would be wiser if they were less witty.

"The gods worshipped here although no altars are raised for them--are
Novelty and Fashion. Let a man run, and everybody will run after him. The
crowd will not stop, unless the man is proved to be mad; but to prove it
is indeed a difficult task, because we have a crowd of men who, mad from
their birth, are still considered wise.

"The snuff of the 'Civet Cat' is but one example of the facility with
which the crowd can be attracted to one particular spot. The king was one
day hunting, and found himself at the Neuilly Bridge; being thirsty, he
wanted a glass of ratafia. He stopped at the door of a drinking-booth,
and by the most lucky chance the poor keeper of the place happened to
have a bottle of that liquor. The king, after he had drunk a small glass,
fancied a second one, and said that he had never tasted such delicious
ratafia in his life. That was enough to give the ratafia of the good man
of Neuilly the reputation of being the best in Europe: the king had said
so. The consequence was that the most brilliant society frequented the
tavern of the delighted publican, who is now a very wealthy man, and has
built on the very spot a splendid house on which can be read the
following rather comic motto: 'Ex liquidis solidum,' which certainly came
out of the head of one of the forty immortals. Which gods must the worthy
tavern-keeper worship? Silliness, frivolity, and mirth."

"It seems to me," I replied, "that such approval, such ratification of
the opinion expressed by the king, the princes of the blood, etc., is
rather a proof of the affection felt for them by the nation, for the
French carry that affection to such an extent that they believe them
infallible."

"It is certain that everything here causes foreigners to believe that the
French people adore the king, but all thinking men here know well enough
that there is more show than reality in that adoration, and the court has
no confidence in it. When the king comes to Paris, everybody calls out,
'Vive le Roi!' because some idle fellow begins, or because some policeman
has given the signal from the midst of the crowd, but it is really a cry
which has no importance, a cry given out of cheerfulness, sometimes out
of fear, and which the king himself does not accept as gospel. He does
not feel comfortable in Paris, and he prefers being in Versailles,
surrounded by twenty-five thousand men who protect him against the fury
of that sa