Lafayette has raised for himself a better column than that of the Place Vendome, and a better monumental image than one of metal or marble.  Where is there marble as pure as the heart of old Lafayette, or metal as firm as his fidelity?  It is true that he was always one-sided, but one-sided like the magnetic needle, which always points to the north, and never once veers to south or west.  So he has for forty years said the same thing, and pointed constantly to North America.  He is the one who opened the Revolution with the declaration of the rights of man; to this hour he perseveres in this belief, without which there is no salvation and no health to be hoped for—­the one-sided man with his one-sided heavenly region of freedom.  He is indeed no genius, as was Napoleon, in whose head the eagles of inspiration built their nests, while the serpents of calculation entwined in his heart; but then he was never intimidated by eagles nor seduced by serpents.  As a young man he was wise as a graybeard, as a graybeard fiery as a youth, a protector of the people against the wiles of the great, a protector of the great against the rage of the people, compassionating yet combating, never arrogant and never discouraged, equally firm and mild—­the unchangeable Lafayette! and so, in his one-sidedness and equanimity, he has remained on the same spot from the days of Marie Antoinette to the present hour.  And, as a trusty Eckart of liberty, he still stands leaning on his sword before 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