LETTER XLVIII.

Paris, January 12th, 1829.

Dearest Julia,

It certainly is a fine thing to have such a walk as the Louvre daily at one’s command, and to take refuge from snow and rain in the hall of gods, and among the creations of genius.—‘Vive le roi!’ for this liberality at least.

I spent my forenoon in the magnificent gallery, and also visited the Egyptian Museum, of which I shall tell you more anon. At dinner, I found an interesting companion in a Général de l’Empire, whom I accidentally met, and whose conversation I preferred to the theatre. He related a number of incidents of which he had been eye and ear-witness:—they give a more vivid picture and a deeper view of all the bearings and relations of things at that time, than are to be gathered from memoirs, in which the truth can never be revealed wholly without concealment or colouring. It would occupy too much time to repeat them all to you now; and besides, they would lose much of their vivacity: I therefore reserve the greater part for oral relations.—Only one or two.

It is not to be denied, said my informant, that many vulgarities were observable in the interior of Napoleon’s family, which betrayed ‘roture.’ (By this he did not mean inferior birth, but a defective and ignoble education.) The greatest hatred and the most pitiful mutual intrigues reigned between the Bonaparte family and the Empress Josephine, who at length fell their victim. At first, Napoleon took the part of his wife, and was often reproached for it by his mother, who called him tyrant, Tiberius, Nero, and other considerably less classical names, to his face. The General assured me, that Madame had frequently told him that Napoleon, from his earliest infancy, had always tried to rule despotically, and had never shown the slightest regard for any one but himself and those immediately belonging to him. He had tyrannized over all his brothers, with the exception of Lucien, who never suffered the least offence or injury to go unrevenged. She had often, she said, observed with astonishment how perfectly the brothers had retained their relative characters. The General affirmed, that Madame Letitia had the firmest persuasion that Napoleon would end ill; and made no secret of it, that she hoarded only against that catastrophe. Lucien shared in this persuasion; and as early as the year 1811, used the following remarkable words in speaking to the General: “L’ambition de cet homme est insatiable, et vous vivrez peut-être pour voir sa carcasse et toute sa famille jettées dans les égouts de Paris.”

At Napoleon’s coronation, the Empress-mother, in whose household the General held some office after he had quitted the military service (what, he did not tell me,) gave him strict charge to observe how many arm-chairs, chairs, and stools, had been placed for the imperial family, and to make his report to her unobserved as soon as she entered. The General, who had but little experience in court etiquette, wondered at this strange commission, executed it, however, punctually, and informed her there were but two ‘fauteuils,’ one chair, and so many ‘tabourets.’ “Ah! je le pensais bien,” cried Madame Mère, red with rage, “la chaise est pour moi—mais ils se trompent dans leur calcul!” Walking quickly up to the ominous chair, she asked the chamberlain on duty, with lips quivering with passion, ‘Where was her seat?’ He motioned, with a deep bow, to the chair. The queens had already seated themselves on the ‘tabourets.’ To snatch hold of the chair, throw it down on the feet of the unfortunate chamberlain, who nearly screamed with pain, and to rush into the closet where the Emperor and Josephine were waiting, was the affair of a moment to the exasperated mother. The most indecent scene followed, during which the Empress-mother declared in the most vehement terms, that if a ‘fauteuil,’ were not instantly given her, she would leave the Salle, after explaining aloud the reason for her conduct. Napoleon, although furiously exasperated, was obliged to make ‘bonne mine à mauvais jeu,’ and got out of the scrape by throwing the whole blame on poor Count Ségur; “et l’on vit bientôt,” added the General, “le digne Comte arriver tout effaré, et apporter lui-même un fauteuil à sa Majesté l’Empératrice Mère.” It is characteristic, and a proof that the thing originated in no respect with Josephine, but entirely with the Emperor himself, that at the marriage of Maria Louisa the very same incident was repeated,—only that the humbled and intimidated mother had no longer courage to resist.

Napoleon was brought up a bigot; and although too acute to remain so, or indeed perhaps ever to have been so sincerely, habit—which exercises so strong an influence over us all—rendered it impossible for him ever to divest himself entirely of first impressions. When any thing suddenly struck him, he sometimes involuntarily made the sign of the Cross,—a gesture which appeared most extraordinary to the sceptical children of the revolution.

Now for one amiable trait of Charles the Fourth, whom the world would be so little apt to suspect of any delicate attention. Those who knew him intimately, however, know that he was liberal and kind, though weak and ignorant; and much better as a man than as a king.

When Lucien went to Spain as ambassador from the Republic, the General, my informant, accompanied him as secretary of legation. Lucien’s predecessor had ‘affiché’ all the coarseness of republican manners, to the infinite scandal of the most formal and stately court in the world; and the Spaniards dreaded still greater rudeness and arrogance from the brother of the First Consul. Lucien, however, had the good taste to take the completely opposite course; appeared at court in shoes and bag-wig, and fulfilled all the duties of ceremony and etiquette with such punctuality, that the whole court was in a perfect ecstacy of delight and gratitude. Lucien was not only extremely popular, but the perfect idol of the whole royal family. He returned their friendship, the General affirmed, sincerely, and often earnestly warned the King against the Prince of the Peace, as well as against the insatiable ambition of his own brother, of whom he spoke on every occasion without the slightest reserve. The confidence, however, of the old King in his ‘grand ami,’ as he called Napoleon, remained unshaken to the last.

Before his departure, Lucien crowned his popularity by a magnificent fête, the like of which had never been seen in Spain, and which cost nearly four hundred thousand francs. The highest persons about the court, a number of grandees, and the whole royal family honoured it with their presence; and the latter seemed not to know how sufficiently to express their attachment to the ambassador. A few days afterwards, all the members of the legation received splendid presents; the ambassador alone was omitted; and republican familiarity permitted many jokes upon him in the palace of the embassy. Meanwhile the audience of leave was over, Lucien’s departure fixed for the following day, and all hopes of the expected present at an end, when an officer of the Walloon guard came with an escort to the hotel, bringing a large picture in a packing-case, as a present from the King to Napoleon. When Lucien was informed of this, he said, it was doubtless Titian’s Venus, which he had often admired in the King’s presence, and which was certainly a very valuable picture, but that the carriage of it was inconvenient to him, and he must confess he had rather the King had not sent it. However, the officer was most politely thanked, and dismissed; and Lucien, taking out a valuable shirt-pin from his breast, begged him to accept it. The ambassador now ordered the case to be unpacked, the picture taken out of its frame (which could be left behind), and rolled so that it could be carried on the imperial of a carriage. The secretary did as he desired:—scarcely was the wrapping-cloth raised, when, instead of the admired Venus, a face anything but beautiful—that of the King himself smiled upon him. He was just flying off in mischievous delight to inform the ambassador of the comical mistake, when on entirely removing the cloth, a yet greater surprise detained him:—the whole picture was set round like a miniature with large diamonds, which Lucien afterwards sold in Paris for four millions of francs. This was truly a royal surprise, and the ambassador speedily recalled his order for leaving the frame.

The General asserted that Lucien was very intimate with the Queen of Portugal, who gave him a political rendezvous at Badajoz. He thought D—— M—— was the result of this meeting. Certain it is, as you may remember I wrote you from London, that that prince is strikingly like Napoleon.

January 13th.

The turn of the Gaiété came to-day in my inspection of theatres, and I make bold to declare that I was very much amused. These little melodrames and vaudevilles are now—the French may be as grand about it as they please—their real and proper national drama; and perhaps they are not altogether innocent of the striking defection of the public to the romantic banner. People were heartily tired of the meagre fare of the

There was one evening on which I gave you no theatrical intelligence. The cause of this was the horrible ennui I had suffered at the Théatre Français. Mademoiselle Mars did not play, and I found the parts of the great and matchless Talma and Fleury sunk into the most deplorable hands. In full contrast with this classical dulness, was the excellence of the melodrame of the Gaiété; and in spite of all the long litany that may be repeated by classicists as to coarse colouring, ‘coups de théatre,’ improbabilities, and so forth, I am persuaded that no unprejudiced fresh mind could see it without lively interest.—Let us now go back to the Théatre Français.

After a Greco-French tragedy, in which antique dresses vainly strove to convert Frenchmen into Greeks, in which the provincial hero Joanny vainly tried to exhibit a faint copy of the godlike Talma, and Duchesnois, who is now really ‘au delà de la permission’ ugly, with whining, antiquated and stony manner, vainly quivered out the end of every sentence with her hands in the air (also à la Talma,) while all the rest exhibited a truly hopeless picture of mediocrity, the ‘Mercure galant’ was given as a conclusion. The faded embroidered silk clothes, as well as the awkwardness with which they were worn by the modern actors, spoke of the remote date of this piece. The ladies, on the other hand, had dressed according to their own taste, and were in the newest fashion. The comedy is utterly without plot, and the wit flat and coarse.

Setting aside ‘que tous les genres sont bons hors le genre ennuyeux,’ the contents of this latter piece were really better fitted to a booth in a fair. What appears still more extraordinary is, that this stately, classical, national theatre, has itself been driven to give melodrames, (as to their contents at least,) though without music; and that these are the only representations which draw audiences. The only profitable modern piece, L’Espion, is a sufficient proof of this.

Thus does one theatre after another plant the romantic standard with more or less success; and tragedies and plays ‘a la Shakspeare,’ as the French call them, daily make their appearance, in which all the time-honoured unities are thrown over the shoulder without any more qualms of conscience on the part of authors or the public.

The revolution has regenerated France in every respect,—even their poetry is new; and ungrudging, never-envying Germany calls out joyfully to her, “Glück auf.”

January 14th.

To-day I visited some new buildings; among others the Bourse. It is surrounded with a stately colonnade, whose magnitude and total effect is imposing; but the long narrow-arched windows behind the pillars are in very bad taste. Modern necessities harmonize ill with ancient architecture. The interior is grand, and the illusion produced by the painting on the roof complete: you would swear they were bas-reliefs,—and very bad ones.

I remarked to-day for the first time how much the Boulevards are improved by the removal of several houses: the Portes St. Martin and St Dénis are seen to much greater advantage than before. Louis the Fourteenth deserves these monuments; for in truth, all that is grand and beautiful in Paris may be ascribed to him or to Napoleon. The rows of trees have been carefully preserved; and not, as on the Dönhofsplatz in Berlin, large trees cut down and little miserable sticks planted in their stead. The numerous ‘Dames blanches’ and Omnibuses have a most singular appearance. These are carriages containing twenty or thirty persons: they traverse the Boulevards incessantly, and convey the weary foot-passenger at a very moderate price. These ponderous machines are drawn by three unfortunate horses. In the present slippery state of the pavement I have several times seen all three fall together. It is said that England is the hell of horses: if, however, the metempsychosis should be realized, I beg leave to be an English horse rather than a French one. It rouses one’s indignation to see how these unhappy animals are often treated, and it were to be wished that the police would here, as in England, take them under its protection. I remember once to have seen a poor hackney-coach horse maltreated by a coachman in London. “Come with me,” said the Englishman with whom I was walking; “you shall soon see that fellow punished.” He very coolly called the man and ordered him to drive to the nearest police office. He alighted, and accused the coachman of having wantonly maltreated and tortured his horse. I was called on to give evidence to the same effect; and the fellow was sentenced to pay a considerable fine; after which we made him drive us back:—you may imagine his good humour.

Omnibuses are to be found in other parts of the city, and the longest ‘course’ costs only a few sous.—I know few things more amusing than to ride about in them in an evening, without any definite aim, and only for the sake of the rich caricatures one meets with, and the odd conversations one hears. I was often tempted to believe that I was at the Variétés; and I recognised the originals of many of Brunets and Odry’s faithful portraits. You know how much I like to wander about the world thus, an observer of men and manners; especially of the middle classes, among whom alone any characteristic peculiarities are now-a-days to be found, and who are also the happiest,—for the medal is completely reversed. The middle classes, down to the artisan, are now the really privileged, by the character of the times and of public opinion. The higher classes find themselves, with their privileges and pretensions, condemned to a state of incessant opposition and humiliation. If their claims be adequately supported by wealth, their condition is tolerable; though even then, from ostentation,—the hereditary vice of those among the rich who are not slaves to avarice,—their money procures them far less substantial enjoyment than it does to those a step or two below them. If their rank is not upheld by property, they are of all classes in society,—except criminals and those who suffer from actual hunger,—the most pitiable.

Every man ought therefore maturely to estimate his position in the world, and to sacrifice nothing to vanity or ambition; for no epoch of the world was ever less fertile in rewards for such deference to the bad and frivolous part of public opinion. I do not mean, of course, the ambition of true merit, which is rewarded by its own results, and can be adequately rewarded by them alone. We nobles are now cheaply instructed in wise forbearance and practical philosophy of every kind;—and Heaven be thanked!

With such thoughts I arrived in a ‘Dame blanche’ at Franconi’s theatre, to which a blind man might find his way by the scent. The performances are certainly in odiously bad taste, and a public which had no better amusements must end by becoming but one degree above the animals they look at. I speak of the senseless dramatic pieces acted here;—the mere feats of activity and skill are often very interesting. I was particularly delighted with the slack rope-dancer called Il Diavolo, who outdoes all his competitors as completely as Vestris surpasses his. A finer form, greater agility and steadiness and more finished grace, are hardly conceivable. He is the flying Mercury descended again on earth in human shape; the air appears his natural element, and the rope a mere superfluity, with which he enwreathes himself as with a garland. You see him at an enormous height lie along perfectly at his ease when the rope is in full swing; then float close to the boxes with the classic grace of an antique; then, with his head hanging down and his legs upwards, execute an ‘entrechat’ in the clouds of the stage-heaven. You may suppose that he is perfect master of all the ordinary tours de force of his art. He really deserves his name; ‘Il Diavolo non può far’ meglio.’

Jan. 14th.

As appendix to my yesterday’s letter, I bought you a ‘Dame blanche’ filled with bonbons; and, as a present for Mademoiselle H—— next Christmas, a bronze pendule with a running fountain at its foot, and a real working telegraph on the top. Tell her she may use the latter to keep up conversations which none but the initiated can understand. Paris is inexhaustible in such knicknacks: they are generally destined for foreigners; the French seldom buy them, and think them, justly enough, ‘de mauvais goût.’

To have done with theatres I visited three this evening. First I saw two acts of the new and most miserable tragedy, Isabelle de Bavière, at the Théatre Français. My previous impressions were confirmed; and not only were the performers (with the exception of Joanny, who acted the part of Charles the Sixth pretty well) mediocrity itself, but the costumes, scenery, and all the appointments were below those of the smallest theatre on the Boulevards. The populace of Paris was represented by seven men and two women; the ‘Pairs de France’ by three or four wretched sticks, literally in rags, with gold paper crowns on their heads, like those in a puppet-show. The house was empty, and the cold insufferable. I drove as quickly as I could to the ‘Ambigu Comique,’ where I found a pretty new house with very fresh decorations. As interlude, a sort of ballet was performed, which contained not a bad parody on the German Landwehr, and at any rate was not tiresome. I could not help wondering, however, that the French do not feel about the Landwehr and the Prussian horns, as the Burgundians did about the Alp horns of the Swiss, whose tones they were not particularly fond of recalling; for, as the Chronicle says, ‘à Granson les avoient trop ouis.’

My evening closed with the Italian Opera. Here you find the most select audience; it is the fashionable house. The theatre is prettily decorated, the lighting brilliant, and the singing exceeds expectation. Still it is curious, that even with a company composed entirely of Italians the singing is never the same,—there is never that complete and inimitable whole, which you find in Italy: their fire seems chilled in these colder regions,—their humour dried up; they know that they shall be applauded, but that they no longer form one family with the audience; the buffo, as well as the first tragic singer, feels that he is but half understood, and, even musically speaking, but half felt. In Italy the Opera is nature, necessity; in Germany, England, and France, an enjoyment of art, or a way of killing time.

The Opera was La Cenerentola. Madame Malibran Garcia does not, in my opinion, equal Sontag in this part: she has, however, her own ‘genre,’ which is the more attractive the longer one hears her; and I do not doubt that she too has parts in which she would bear away the palm from all competitors. She has married an American; and her style of singing appeared to me quite American,—that is, free, daring, and republican: whilst Pasta, like an aristocrat, or rather like an autocrat, hurries one despotically away with her; and Sontag warbles forth melting and ‘mezza-voce’ tones, as if from the heavenly regions. Bordogni, the tenore, had the difficult task of singing without a voice, and did all that was possible under such circumstances: Zuchelli was, as ever, admirable; and Santini his worthy rival. Both acting and singing had throughout more of life, power and grace, than on any other Italian stage out of Italy.

On my return to my hotel, I was surprised by one of those Parisian ‘agrémens’ which are really a disgrace to such a city. Though my hotel is one of the most respectable, and in the most frequented part of the town, I thought I was alighting at a ‘cloaque.’ They were clearing certain excavations, an operation by which the houses here are poisoned twice a year.

I have already burned a dozen pastiles, but can create no radical reaction.

Jan 15th.

I seated myself in a cabriolet early this morning, to make a wider excursion than usual. I directed the driver first to Nôtre Dame, and regretted as I passed the Pont Neuf that this spot had been assigned to the statue of Henry the Fourth. It stands most disproportionately on the naked base of the obelisk which Napoleon had projected, and for which the spot was chosen with great sagacity; whereas now, surrounded by the broad and high masses of building which form the back-ground of the little statue and enclose it in a colossal triangle, the prancing horse looks like a skipping insect. While I was following this train of observations, and thinking what Paris would have become had Napoleon’s reign been prolonged, my driver suddenly cried out “Voilà la Morgue!” I told him to stop (‘car j’aime les émotions lugubres),’ and entered this house of death, which I had never before seen. Behind a lattice is a clean little room with eight wooden biers painted black, placed in a row, the heads turned to the wall, the feet towards the spectator. Upon these the dead bodies are laid naked, and the clothes and effects of each hung upon the white wall behind him, so that they can easily be recognised. There was only one; an old man with a genuine French physiognomy, rings in his ears and on his fingers. He lay with a smile on his face and open eyes like a wax figure, and with exactly such a mien as if he were about to offer his neighbour a pinch of snuff, when death surprised him. His clothes were good,—“superbes,” as a ragged fellow near me said, while he looked at them with longing eyes. There were no marks of violence visible on the body; so that the stroke of death had probably surprised the old man in some remote part of the city, and was still unknown to his relatives: misery seemed to have no share in his fate.

One of the guardians of the place told me a curious fact;—in winter, the number of deaths by drowning, which is now the fashionable mode of self-destruction in Paris, is less by two-thirds than in summer. The cause of this can be no other, however ridiculous it may sound, than that the water is too cold, for the Seine is scarcely ever frozen. But as trifles and every-day things govern the great events of life much more than we are apt to think, so they appear to exercise their power even in death, and despair itself is still ‘douillet,’ and enthralled by the senses.

You remember the three portals of Nôtre Dame, with the oaken doors ornamented with beautiful designs and arabesques in bronze, and how striking is the whole façade, how interesting its details. Unfortunately, like the temple at Jerusalem, the interior is defaced by stalls and booths. This interior, always so unworthy of the exterior, is rendered still more mean by a new coat of paint.

Continuing my drive, I alighted for a minute at the Panthéon. It is a pity that the situation and entourage of this building are so unfavourable. The interior appeared to me almost too simple and bare of ornament, which does not suit this style; and Girodet’s new ceiling is hardly visible without a telescope. The opening of the cupola is too small and too high to enable one to see anything of the painting distinctly. I saw a piece of carpet hanging to one of the pillars, and asked what it meant: I was told that it was the work of the unhappy Marie Antoinette, and presented to the church by Madame. Over the side altar was written ‘Autel privilégié.’

The association of ideas which this inscription suggested, led me to the neighbouring ménagerie, and I drove to the Jardin des Plantes. It was too cold for the animals, and almost all, living and dead, were shut up, so that I could only visit a Polar bear. I found him patiently and quietly clearing out his den with his fore paws. He did not suffer my presence to interrupt him in the least, but went on working like a labourer. He used his paws as brooms, then brought the straw and snow into his hole to make himself a comfortable bed, and at length with a sort of grumble of satisfaction slowly stretched himself out upon it. His neighbour Martin, the brown bear who once on a time ate a sentinel, is quite well, but not visible to-day. On my way back I visited a third church, St. Eustache. The interior is grander than that of the Panthéon or Nôtre Dame, and is enlivened by a few painted windows and pictures. There was indeed a sort of exhibition of the latter, on occasion of some festival: I cannot say that much good taste was conspicuous in it. A more agreeable thing was the fine music, in which the trumpets produced an overpowering effect. Why is not this sublime instrument oftener introduced into church music?

As I drove across the Place des Victoires, I sent up a sigh to Heaven over the nothingness of fame and its monuments. On this place, as you well remember, stood Désaix’s statue, which he had really deserved of France. Now it is thrown aside, and a Louis the Fourteenth in Roman armour, with a long wig, and mounted on a horse which looks like a wooden one, occupies its place. I had some difficulty in silencing the melancholy moralizings which this sight excited in me, by the more sensual impressions I received in the ‘salon des Frères Provençaux,’ from excellent truffles, and the perusal of a somewhat less praiseworthy fashionable novel. I was even forced to drink a whole bottle of champagne before I could exclaim with Solomon, “All is vanity!” and add, “Therefore enjoy the present moment without thinking too much about it.” In this good frame of mind I passed through, for the last time, the Palais Royal, where so many gay ‘colifichets’ and new inventions sparkled upon me from the well-lighted shops, that I almost took the full moon, which hung small and yellow over one of the opposite chimneys, for a new toy; and should not have been much surprised if the man in the moon or Mademoiselle Garnerin had stepped out of it, and vanished again down one of Véry’s chimneys. But as nothing of this sort happened, I followed the brilliant front of the Variétés, which eclipsed the dim oil lamps around, and entered, ‘pour y faire ma digestion en riant.’ This end was perfectly attained; for though the little theatre has lost Potier, it still retains its power over the risible muscles. It has gained—for the eyes at least—an extremely pretty little actress, Mademoiselle Valérie, and a much better and fresher exterior than formerly. Among the agreeable novelties is a drop curtain of real cloth, instead of the usual painted draperies. The rich folds of dark blue contrasted well with the crimson, gold, and white, of the theatre. It is not rolled up stiffly and awkwardly like the others, but draws back gracefully to either side. The great theatres would do well to imitate this.

Jan. 16th.

Formerly Anas were the fashion; now it is Amas, ‘et le change est pour le mieux.’ To these Amas I dedicated my morning, and began with the Ama of geography, the Georama. Here you suddenly find yourself in the centre of the globe,—which Dr. Nürnberger has not yet reached with his projected shaft; but in which you find the hypothesis of a sea of light confirmed, for it is so light that the whole crust of the earth is rendered transparent, and you can distinctly see even the political boundaries of countries. The excessive cold somewhat chilled my curiosity, so that I can only tell you that no globe elucidates geography so well as the Georama. It were to be wished that all Lancasterian schools could be thus introduced into the bowels of the earth: such a company too might warm themselves ‘mutuellement.’ The lakes appear, as in reality, beautifully blue and transparent, the volcanoes little fiery points, and the black chains of mountains are easily followed by the eye. I was amused to see that the great lakes in China had the precise outline of the grotesque and frightful faces of Chinese gods. The largest was really, without any effort of the imagination, the exact copy of the flying dragon so frequent on their porcelain. I hug myself amazingly on this discovery;—who knows if it will not throw some light on Chinese mythology? I was much displeased at seeing no notice taken of the recent discoveries at the North Pole, in Africa, and the Himalaya mountains. The whole affair appeared to me somewhat ‘en décadence.’ Instead of the pretty woman who generally sits at the bureau of all exhibitions of this sort in Paris, there was a terrific person who might have passed for the Lépreux d’Aosta.

The Diorama, a mile or so further, on the Boulevards, contains views of St. Gothard and of Venice. The former, on the Italian side, which I have seen ‘in naturâ,’ was well painted and very like; but as there is no change of light and shadow, as in the far superior Diorama in London, there is not the same variety and charm. Venice was a bad painting, and the light so yellow that it looked as if its just indignation at the French, who destroyed its political existence and then did not even keep it, had given it the jaundice.

The Neorama places you in the centre of St. Peter’s; the illusion however is but faint, and the crowd of motionless figures, in a thing which pretends to perfect imitation, tends to break it. Only the sleeping or the dead can be appropriately introduced into such a scene. The festival of St. Peter is represented. Pope, cardinals, priests, and the Pope’s guard ‘en haye,’ fill the church; and are so badly painted to boot, that I took His Holiness for an old dressing-gown hung before the Jove-like statue of Peter.

Passing over the well-known Panoramas and Cosmoramas, I bring you at last to the Uranorama in the new Passage Vivienne. This is a very ingenious piece of mechanism, exhibiting the course of the planets and the solar system. I confess that I never had so clear an idea of these matters as after the hour I spent here. I shall tell you more about it by word of mouth. If you like to spend twelve hundred francs, you can have a small model of the whole machine, which every good library ought to possess.

Thus then I began with the central point of the earth, then admired the various glories of its surface, and after a cursory visit to the planets, left off in the sun. There wanted nothing but a final Ama representing the seventh heaven and the houris, to complete my journey: I should have seen more than the Egyptian dervise in the five seconds during which his head was immersed in the pail of water.

It is better that I drop the curtain here over my sayings and doings. When it is drawn up again in your presence, I shall stand before you. After I have refreshed all the powers of my mind there, I shall tell you my further plans;—to dream away a winter amid pomegranates and oleanders; to wander awhile under the palm-trees of Africa, and to look down on the wonders of Egypt from the summit of her pyramids. Till then, no more letters.

Yours most faithfully, L——.

THE END.

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

over fastidiuot=> over fastidious {pg xiv}

over fastidiuot=> over fastidiuos {pg xiv}

neices=> nieces {pg xv}

surgcial instrument=> surgical instrument {pg xv}

Il est d’angereux=> Il est dangereux {pg 1}

Est ist doch schön=> Es ist doch schön {pg 7}

description of his travels=> descriptions of his travels {pg 4}

self-controling=> self-controlling {pg 9}

á peu de chose près=> à peu de chose près {pg 28}

bow you head=> bow you head {pg 28}

Göethe=> Göthe {pg 29}

Ist gleich bie trübe=> Ist gleich die trübe {pg 41}

travelled a ceriain prescribed=> travelled a certain prescribed {pg 37}

une mine de dolèance=> une mine de doléance {pg 51}

Duke d’Enghein=> Duke d’Enghien {pg 59}

artifical rockeries=> artificial rockeries {pg 66}

Liecester=> Leicester {pg 77}

a la fourchette=> á la fourchette {pg 82}

Opposito to the=> Opposite to the {pg 82}

aud refreshed=> and refreshed {pg 90}

c’est a y revenir demain=> c’est á y revenir demain {pg 92}

piana-forte=> piana-forte {pg 106}

so ageeeable=> so ageeable {pg 108}

exrmples of=> examples of {pg 114}

neice=> niece {pg 136}

Ernst is das Leben, heiter ist die Kunst=> Ernst ist das Leben, heiter ist die Kunst {pg 127}

must have suck fast=> must have stuck fast {pg 131}

celebrathed=> celebrated {pg 135}

the conseqence=> the consequence {pg 137}

Nicht um Platze zu erlangen=> ish überall die Morgenröthe {pg n. 136}

c’est qui ni le rang=> c’est que ni le rang {pg n. 138}

saurient eléver=> sauraient éléver {pg n. 138}

in extravance=> in extravagance {pg 146}

frightful sqeeze=> frightful squeeze {pg 157}

conscientiousnes=> conscientiousness {pg 160}

judging of a scull=> judging of a skull {pg 160}

down to the clear steam=> down to the clear stream {pg 162}

too long absorded=> too long absorded {pg 164}

Ich emfehle mich unterthänigst=> Ich empfehle mich unterthänigst {pg 167}

Fasser=> Fässer {pg n. 168}

Madame von Furstenburgh=> Madame von Furstenburg {pg 174}

leaned over to Napaleon=> leaned over to Napoleon {pg 177}

auf des Stromes tiefunsterstem Grund=> auf des Stromes tiefunterstem Grund {pg 177}

or eatables=> for eatables {pg 178}

which you fancy your hear=> which you fancy you hear {pg 198}

cenceive=> conceive {pg 202}

its grearest breadth=> its greatest breadth {pg 202}

vous étes trop poli=> vous êtes trop poli {pg 205}

crowed=> crowd {pg 208}

the operatious=> the operations {pg 208}

number of curiosites=> number of curiosities {pg 210}

bien que l’éspérance=> bien que l’espérance {pg 212}

artifical=> artificial {pg 212}

of which there not more=> of which there were not more {pg 212}

its is advantageous=> it is advantageous {pg 212}

in the syle=> in the style {pg 215}

dans l’orielle=> dans l’oreille {pg 216}

Tbe actors=> The actors {pg 217}

dictinctly=> distinctly {pg 218}

magnficence=> magnificence {pg 226}

exhibiton=> exhibition {pg 226}

war er=> was Er {pg 228}

appetit=> appétit {pg 232}

soms time=> some time {pg 233}

accuratety=> accurately {pg 235}

would he a poor=> would be a poor {pg 238}

contatenation=> concatenation {pg 239}

ths scissars=> the scissars {pg 239}

where he lives, at formerly=> where he lives, as formerly {pg 242}

thousend=> thousand {pg 244}

hnge=> huge {pg 246}

thomselves=> themselves {pg 247}

indvidual=> individual {pg 248}

noble mein=> noble mien {pg 249}

Cardinel Wolsey=> Cardinal Wolsey {pg 256}

dèjeunè champêtre=> déjeuné champêtre {pg 261}

viel=> veil {pg 269}

autorite sans replique=> autorité sans replique {pg 270}

assassinated=> assassinated {pg n. 291}

this expedtion been=> this expedition been {pg n. 291}

monkies=> monkeys {pg 297}

justisfy=> justify {pg 299}

at the last dry=> at the last day {pg 299}

most vehements thanks=> most vehement thanks {pg 305}

wholly unmixep=> wholly unmixed {pg 308}

jeau de mots=> jeau de mots {pg n. 316}

bad chacacter=> bad character {pg 327}

coucluded=> concluded {pg 329}

edler Man=> edler Mann {pg 334}

jeau de mots=> jeau de mots {pg n. 316}

Voila ce que c’est que la foi=> Voilà ce que c’est que la foi {pg 318}

the dinner=> the diner {pg 342}

it more poetical=> is more poetical {pg 353}

Bohmische Dorfer=> Böhmische Dörfer {pg n. 353}

too see over=> to see over {pg 357}

stiftsfähiges blut=> stiftsfähiges Blut {pg 368}

snow-white form=> snow-white foam {pg 370}

resté heros=> resté heros {pg n. 375}

imposible to pass=> impossible to pass {pg 382}

the ancients kings=> the ancient kings {pg 384}

a la lettre=> á la lettre {pg 386}

In in instant=> In an instant {pg 387}

inkeeper’s daughter=> innkeeper’s daughter {pg 389}

to approach near the earth’s=> to approach nearer the earth’s {pg 391}

its quiet enough=> it’s quiet enough {pg 402}

priests here assembed=> priests here assembled {pg 409}

une réligion=> une religion {pg 411}

tous les ages=> tous les âges {pg 419}

find old man=> fine old man {pg 419}

attrocities=> atrocities {pg 429}

aid-de-camp=> aide-de-camp {pg 432}

could he believed=> could he believe {pg 411}

recieve their various marks=> receive their various marks {pg 442}

non de guerre=> nom de guerre {pg 451}

abrubtly=> abruptly {pg 456}

Hir air was=> His air was {pg 478}

eusuite=> ensuite {pg 478}

Helas=> Hélas {pg 478}

be too wore=> he too wore {pg 479}

le sécret=> le secret {pg 483}

moutous=> moutons {pg 483}