if Danton would not fly abroad, "parce qu'on ne peut emporter la patrie attachée aux semelles de ses souliers,"—"because one cannot carry his native land attached to the soles of his shoes," it was as much as to say that he could not find in a foreign country the magnificence of beautiful Paris. But Paris is really France, which is only the great suburb of Paris. Setting aside beautiful landscapes and the agreeable qualities of the people, France is utterly empty, at least intellectually so. Everything which is distinguished in the provinces soon strays to the capital, the foyer of all light and brilliancy. France is like a garden whence all the fairest flowers have been plucked to form a bouquet, and that bouquet is called Paris. It is true that its perfume has not now such power as it possessed after those days of July when the nations were overcome by it, yet it is ever beautiful enough to show magnificently on the bosom of Europe. Paris is not only the chief city of France, but of the whole civilised world, and is the rendezvous of its intellectual celebrities. All is here assembled which is great by love or hate, by feeling or thought, by knowledge or ability, by fortune or adversity, by the future or the past. When we consider the assembly of famous or distinguished men who meet here, Paris may be regarded as a Pantheon of the living. A new art, a new religion, a new life is here created, and the
