are passing, though it is a salutary
crisis which will lead only to good, everyone exclaims at the dreadful
moral disorder and the imminent social danger. Who, then, is guilty of
these ravages? Whom shall we punish? Throughout Europe, the party of
fear answers "France." Throughout France, it answers "Paris." In Paris,
it blames the Press. But every thoughtful man must see that it is none
of these, but is the human spirit.

It is the human spirit that has made the nations what they are. From the
beginning, through infinite debate and contradiction, it has sought,
unresting, to solve the problem eternally placed before the creature by
his Creator. It is the human spirit which takes from age to age the form
of the great revolts of history; it has been in turn, and sometimes
altogether, error, illusion, heresy, schism, protest, and the truth. The
human spirit is ever the great shepherd of the generations, proceeding
always towards the just, the beautiful, and the true, enlightening the
multitude, ennobling souls, directing the mind of man towards God.

Let the party of fear throughout Europe consider the magnitude of the
task which they have undertaken. When they have destroyed the Press,
they have yet to destroy Paris. When Paris is fallen, there remains
France. Let France be annihilated, there still remains the human
spirit--a thing intangible as the light, inaccessible as the sun.

_V.--In Exile_

Nothing is more terrible than exile. I do not say for him who suffers,
but for the tyrant who inflicts it. A solitary figure paces a distant
shore, or rises in the morning to his philosophic labours, or calls on
God among the rocks and trees; his hairs become grey, and then white, in
the slow passing of the years and in his longing for home; his lot is a
sorrowful one; but his innocence is terrible to the crowned miscreant
who sent him there. From 1852 to 1870 I was in exile.

How pleasant are those islands of the Channel, and how like France!
Jersey, perhaps, more charming than Guernsey, prettier if less imposing;
in Jersey the forest has become a garden; the island is like a bouquet
of flowers, of the size of London, a smiling land, an idyll set in the
midst of the sea.

The exile soon learns that, though the tyrant has placed him afar, he
does not release his hold. Many and ingenious are the snares laid for
the banished. A prince calls on you, but though he is of royal blood, he
is also a detective of police. A gra