Mrs . Wright's Travels in the United States. 
010 
years and my own, 44 Are you not 
afraid, as the representative of royalty, 
of loving these republics too well ?” 
He retorted playfully, 44 As the courtly 
Melville adjudged Elizabeth the fairest 
woman in England, and Mary the 
fairest in Scotland, so I deem this the 
fairest republic, and Portugal, of course, 
the fairest monarchy.” 
JOSEPH BONAPARTE. 
It may amuse you somewhat more to 
receive the account of our visit to Jo¬ 
seph Bonaparte. 
Some days since, joined by the friends 
in whose house we are now inmates, we 
filled a carriage and light waggon, call¬ 
ed a Dearborn,* struck across to the 
Delaware, and then took boat to Bor- 
dentown, on the Jersey shore. A friend 
of our polite Philadelphia acquaintance 
-here joined our party, and 
we walked forwards to the residence of 
the Ex-Kiug. It is a pretty villa, com¬ 
manding a fine prospect of the river; 
the soil around it is unproductive; but 
a step removed from the pine-barren ; 
the pines, however, worthless as they 
may be, clothe the banks pleasantly 
enough, and, altogether, the place is 
cheerful and pretty. Entering upon 
the lawn, we found the choice shrubs 
of the American forest, magnolias, kal- 
mias, &c. planted tastefully under the 
higher trees which skirted, and here 
and there shadowed, the green carpet 
upon which the white mansion stood. 
Advancing, we were now faced at all 
corners by gods and goddesses in naked, 
—I cannot say majesty —for they were, 
for the most part, clumsy enough. The 
late General Moreau, a few years since, 
according to the strange revolutions of 
war-stricken Europe, a peaceful resident 
in this very neighbourhood, and who re¬ 
crossed the Atlantic to seek his death in 
the same battle which sent here, as an 
exile, the brother of the French Em¬ 
peror,—this general, in the same Pari¬ 
sian taste, left behind him a host of 
Pagan deities of a similar description, 
with a whole tribe of dogs and lions to 
boot, some of which I have seen scatter¬ 
ed up and down through the surround¬ 
ing farms. Two of these dumb Cer- 
beruses are sitting at this moment on 
either side of a neighbouring gentle¬ 
man's door, and the children of the 
* From the American general of that 
name ; to whom the farmer and country 
gentleman are under infinite obligations 
for its invention. 
family use them as hobby-horses/ 
Truly, the amusement of the child has 
often less folly in it than that of the 
man, the child rides the hobby, while 
the hobby too often rides the man ; and 
then, if ambition be the hobby he 
chooses, the man rides down his fellow- 
creatures. Happy the country where, 
without iron claws, all men are a 
check upon each other ! I thought this 
when I entered the house of the brother 
of Napoleon. 
Until the entrance of the count, who 
was superintending the additions yet 
making to the house, we employed our¬ 
selves in considering the paintings and 
Canovas, of which last we found a small 
but interesting collection. It consists 
chiefly of busts of the different mem¬ 
bers of the Bonaparte family. The 
similar and classic outline prevailing 
in all is striking, and has truly some¬ 
thing imperial in it. As these were the 
first works of this Italian Phidias that 
I had met with, I regarded them with 
much curiosity. There are two small 
pieces of most'exquisite workmanship—a 
naked infant (the little King of Home ,) 
lying on a cushion, which yields to the 
pressure of one of the feet with a truth 
that mocks the marble. I remember a 
child in the same attitude in a much- . 
prized Rubens, from which my first 
thought was that the sculptor had 
caught his idea; but, studying the 
same nature, genius is often original 
when vulgar criticism suspect the con¬ 
trary ; the same thought has been eli¬ 
cited from minds that never had com¬ 
munication, and this not once, but re¬ 
peated times. There was another yet 
more lovely figure of a girl caressing a 
greyhound. What softness and deli¬ 
cacy wrought out of such rude ma¬ 
terials! It is presumptuous for one so 
little skilled to venture upon the re¬ 
mark, yet I have always felt my eye 
offended by the too glaring whiteness 
of modern sculpture ; perhaps the mel¬ 
lowing hand of time is as necessary for 
the marble as the canvas. Turning to 
look at David’s portrait of Napoleon 
crossing the Alps, I was greatly disap- 
pointeci with the expression of the 
young soldier; the horse has far more 
spirit than the rider, who sits carelessly 
on his steed, a handsome beardless boy, 
pointing his legions up the beetling 
crags as though they were some easy 
steps into a drawing-room. Such, at 
least was my impression. Count Sur- 
villier (he wears this title, perhaps, to 
save 
