ore the entrance to the Tuileries, warning the world against that
seductive Venusberg, whose magic tones sing so enticingly, and from
whose sweet snares the poor wretches who are once entangled in them can
never escape.

It is certainly true that the dead Napoleon is more beloved by the
French than is the living Lafayette. This is perhaps because he is dead,
which is to me the most delightful thing connected with him; for, were
he alive, I should be obliged to fight against him. The world outside of
France has no idea of the boundless devotion of the French people to
Napoleon. Therefore the discontented, when they determine on a decided
and daring course, will begin by proclaiming the young Napoleon, in
order to secure the sympathy of the masses. Napoleon is, for the French,
a magic word which electrifies and benumbs them. There sleep a thousand
cannon in this name, even as in the column of the Place Vendome, and the
Tuileries will tremble should these cannon once awake. As the Jews never
idly uttered the name of their God, so Napoleon is here very seldom
called by his, and people speak of him as _l'homme_, "the man." But his
picture is seen everywhere, in engravings and plaster casts, in metal
and wood. On all boulevards and carrefours are orators who praise and
popular minstrels who sing him--the Man--and his deeds. Yesterday
evening, while returning home, I came into a dark and lonely lane, in
which there stood a child some three years old, who, by a candle stuck
into the earth, lisped a song praising the Emperor. As I threw him a sou
on the handkerchief spread out, something slid up to me, begging for
another. It was an old soldier, who could also sing a song of the glory
of the great Emperor, for this glory had cost him both legs. The poor
man did not beg in the name of God, but implored with most believing
fervor, "_Au nom de Napoleon, donnez-moi un sou._" So this name is the
best word to conjure with among the people. Napoleon is its god, its
cult, its religion, and this religion will, by and by, become tiresome,
like every other.

Lafayette, on the contrary, is venerated more as a man or as a guardian
angel. He, too, lives in picture and in song, but less heroically;
and--honorably confessed!--it had a comic effect on me when, last year,
on the 28th July, I heard in the song of _La Parisienne_ the words--

"Lafayette aux cheveux blancs,"

while I saw him in person standing near me in his brown wig. It was t