exact copy of the

miseries of a New England spring; a bright sun came for an hour or two

in the morning, just to coax you forth without your cloak, and then

came up a villanous, horrible wind, exactly like the worst east wind

of Boston, breaking the heart, racking the brain, and turning hope and

fancy to an irrevocable green and yellow hue, in lieu of their native

rose.

However, here at Naples I _have_ at last found _my_ Italy; I have

passed through the Grotto of Pausilippo, visited Cuma, Baiæ, and

Capri, ascended Vesuvius, and found all familiar, except the sense of

enchantment, of sweet exhilaration, this scene conveys.

"Behold how brightly breaks the morning!"

and yet all new, as if never yet described, for Nature here, most

prolific and exuberant in her gifts, has touched them all with a charm

unhackneyed, unhackneyable, which the boots of English dandies cannot

trample out, nor the raptures of sentimental tourists daub or fade.

Baiæ had still a hid divinity for me, Vesuvius a fresh baptism of

fire, and Sorrento--O Sorrento was beyond picture, beyond poesy, for

the greatest Artist had been at work there in a temper beyond the

reach of human art.

Beyond this, reader, my old friend and valued acquaintance on other

themes, I shall tell you nothing of Naples, for it is a thing apart

in the journey of life, and, if represented at all, should be so in a

fairer form than offers itself at present. Now the actual life here is

over, I am going to Rome, and expect to see that fane of thought the

last day of this week.

At Genoa and Leghorn, I saw for the first time Italians in their

homes. Very attractive I found them, charming women, refined men,

eloquent and courteous. If the cold wind hid Italy, it could not the

Italians. A little group of faces, each so full of character, dignity,

and, what is so rare in an American face, the capacity for pure,

exalting passion, will live ever in my memory,--the fulfilment of a

hope!

We started from Leghorn in an English boat, highly recommended, and as

little deserving of such praise as many another bepuffed article.

In the middle of a fine, clear night, she was run into by the mail

steamer, which all on deck clearly saw coming upon her, for no reason

that could be ascertained, except that the man at the wheel said _he_

had turned the right way, and it never seemed to occur to him that

he could change when he found the other steamer had taken the same

direction. To be sure, the other steamer was equally careless, but as

a change on our part would have prevented an accident that narrowly

missed sending us all to the bottom, it hardly seemed worth while to

persist, for the sake of convicting them of error.

Neither the Captain nor any of his people spoke French, and we had

been much amused before by the chambermaid acting out the old story of

"Will you lend me the loan of a gridiron?" A Polish lady was on board,

with a French waiting-maid, who understood no word of English. The

daughter of John Bull would speak to the lady in English, and, when

she found it of no use, would say imperiously to the _suivante_, "Go

and ask your mistress what she will have for breakfast." And now when

I went on deck there was a parley between the two steamers, which the

Captain was obliged to manage by such interpreters as he could

find; it was a long and confused business. It ended at last in the

Neapolitan steamer taking us in tow for an inglorious return to

Leghorn. When she had decided upon this she swept round, her lights

glancing like sagacious eyes, to take us. The sea was calm as a lake,

the sky full of stars; she made a long detour, with her black hull,

her smoke and lights, which look so pretty at night, then came round

to us like the bend of an arm embracing. It was a pretty picture,

worth the stop and the fright,--perhaps the loss of twenty-four hours,

though I did not think so at the time.

At Leghorn we changed the boat, and, retracing our steps, came now at

last to Naples,--to this priest-ridden, misgoverned, full of dirty,

degraded men and women, yet still most lovely Naples,--of which the

most I can say is that the divine aspect of nature _can_ make you

forget the situation of man in this region, which was surely intended

for him as a princely child, angelic in virtue, genius, and beauty,

and not as a begging, vermin-haunted, image kissing Lazzarone.

LETTER XIV.

ITALY.--MISFORTUNE OF TRAVELLERS.--ENGLISH TRAVELLERS.--

COCKNEYISM.--MACDONALD THE SCULPTOR.--BRITISH ARISTOCRACY.--

TENERANI.--WOLFF'S DIANA AND SEASONS.--GOTT.--CRAWFORD.--OVERBECK

THE PAINTER.--AMERICAN PAINTERS IN ROME.--TERRY.--GRANCH.--HICKS.--

REMAINS OF THE ANTIQUE.--ITALIAN PAINTERS.--DOMENICHIMO AND

TITIAN.--FRESCOS OF RAPHAEL.--MICHEL ANGELO.--THE COLOSSEUM.--HOLY

WEEK.--ST. PETER'S.--PIUS IX. AND HIS MEASURES.--POPULAR

ENTHUSIASM.--PUBLIC DINNER AT THE BATHS OF TITUS.--AUSTRIAN

JEALOUSY.--THE "CONTEMPORANEO."

Rome, May, 1847.

There is very little that I can like to write about Italy. Italy is

beautiful, worthy to be loved and embraced, not talked about. Yet I

remember well that, when afar, I liked to read what was written about

her; now, all thought of it is very tedious.

The traveller passing along the beaten track, vetturinoed from inn

to inn, ciceroned from gallery to gallery, thrown, through indolence,

want of tact, or ignorance of the language, too much into the

society of his compatriots, sees the least possible of the country;

fortunately, it is impossible to avoid seeing a great deal. The great

features of the part pursue and fill the eye.

Yet I find that it is quite out of the question to know Italy; to say

anything of her that is full and sweet, so as to convey any idea of

her spirit, without long residence, and residence in the districts

untouched by the scorch and dust of foreign invasion (the invasion

of the _dilettanti_ I mean), and without an intimacy of feeling, an

abandonment to the spirit of the place, impossible to most Americans.

They retain too much, of their English blood; and the travelling

English, as a class, seem to me the most unseeing of all possible

animals. There are exceptions; for instance, the perceptions and

pictures of Browning seem as delicate and just here on the spot as

they did at a distance; but, take them as a class, they have the

vulgar familiarity of Mrs. Trollope without her vivacity, the

cockneyism of Dickens without his graphic power and love of the

odd corners of human nature. I admired the English at home in

their island; I admired their honor, truth, practical intelligence,

persistent power. But they do not look well in Italy; they are not the

figures for this landscape. I am indignant at the contempt they have

presumed to express for the faults of our semi-barbarous state. What

is the vulgarity expressed in our tobacco-chewing, and way of eating

eggs, compared to that which elbows the Greek marbles, guide-book in

hand,--chatters and sneers through the Miserere of the Sistine Chapel,

beneath the very glance of Michel Angelo's Sibyls,--praises

St. Peter's as "_nice_"--talks of "_managing_" the Colosseum by

moonlight,--and snatches "_bits_" for a "_sketch_" from the sublime

silence of the Campagna.

Yet I was again reconciled with them, the other day, in visiting

the studio of Macdonald. There I found a complete gallery of the

aristocracy of England; for each lord and lady who visits Rome

considers it a part of the ceremony to sit to him for a bust. And what

a fine race! how worthy the marble! what heads of orators,

statesmen, gentlemen! of women chaste, grave, resolute, and tender!

Unfortunately, they do not look as well in flesh and blood; then

they show the habitual coldness of their temperament, the habitual

subservience to frivolous conventionalities. They need some great

occasion, some exciting crisis, in order to make them look as free and

dignified as these busts; yet is the beauty there, though, imprisoned,

and clouded, and such a crisis would show us more then one Boadicea,

more than one Alfred. Tenerani has just completed a statue which is

highly-spoken of; it is called the Angel of the Resurrection. I was

not so fortunate as to find it in his studio. In that of Wolff I saw a

Diana, ordered by the Emperor of Russia. It is modern and sentimental;

as different from, the antique Diana as the trance of a novel-read

young lady of our day from the thrill with which the ancient shepherds

deprecated the magic pervasions of Hecate, but very beautiful and

exquisitely wrought. He has also lately finished the Four Seasons,

represented as children. Of these, Winter is graceful and charming.

Among the sculptors I delayed longest in the work-rooms of Gott.

I found his groups of young figures connected with animals very

refreshing after the grander attempts of the present time. They seem

real growths of his habitual mind,--fruits of Nature, full of joy and

freedom. His spaniels and other frisky poppets would please Apollo far

better than most of the marble nymphs and muses of the present day.

Our Crawford has just finished a bust of Mrs. Crawford, which is

extremely beautiful, full of grace and innocent sweetness. All its

accessaries are charming,--the wreaths, the arrangement of drapery,

the stuff of which the robe is made. I hope it will be much seen on

its arrival in New York. He has also an Herodias in the clay, which is

individual in expression, and the figure of distinguished elegance.

I liked the designs of Crawford better than those of Gibson, who is

estimated as highest in the profession now.

Among the studios of the European painters I have visited only that of

Overbeck. It is well known in the United States what his pictures are.

I have much to say at a more favorable time of what they represented

to me. He himself looks as if he had just stepped out of one of

them,--a lay monk, with a pious eye and habitual morality of thought

which limits every gesture.

Painting is not largely represented here by American artists at

present. Terry has two pleasing pictures on the easel: one is a

costume picture of Italian life, such as I saw it myself, enchanted

beyond my hopes, on coming to Naples on a day of grand festival in

honor of Santa Agatha. Cranch sends soon to America a picture of the

Campagna, such as I saw it on my first entrance into Rome, all light

and calmness; Hicks, a charming half-length of an Italian girl,

holding a mandolin: it will be sure to please. His pictures are full

of life, and give the promise of some real achievement in Art.

Of the fragments of the great time, I have now seen nearly all that

are treasured up here: I have, however, as yet nothing of consequence

to say of them. I find that others have often given good hints as to

how they _look_; and as to what they _are_, it can only be known by

approximating to the state of soul out of which they grew. They should

not be described, but reproduced. They are many and precious, yet is

there not so much of high excellence as I had expected: they will not

float the heart on a boundless sea of feeling, like the starry night

on our Western prairies. Yet I love much to see the galleries of

marbles, even when there are not many separately admirable, amid the

cypresses and ilexes of Roman villas; and a picture that is good at

all looks very good in one of these old palaces.

The Italian painters whom I have learned most to appreciate, since

I came abroad, are Domenichino and Titian. Of others one may learn

something by copies and engravings: but not of these. The portraits

of Titian look upon me from the walls things new and strange. They are

portraits of men such as I have not known. In his picture, absurdly

called _Sacred and Profane Love_, in the Borghese Palace, one of the

figures has developed my powers of gazing to an extent unknown before.

Domenichino seems very unequal in his pictures; but when he is grand

and free, the energy of his genius perfectly satisfies. The frescos

of Caracci and his scholars in the Farnese Palace have been to me a

source of the purest pleasure, and I do not remember to have heard of

them. I loved Guercino much before I came here, but I have looked

too much at his pictures and begin to grow sick of them; he is a very

limited genius. Leonardo I cannot yet like at all, but I suppose the

pictures are good for some people to look at; they show a wonderful

deal of study and thought. That is not what I can best appreciate in

a work of art. I hate to see the marks of them. I want a simple

and direct expression of soul. For the rest, the ordinary cant of

connoisseur-ship on these matters seems in Italy even more detestable

than elsewhere.

I have not yet so sufficiently recovered from my pain at finding the

frescos of Raphael in such a state, as to be able to look at them,

happily. I had heard of their condition, but could not realize it.

However, I have gained nothing by seeing his pictures in oil, which

are well preserved. I find I had before the full impression of his

genius. Michel Angelo's frescos, in like manner, I seem to have

seen as far as I can. But it is not the same with the sculptures: my

thought had not risen to the height of the Moses. It is the only thing

in Europe, so far, which has entirely outgone my hopes. Michel Angelo

was my demigod before; but I find no offering worthy to cast at the

feet of his Moses. I like much, too, his Christ. It is a refreshing

contrast with all the other representations of the same subject.

I like it even as contrasted with Raphael's Christ of the

Transfiguration, or that of the cartoon of _Feed my Lambs_.

I have heard owls hoot in the Colosseum by moonlight, and they spoke

more to the purpose than I ever heard any other voice upon that

subject. I have seen all the pomps and shows of Holy Week in the

church of St. Peter, and found them less imposing than an habitual

acquaintance with the place, with processions of monks and nuns

stealing in now and then, or the swell of vespers from some side

chapel. I have ascended the dome, and seen thence Rome and its

Campagna, its villas with, their cypresses and pines serenely sad as

is nothing else in the world, and the fountains of the Vatican garden

gushing hard by. I have been in the Subterranean to see a poor little

boy introduced, much to his surprise, to the bosom of the Church;

and then I have seen by torch-light the stone popes where they lie on

their tombs, and the old mosaics, and virgins with gilt caps. It is

all rich, and full,--very impressive in its way. St. Peter's must be

to each one a separate poem.

The ceremonies of the Church, have been numerous and splendid during

our stay here; and they borrow unusual interest from the love and

expectation inspired by the present Pontiff. He is a man of noble

and good aspect, who, it is easy to see, has set his heart upon doing

something solid for the benefit of man. But pensively, too, must

one feel how hampered and inadequate are the means at his command

to accomplish these ends. The Italians do not feel it, but deliver

themselves, with all the vivacity of their temperament, to perpetual

hurras, vivas, rockets, and torch-light processions. I often think how

grave and sad must the Pope feel, as he sits alone and hears all this

noise of expectation.

A week or two ago the Cardinal Secretary published a circular inviting

the departments to measures which would give the people a sort of

representative council. Nothing could seem more limited than this

improvement, but it was a great measure for Rome. At night the Corso

in which, we live was illuminated, and many thousands passed through

it in a torch-bearing procession. I saw them first assembled in the

Piazza del Popolo, forming around its fountain a great circle of fire.

Then, as a river of fire, they streamed slowly through the Corso, on

their way to the Quirinal to thank the Pope, upbearing a banner on

which the edict was printed. The stream, of fire advanced slowly, with

a perpetual surge-like sound of voices; the torches flashed on the

animated Italian faces. I have never seen anything finer. Ascending

the Quirinal they made it a mount of light. Bengal fires were thrown

up, which cast their red and white light on the noble Greek figures of

men and horses that reign over it. The Pope appeared on his balcony;

the crowd shouted three vivas; he extended his arms; the crowd fell on

their knees and received his benediction; he retired, and the torches

were extinguished, and the multitude dispersed in an instant.

The same week came the natal day of Rome. A great dinner was given at

the Baths of Titus, in the open air. The company was on the grass in

the area; the music at one end; boxes filled with the handsome Roman

women occupied the other sides. It was a new thing here, this popular

dinner, and the Romans greeted it in an intoxication of hope and

pleasure. Sterbini, author of "The Vestal," presided: many others,

like him, long time exiled and restored to their country by the

present Pope, were at the tables. The Colosseum, and triumphal arches

were in sight; an effigy of the Roman wolf with her royal nursling

was erected on high; the guests, with shouts and music, congratulated

themselves on the possession, in Pius IX., of a new and nobler founder

for another state. Among the speeches that of the Marquis d'Azeglio,

a man of literary note in Italy, and son-in-law of Manzoni, contained

this passage (he was sketching the past history of Italy):--

"The crown passed to the head of a German monarch; but he wore it not

to the benefit, but the injury, of Christianity,--of the world. The

Emperor Henry was a tyrant who wearied out the patience of God. God

said to Rome, 'I give you the Emperor Henry'; and from these hills

that surround us, Hildebrand, Pope Gregory VII., raised his austere

and potent voice to say to the Emperor, 'God did not give you Italy

that you might destroy her,' and Italy, Germany, Europe, saw her

butcher prostrated at the feet of Gregory in penitence. Italy,

Germany, Europe, had then kindled in the heart the first spark of

liberty."

The narrative of the dinner passed the censor, and was published: the

Ambassador of Austria read it, and found, with a modesty and candor

truly admirable, that this passage was meant to allude to his Emperor.

He must take his passports, if such home thrusts are to be made. And

so the paper was seized, and the account of the dinner only told from,

mouth to mouth, from those who had already read it. Also the idea of a

dinner for the Pope's fête-day is abandoned, lest something too frank

should again be said; and they tell me here, with a laugh, "I fancy

you have assisted at the first and last popular dinner." Thus we may

see that the liberty of Rome does not yet advance with seven-leagued

boots; and the new Romulus will need to be prepared for deeds at least

as bold as his predecessor, if he is to open a new order of things.

I cannot well wind up my gossip on this subject better than by

translating a passage from the programme of the _Contemporaneo_, which

represents the hope of Rome at this moment. It is conducted by men of

well-known talent.

"The _Contemporaneo_ (Contemporary) is a journal of progress, but

tempered, as the good and wise think best, in conformity with the

will of our best of princes, and the wants and expectations of the

public....

"Through discussion it desires to prepare minds to receive reforms so

soon and far as they are favored by the law of _opportunity_.

"Every attempt which is made contrary to this social law must fail. It

is vain to hope fruits from a tree out of season, and equally in vain

to introduce the best measures into a country not prepared to receive

them."