pair,—lived there by daily labor in the sweat of their brow. But the pure heart and the frank disposition, love, confidence in each other, health, hope, and the ability, like the sparrows on the roof, thankfully to enjoy every grain of corn which the hand of the Father scattered upon their path; all these were fully possessed by the young couple. They were Scandinavians, and had, by affection and industry, built for themselves a comfortable little abode, amidst the volcanic capital of France, the manifold spectacles of which gave variety and wealth even to their quiet life. They looked upon it all with undazzled eyes, with the purity and serenity of the northern temperament, without being either confounded or carried away by it.
“The volcanic capital of France!” Yes, spite of its quietness and emptiness for the moment, I could not but feel that this was like the pause of the volcano before its outbreak; and can it be otherwise? The present calmness of France is not based, like that of England, like that of Holland, and Sweden, and Switzerland, upon the consciousness of the nation, and its power of self-government. It hangs upon the life's-thread of one man,—on that of Louis Napoleon. And people have no confidence in this man. I heard thinking Frenchmen acknowledge it. He is the helmsman for the moment, but not for the future. No higher principle, no initiative to a new life, has ascended with him to the throne, collecting the restless aspirations[1] or endeavors of the age, and the people,
- ↑ At the moment when I prepare these lines for the press, Louis Napoleon appears to be on the way to acquire them in the
