As if he already foresaw at that time to what an extent he would afterwards have to call upon these reproductive arts for his scientific work, he wrote, after taking home with him the first lithographic stone for the purpose of drawing upon it: “There are many advantages in investigating the technique of every prominent branch of art and science, even if I do not need to make use of lithography later for my own inscriptions.”
But this he did, and if the publications which were prepared for him by this method of reduplication surpass all others in neatness and beauty, it should be credited to the score of the technical knowledge which he acquired in Paris.
There, also, he committed to paper his first musical compositions. A song, written by himself, which he set to music with an accompaniment, was followed by others, for at that time he everywhere kept up his proficiency in this art, and particularly while in Paris. Not only the antiquarian collections, but also the exhibitions of new paintings and statuary were constantly visited, and, no less frequently, the theatre. His diary shows with what quick sympathy and keen judgment he listened to tragedies, comedies, and opera. The representation of French tragedy is most severely censured. “The performance of Corneille’s Cid was bad beyond measure, and fearfully French.... The players of to-day, who act Corneille and Racine, have preserved nothing of the tragic art but the tragic mask, and this they fasten on behind instead of in front, so as not to hide their lovely French faces.” The only one who compelled his unlimited admiration was Mars, who, as an old woman of sixty-eight, at that time filled the most youthful roles with admirable sweetness and naiveté. Montrose and Mademoiselle Dupont he also rates very highly. He bestows the warmest encomiums on the Cirque Olympique, conducted by Loiset. “Here is actual art, not only feats of skill. Painters and sculptors should come here to study, as Phidias and the Grecian sculptors did in their gymnasiums. Superb figures are displayed here, and strength, dexterity, freedom and ease are combined with real beauty of form, such as one vainly seeks in the ballet. Our ballet has almost lost rank as an art; the sole laudable exception is Taglioni, whom I have seen here in the Sylphide, and admired, as I did in Berlin. If any one wished to fashion a worthy statue of Terpsichore it might perhaps be possible from Noblet, Foncisy and all the rest of them, to construct a passable pair of legs: it would only be necessary to take a cast of Taglioni, and there you would have it in perfection.”
All that is beautiful and remarkable in Paris passes under the vigilant eye of this indefatigable scholar. He is active as collector, student and investigator, and during the latter part of the time in a department of science which had till then been as good as unknown to him. But he is also busy with both hands and brain in earning meat to go with his bread, and in producing a new and difficult original work. We see him attend public festivals, ride out into the country, examine every corner of the city, give his attention to the industries of the Parisians, go to parties and salons as a welcome guest, sing and play with friends, and through all this we can trace the progress of an essay on Sanscrit palaeography from which was afterwards developed the excellent treatise on “Palaeography as a Means of Etymological Research.”[11] For this,—an almost unheard-of honor,—the youth of three and twenty receives the Volney prize.
He says, at a later period, that Paris was always to him a city rich in interest, instruction and manifold benefits. During his first sojourn there it appeared to him “in one respect” (undoubtedly in respect to the animation and refinement of social life,) “the capital of the world.” But in spite of his youth Lepsius in no wise allowed himself to be dazzled by the glittering aspects of French life. It was in the public libraries that he first became sensible of the drawbacks in the conditions of the Parisians. “The management of the libraries is abominable,” he writes, “no zeal, no knowledge, not even good-will. Miserable officials, lack of everything that is not French. It is true that I am spoiled by the Göttingen and Berlin libraries, etc.”
Since that time many improvements have been made in these institutions. The special attention given to them by Lepsius was of use to him as “Chief Librarian,” in the evening of his life.
From the first he had devoted himself with great ardor to the study of the French language. But, although he was pleased with his progress, he did not allow himself to be blinded in this regard either, and, after he had spent four months in the cultivation of his French style, he wrote, “A Frenchman only needs to think correctly and truly, and he is sure to write properly and well; in German a good style is far more difficult, for there one must know all the deeps and shallows not to steer crookedly or clumsily, or even run aground. The French language is a level surface, and one slips along as if skating on ice; the German language has depths over which it is more dangerous and requires more skill to steer, but one can go farther on it. When water is deep and moves rapidly it never freezes, and neither does the boundless sea. So the German with his language can make the whole world his own; the Frenchman is restricted to his mirror-like surface. One must cherish one’s hatred against everything French not to lose one’s own depth. As soon as one takes pleasure in French things one’s spirit rests on enervating down feathers. Yet one should always learn, even from one’s enemies.”
Lepsius took the most lively interest in every event of importance that occurred during the time of his sojourn in Paris. He devotes a large space in his diary to the great popular festival, celebrated on the anniversary of the Revolution, from the twenty-seventh to the twenty-ninth of July, 1843, and to the unveiling of the statue of Napoleon on the Vendôme column. This took place on the second day of the grand festival. The statue was enveloped in a green cloth, besprinkled with stars. “The impression made by the unveiling,” he writes, (and we gladly make room here for the account, both for its own sake and as a specimen of the German style of young Lepsius,) “the impression, especially amidst these surroundings, was very striking. Above this seething mass, these convulsions of a struggling mob, this shouting and quarrelling, this motley throng, this glittering of military display, there suddenly appeared, not like a rock in the sea, (to which possibly the column might have been compared,) but like a supernatural power, the calm, majestic presence of Napoleon. What can produce a greater impression than the power of a mind which manifests itself in a composed bearing and a commanding expression, face to face with the unruly passions of similar human spirits?”
In these words he presents to us the ideal of his life, and we shall see how well he himself ever succeeded in preserving such a commanding attitude towards unruly passions. “This expression of command,” he continues, “is still grander than the great yet inanimate nature, which is sometimes admired in contrast with nature, or even humanity, in a state of excitement. A like impression, too, was unconsciously depicted on every face, and a general shout, ‘Vive l’Empereur! Vive Napoleon!’ burst from the innumerable throng, which really seemed for a moment entirely to forget the oppressive present. For one moment every lineament expressed admiration, pleasure, satisfaction.” Then he describes how Louis Philippe conducted the review, and continues, “However, not the least enthusiasm was manifested for him, which, in my opinion, is mainly owing to his personality. His external appearance presents nothing that is at all imposing, nothing attractive; no intellectual power of any sort is expressed in his figure or his face; he impresses you as a stout citizen, returning thanks for the great honor which is done him. And yet here in France, if anywhere, at least a semblance of intrinsic greatness is needed for the eyes of the people, since the mystic vail of royal greatness has so entirely fallen from the head of the citizen king. As the king rode past one only heard a clamor, such as springs from gratified curiosity.” From this festival, as Lepsius describes it, can be inferred the historical events which must of necessity occur later: the expulsion of Louis Philippe and the acclamation of a Napoleon to the French throne.
With the appearance of the citizen king Lepsius’ exalted frame of mind is dissipated, and he tries to fix the note which he can designate as prevalent in the general din. With the aid of the interval between the lowest note of his own voice and the sound which formed the key-note of the clamor, he found it to be the treble e. Thus does the spirit of research ever demand her due of him. The linguist everywhere scrutinizes the value and significance of sounds and tones. He does not disdain to amuse himself with them occasionally, and to determine the relation between them and other perceptions of the senses. “O,” he writes at one time in his diary, “seems to me brown, a, light blue, e, colorless, a clear faint color, i, bright yellow.” At that time, while writing his essay on Sanscrit palaeography, he thought he discerned that in all languages the vowels had formed themselves by degrees, like colors, from the a, but that originally there had been no distinction between vowels and consonants. The words, he thought, had been divided according to their sounds, in such a way that each consonant with the vowel which followed it constituted an inseparable whole. Hence in Sanscrit a originally was even considered as a consonant, or rather as a combination of the Greek Spiritus lenis and the a which necessarily followed it.