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 the Place de la Bastille; the man was in his right place, but still I needs must laugh to myself.  It may be that such a comic combination brings him humanly somewhat nearer to our hearts.  His good-nature, his bonhomie, acts even on children, and they perhaps understand his greatness better than do the grown people.  And here I will tell a little story about a beggar which will show the characteristic contrast between the glory of Lafayette and that of Napoleon.  I was lately standing at a street corner before the Pantheon, and as usual lost in thought in contemplating that beautiful building, when a little Auvergnat came begging for a sou, and I gave him half-a-franc to be rid of him.  But he approached me all the more familiarly with the words, “Est-ce que vous connaissez le general Lafayette?” and as I assented to this strange question, the proudest satisfaction appeared on the naive and dirty face of the pretty boy, and with serio-comic expression he said, "Il est de mon pays," for he naturally believed that any man who was generous enough to give him ten sous must be, of course, an admirer of Lafayette, and judged me worthy that he should present himself as a compatriot of that great man.  The country folk also have for Lafayette the most affectionate respect, and all the more because he chiefly busies himself with agriculture.  From this, result the freshness and simplicity which might be lost in constant city life.  In this he is like one of those great Republicans of earlier days who planted their own cabbages, but who in time of need hastened from the plough to the battle or the tribune, and after combat and victory returned to their rural work.  On the estate where Lafayette passes the pleasant portion of the year, he is generally surrounded by aspiring young men and pretty girls.  There hospitality, be it of heart or of table, rules supreme; there are much laughing and dancing; there is the court of the sovereign people; there any one may be presented who is the son of his own works and has never made mesalliance with falsehood—­and Lafayette is the master of ceremonies.  The name of this country place is Lagrange, and it is very charming when the hero of two worlds relates to the young people his adventures; then he appears like an epos surrounded by the garlands of an idyll.