Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine. No. CCCXC. April, 1848. Vol. LXIII. (2024)

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Eighteen years ago, when thethrone of Charles X. was overturnedamidst the universal exultation ofthe liberal party in this country, weventured, amidst the general transports,to arraign the policy and condemnthe morality of the change.We pleaded strongly, in severalarticles,[1] that that great event forebodednothing but a long seriesof calamities to France and toEurope; that liberty had been renderedimpossible in a country which,casting aside all the bonds of religionand loyalty, had left no otherfoundation for government but force;and that the external peace of theContinent would be put in imminentperil by an ardent military population,heated by the successfulissue of one great revolt, placed inthe midst of monarchies in which thefeudal institutions and chivalrousfeelings were still in ascendency.We doubted the stability of a governmentfounded on the success of onewell-organised urban insurrection: wedistrusted the fidelity of men who hadbegun their career by treachery andtreason. Nominally the aggressor,we concluded that Charles X. wasreally on the defensive; he attempteda coup d’état, because government inany other way had become impossible.We were told in reply, thatthese were antiquated and explodedideas; that the revolution was necessaryto save the liberties of Francefrom destruction; that a new era hadopened upon mankind with the fire ofthe Barricades; that loyalty was nolonger required when the interest ofmankind to be well governed wasgenerally felt; and that a throne surroundedby republican institutionswas the best form of government,and the only one in which the monarchicalprinciple could any longerbe tolerated in the enlightened statesof modern Europe.

With how much vehemence theseprinciples were maintained by thewhole whig and liberal party in GreatBritain, need be told to none whor*collect the rise of the dynasty ofthe Barricades in the year 1830. Tothose who do not, ample evidence ofthe general delusion, and of the perseverancewith which it was combated,will be found in the pages of thisJournal for 1831 and 1832. Timehas rolled on, and brought its wontedchanges on its wings. More quicklythan we anticipated, the perilousnature of the convulsion which hadproved victorious was demonstrated—moreclearly than we ventured topredict, was the necessity of PrincePolignac’s ordinances demonstrated.It soon became apparent that Francecould be governed only by force.

The government of Louis Philippewas a continual denial of its origin—anincessant effort to crush the spiritwhich had raised it. The repeatedand sanguinary disorders in Paris;the two dreadful insurrections inLyons; the awful drowning of therevolt of the cloister of St Méry inblood; demonstrated, before two yearshad elapsed, that the government hadfelt the necessity of extinguishing thevisionary ideas which had beenevoked, as the means of elevating itselfinto power. More than once itstood on the edge of the abyss; andit was saved only by the vigour ofthe sovereign, and the newly awakenedterrors of the holders of property,which prevented them from openlycoalescing with the determined republicans,who aimed at overturning allthe institutions of society, and realisingin the nineteenth century thevisions of Robespierre and Babœufin the eighteenth. In the course ofthis protracted struggle, the newgovernment felt daily more and morethe necessity of resting their authorityon force, and detaching it from theanarchical doctrines, amidst the triumphsof which it had taken its rise.Paris was declared in a state of siege;the ordinances of Polignac were reenactedwith additional rigour; themilitary establishment of the countrywas doubled; its expenditure raisedfrom nine hundred millions to fifteenhundred millions francs; an incessantand persevering war waged with thedemocratic press; and Paris surroundedby a chain of forts, which effectuallyprevented any other will from governingFrance but that of the militarywho were in possession of their bastions.Such was the result to thecause of freedom in France of thetriumph of the Barricades.

But in eighteen years an entirely newgeneration rises to the active directionof affairs. In 1848, the personalexperience, the well-founded fears,the sights of woe which had retainedthe strength of France round thestandards of the Barricades, wereforgotten. The fearful contests withanarchy by which the first yearsof the reign of Louis Philippe hadbeen marked, had passed into thepage of history, that is, were becomefamiliar to a tenth part only of theactive population. To those who didlearn it from this limited source, itwas known chiefly from the volumesof M. Louis Blanc, who, in his “Tenyears of the reign of Louis Philippe,”painted that monarch in no otherlight but as one of the most deceitfuland sanguinary tyrants who ever disgracedhumanity. Thus the lessonsof experience were lost to the vastmajority of the active citizens. Thenecessity of keeping at peace, whichLouis Philippe so strongly felt, andso energetically asserted, became inthe course of years an insupportablerestraint upon a people fraught withrevolutionary ideas, and heated by theglowing recollections of the Empire.A nation containing six millions ofseparate landed proprietors,[2] thegreat majority of whom were at theplough, and not possessed of sixpounds a-year in the world, necessarilychafes against any power whichimposes the restraints of order andpeace on the appetite for plunder andthe lust of conquest. This was thetrue secret of the fall of the dynastiesof the Restoration and the Barricades.They fell because they kept the nationat peace with its neighbours, and atpeace with itself,—because they terminatedthe dream of foreign conquest,and checked the visions ofinternal utopia; because they did not,like Napoleon, open the career of armsto every man in the country capableof carrying a musket; or, like Robespierre,pursue the supposed advantageof the working classes by the destructionof every interest above them insociety. Had either Charles X. orLouis Philippe been foreign conquerors,and the state of Europe hadpermitted of their waging war withsuccess, they would have lived anddied on the throne of France, and leftan honoured crown to their successors.There never were monarchs whom*owed down the population andwasted the resources of France likeNapoleon and Louis XIV.; but as longas they were successful, and kept openthe career of elevation to the people,they commanded their universal attachment.It was when they grewunfortunate, and could call them onlyto discharge the mournful duties ofadversity, that they became theobjects of universal execration. Therevolution has ever been true to itspolar star, viz.—worldly success.

In making these observations, wemust guard against being misunderstood.We do not assert that thepresent leaders of the Revolution desireforeign war, or are insincere inthe pacific professions which theyhave put forth in their public proclamations.We have no doubt that“Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity,”is what they really desire; and thatwith England in particular they aresincerely desirous to remain, at presentat least, on terms of amity. The earlypromoters of the Revolution of 1789—Siêyes,Bailly, Mirabeau, andLafayette—were equally loud andprobably sincere in their pacific protestationsat the outset of thefirst convulsion. What we assert isanother proposition entirely corroboratedby past history, and scarcely lessimportant in its present application—viz.,that the members of the existingRevolutionary Government are placedin a false position; that they have beenelevated to power by the force of passion,and the spread of principles inconsistentwith the existence of society;that if they continue to fan them, theywill ruin their country, if they attemptto coerce them, they will be destroyedthemselves. This is the constant anddreadful alternative in which a RevolutionaryGovernment is placed, andwhich has so uniformly led in pasthistory to what is called a departurefrom the principles of freedom by itssuccessful leaders. It was this whichbrought Lafayette into such discreditin Paris, that his life was saved onlyby his fortunate confinement in anAustrian dungeon: it was this whichrendered Mirabeau in the end a royalist,and for ever ruined him in popularfavour: it was this which madeRobespierre strive to restore the swayof natural religion in the infidel metropolis:it was this which gave Napoleonsuch a horror of the metaphysical“Ideologues,” who, according tohim, had ruined France, and renderedhim the resolute and unbending opponentof the Revolution. But evenNapoleon’s iron arm was unequal tothe task of arresting the fiery coursersof democracy: he only succeeded inmaintaining internal tranquillity bygiving them a foreign direction. Heturned them not against the Tuileries,but against the Kremlin; he preservedpeace in France only by waging warin Europe. A “Napoleon of Peace”will never succeed in restraining theRevolution.

Observe the pledges with which theProvisional Government are commencingtheir career. They are, that thestate is to provide employment for allwho cannot procure it from privateindividuals; that an ample remunerationis to be secured to labour; thatthe right of combination to raise wagesis to be protected by law; that theHouse of Peers is to be abolished, aswell as all titles of honour, the bearingof which is to be absolutely prohibited;that a noble career to all Frenchmen isto be opened in the army; the nationalrepresentation is to be placed on themost democratic basis of a NationalAssembly, elected by nine millions ofelectors; all burdens on subsistence areto be abolished; unlimited circulationis to be provided for newspapers andthe extension of knowledge; but thetaxes, in the mean time at least, are toundergo no diminution. These promisesand pledges sufficiently demonstratewhat interest in the state hasnow got the ascendency. It is theinterest, or rather supposed interest, oflabour, in opposition to that of capital—ofnumbers against property.

The Revolution that has taken placeis a communist or socialist triumph;the chiefs who have been installed inpower are the leaders of the party whothink that the grand evil of civilisationis the encroachment of the profit ofcapital on the wages of labour, andthat the only effectual remedy for themis to be found in the forcible diminutionof the former and extension ofthe latter.

The doctrine of this party in Francehas long been, that Robespierre perishedbecause he did not venture to pronouncethe word, agrarian law. Itwould be to little purpose to pronouncethat word now, when the Republichas got nearly six millions of separateproprietors, most of them not worthsix pounds a-year each. There islittle but sturdy resistance to be gotby attempting to spoliate this immenseand indigent body, as they havespoliated the old territorial proprietors.But the capitalists and shopkeepersof towns stand in a differentsituation. In their hands, since thefall of Napoleon, very considerablewealth has accumulated. The peaceand order maintained by the governmentsof the Restoration and the Barricades,though fatal to themselves, hasbeen eminently favourable to thegrowth of bourgeois opulence. It isagainst that opulence that the recentRevolution was directed. The shopkeepers,deluded to their own destruction,began the insurrection:they surrounded and compelled theabandonment of the Tuileries. Allsuccessful convulsions are headed, inthe first instance at least, by a portionof the higher or middle ranks. Butthey were soon passed by the rabblewho followed their armed columns;and when the tumultuous mob brokeinto the Chamber of Deputies, fired atthe picture of Louis Philippe, andpointed their muskets at the head ofthe duch*ess of Orleans, it was too lateto talk of Thiers and Odillon Barrot;the cause of reform was already passedby that of Revolution; and nothingcould serve the victorious and highlyexcited multitude, but the abolition ofmonarchy, peers, and titles of honour,and the vesting of government in thehands of dreamers on equality, andleaders of Trades’ Unions in France.

Let the National Guard, whobrought about the Revolution, andseduced or overcame the loyalty ofthe troops of the line, explain, if theycan, the benefit they are likely to derivefrom this triumph of Socialismover Bourgeoisie, of labour overcapital, of numbers over property.The Revolution was the work oftheir hands, and they must reap itsfruits, as unquestionably they willbear its responsibility. It is of moreimportance for us in this countryto inquire how the promises made bygovernment, and the expectationsformed by the people, are to be realisedin the present social and politicalstate of France. Already, beforethe Io Pæans upon the fall of theOrleans dynasty have ceased, the difficultiesof the new government inthis respect have proclaimed themselves.Columns of ten and fifteenthousand workmen daily wait on theadministration to insist on the immediaterecognition of the rights oflabour: their demands were promptlyacceded to by the decree of 3d March,which fixes the hours of labour inParis at ten hours a-day, and in theprovinces at eleven hours. They wereformerly eleven hours in Paris andtwelve in the provinces. This isquite intelligible: it is reasonable thatthe Civil Prætorian Guards of thecapital should work less than theserfs of the provinces. Cutting offan hour’s labour over a whole countrywould be deemed a pretty seriousmatter in “l’industrieuse Angleterre:”but on the other side of theChannel, we suppose, it is a merebagatelle, important chiefly as showingfrom what quarter the wind sets.Other prognostics of coming eventsare already visible. Monster meetingsof operatives and workmen inand around Paris continue to be heldin the Champs de Mars, to take the interestsand rights of labour into consideration:it is probable that theywill still further reduce the hours oftoil, and proportionately raise itswages. Already the stone-cuttershave insisted on a minimum of payand maximum of work, and got it.Eight hours a-day, and ten sousan hour, is their ultimatum. Thejournalists early clamoured for theimmediate removal of all dutiesaffecting them. They succeeded inshaking off their burdens; otherclasses will not be slow in followingtheir example. Meanwhilegovernment is burdened, as in theworst days of the first Revolution,with the maintenance of an immensebody of citizens with arms in theirhands, and very little bread to putinto their mouths. How to feed thisimmense body, with resources continuallyfailing, from the terrors ofcapital, the flight of the English fromParis, and the diminished expenditureof all the wealthier classes, would,according to the former maxims ofgovernment, have been deemed amatter of no small difficulty. But wesuppose the regenerators of societyhave discovered some method ofarriving, with railway speed, at publicopulence amidst private suffering.

The melancholy progress of the firstRevolution has naturally made numbersof persons, not intimately acquaintedwith its events, apprehensiveof the immediate return of the Reignof Terror and the restoration of theguillotine into its terrible and irresistiblesovereignty in France. Withoutdisputing that there is much dangerin the present excited and disjointedstate of the population ofthat country, there are several reasonswhich induce us to believe that suchan event is not very probable, atleast in the first instance, and that it isfrom a different quarter that the realdanger that now threatens France is,in the outset at least, to be apprehended.

In the first place, although theReign of Terror is over, and few indeedof the actual witnesses are still inexistence, yet the recollection of itwill never pass away: it has affixeda stain to the cause of revolutionwhich will never be effaced, but whichits subsequent leaders are most anxiousto be freed from. Its numerous tragicscenes—its frightful atrocity—itsheroic suffering, have indelibly sunkinto the minds of men. To the endof the world, they will interest andmelt every succeeding age. Theyoung will ever find them the mostengrossing and attractive theme,—themiddle-aged, the most importantsubject of reflection,—the old, themost delightful means of renewingthe emotions of youth. History isnever weary of recording its bloodycatastrophes,—romance has alreadyarrayed them with the colours ofpoetry,—the drama will ere long seizeupon them as the finest subjects thathuman events have ever furnished forthe awakening of tragic emotion.They will be as immortal in story asthe heroes of the Iliad, the woes ofthe Atrides, the catastrophe of Œdipus,the death of Queen Mary. Sostrongly have these fascinating tragediesriveted the attention of mankind,that nothing has ever createdso powerful a moral barrier againstthe encroachments of democracy. Theroyal, like the Christian martyrs,have lighted a fire which, by the graceof God, will never be extinguished.So strongly are the popular leadersin every country impressed with themoral effects of these catastrophes,that their first efforts are alwaysnow directed to clear every successiveconvulsion of their damning influence.Guizot and Lafayette, at the hazardof their lives, in December 1830, savedPrince Polignac and M. Peyronnetfrom the guillotine; and the first act ofthe Provisional Government of Francein 1848, to their honour be it said, wasto proclaim the abolition of the punishmentof death for political offences,in order to save, as they intended,M. Guizot himself.

In the next place, the bloodshedand confiscation of the first Revolutionhave, as subsequent writers have repeatedlydemonstrated, so completelyextinguished the elements of nationalresistance in France, that the dangerswhich threatened its progress and ensanguinedits steps no longer exist.It was no easy matter to overturnthe monarchy and church of oldFrance. It was interwoven with thenoblest, because the most disinterestedfeelings of our nature,—it touchedthe chords of religion and loyalty,—itwas supported by historic names,and the lustre of ancient descent,—itrested on the strongest and most dignifiedattachments of modern times.The overthrow of such a fabric, likethe destruction of the monarchy ofGreat Britain at this time, could notbe effected but by the shedding oftorrents of blood. Despite the irresolutionof the king, the defection ofthe army, the conquest of the capital,and the emigration of the noblesse,accordingly, a most desperate resistancearose in the provinces; and therevolution was consolidated only bythe mitrillades of Lyons and Toulon,the noyades of the Loire, the proscriptionsof the Convention, the blood ofLa Vendée. France was not thenenslaved by its capital. But now theseelements of resistance to the governmentof the dominant multitude atParis no longer exist. The nobleshave been destroyed and their estatesconfiscated; the clergy are reduced tohumble stipendiaries, not superior instation or influence to village schoolmasters;the corporations of townsare dissolved; the house of peers hasdegenerated into a body of well-dressedand titled employés. Sixmillions of separate landed proprietors,without leaders, wealth, information,or influence, have seized uponand now cultivate the soil of France.Power is, over the whole realm,synonymous with office. Everyappointment in the kingdom flowsfrom Paris. In these circ*mstances,how is it possible that resistance tothe decrees of the sovereign power,in possession of the armed force ofthe capital, the treasury, the telegraph,and the post-office, can arise inFrance elsewhere than in the capital?Civil war, therefore, on an extendedscale over the country, is improbable;and the victorious leaders of the Revolution,delivered from immediateapprehension, save in their own metropolis,of domestic danger, have nomotive for shocking the feelings of mankind,and endangering their relationswith foreign powers, by needless andunnecessary deeds of cruelty. It wasduring the struggle with the patriciansthat the proscriptions of Syllaand Marius deluged Italy with blood.After they were destroyed, by mutualslaughter and the denunciations ofthe Triumvirate, though there wasoften the greatest possible tyrannyand oppression under the emperors,there was none of the wholesale destructionof life which disgraced therepublic, when the rival factionsfronted each other in yet undiminishedstrength.

Although, however, for these reasons,we do not anticipate, at least atpresent, those sanguinary proscriptionswhich have for ever renderedinfamous the first Revolution, yet wefear there is reason to apprehendchanges not less destructive in theirtendency, misery still more widespreadin its effects, destined, perhaps,to terminate at last in bloodshednot less universal. Men havediscovered that they are not merebeasts of prey: they cannot live onflesh and blood. But they havelearned also that they can live verywell on capital and property: and itis against these, in consequence, thatthe present Revolution will be directed.They will not be openlyassailed: direct confiscations of possessionshave fallen almost as muchinto disrepute as the shedding torrentsof blood on the scaffold. The thingwill be done more covertly, but notthe less effectually. They will takea leaf out of the former private livesof the Italians, and the recent publichistory of Great Britain. We haveshown them that, under cover of a cryfor the emancipation of slaves, propertyto the amount of one hundredand twenty millions can be quietlyand securely destroyed in the colonies;that, veiled under the disguise of placingthe currency on a secure basis, athird can be added to all the debts,and as much taken from the remunerationof every species of industry,throughout the country. These aregreat discoveries, they are the glory ofmodern civilisation: they have securedthe support of the whole liberal partyin Great Britain. The objects of theFrench Revolutionists are wholly different,but the mode of proceedingwill be the same. The stiletto andthe poison bowl have gone out offashion: they are discarded as therude invention of a barbarous age.The civilised Italians have taught ushow to do the thing. Slow and unseenpoison is the real secret; thereare Lucretia Borgias in the politicalnot less than the physical world. Thegreat thing is to secure the supportof the masses by loud professions ofphilanthropy, and the warmest expressionsof an interest in the improvementof mankind; and having rousedthem to action, and paralysed thedefenders of the existing order ofthings by these means, then to turnthe united force of the nation to theirown purposes, and the placing of thewhole wealth of the state at theirdisposal. Thus the ends of Revolutionare gained without its leadersbeing disgraced: the substantial advantagesof a transfer of property areenjoyed without a moral reactionbeing raised up against it. Fortunesare made by some, without a directspoliation of others being perceived:multitudes are involved in misery, butthen they do not know to what causetheir distresses are owing, nor isany peculiar obloquy brought uponthe real authors of the public calamities.

We do not say that the present ProvisionalGovernment of France areactuated by these motives, any morethan we say that our negro emancipatorsor bullionists and free-tradersmeant, in pursuing the system whichthey have adopted, to occasion thewholesale and ruinous destructionof property which their measureshave occasioned. We consider boththe one and the other as politicalfanatics; men inaccessible to reason,insensible to experience; whopursue certain visionary theories oftheir own, wholly regardless of thedevastation they produce in society,or the misery they occasion in wholeclasses of the state. “Perish thecolonies,” said Robespierre, “ratherthan one iota of principle be abandoned.”That is the essence of politicalfanaticism; it rages at presentwith equal violence on both sides ofthe Channel. The present ProvisionalGovernment of France are some of themable and eloquent—all of them, webelieve, well-meaning and sincere men.But they set out with discarding thelessons of experience; their principleis an entire negation of all former systemsof government. They think anew era has opened in human affairs:that the first Revolution has destroyedthe former method of directing mankind,and the present has ushered inthe novel one. They see no boundsto the spread of human felicity, bythe adoption of a social system differentfrom any which has yet obtainedamong men. They haveadopted the ideas of Robespierre withouthis blood,—the visions of Rousseauwithout his profligacy.

The writings of Lamartine andLouis Blanc clearly reveal these principles,particularly the “Histoire desGirondins” of the former, and the“Dix Ans de l’Histoire de LouisPhilippe” of the latter. Lamartinesays the Girondists fell because theydid not, on the 10th August 1792,when the throne was overturned,instantly proclaim a republic, and gofrankly and sincerely into the democraticsystem. If he himself falls, itwill not be from a repetition of theerror; he has done what they leftundone. We shall see the result. Experiencewill prove whether, by discardingall former institutions, wehave cast off at the same time theslough of corruption which has descendedto all from our first parents.We shall see whether the effects ofthe fall can be shaken off by changingthe institutions of society; whetherthe devil cannot find as many agentsamong the Socialists as the Jacobins;whether he cannot mount on theshoulders of Lamartine and Arago aswell as he did on those of Robespierreand Marat. In the meantime, whilewe are the spectators of this great experiment,we request the attention ofour readers to the following interestingparticulars regarding the acts ofthe new government, the professionsthey have made, the expectationswhich are formed of them.

One of the most popular journalsof the working classes of Paris—thatis, the present rulers of France—theDemocratie Pacifique, has adopted thefollowing mottoes:—

“The Revolution of 1789 has destroyedthe old Regime; that of 1848 shouldestablish the new one.”

“Social reform is the end, as Republicis the means; all the Socialists areRepublicans, all the Republicans areSocialists.”[3]

The methods by which the plansof the Socialists are to be worked out,are in the same journal declared tobe as follows:—

“PROGRAMME OF THE PEOPLE.

“A man with a heart,—a man greatlyloved by the working classes, has lenthis hand to the formation of a programmedictated by the popular will. The ideason which it rests, treated as utopian yesterday,have no need to be discussed to-day.The last Revolution is an explosionof light which has dissipated thedarkness. The Socialist ideas railed atyesterday, accepted to-day, will be realisedto-morrow. Its principles are,—

“I. The rights of labour.—It is the dutyof the state to furnish employment, andif necessary a minimum of wages, to allthe members of society whom privateindustry does not employ.

“II. House of refuge for industry.

“III. Despotism must be for ever disarmedby the transformation of the armyinto industrial regiments, (en regimentsindustriels,) suited alike to the defence ofthe territory and the execution of thegreat works of the Republic.

“IV. Public education, equal, gratuitous,and obligatory upon all.

“V. Savings’ banks (caisses d’épargne)which keep capital dead, shall be vivifiedby labour: the people who produce allriches can afford to be their own bankers.

“VI. A universal reform of law courts,juries every where.

“VII. Absolute freedom of communicationsof thought.

“VIII. A progressive scale of taxation.

“IX. A progressional tax on machineryemployed in industry.

“X. An effectual guarantee for a fairdivision of profits between the capitalistsand the workmen.

“XI. A tax on luxury.

“XII. Universal suffrage.

“XIII. A national assembly.

“XIV. Annual elections by all.

To carry out these principles, theypropose a general centralisation ofall undertakings in the hands ofgovernment, to be brought under thedirect control of a simple majorityof universal suffrage electors. Inthe same journal we find the followingproposals:—

“ABSORPTION OF RAILWAYS BY THE STATE.

“Let us reproduce to-day, with thecertainty of being heard by the country,the wishes which the Democratie Pacifiquehas announced every morning sinceits origin, seventeen years ago.

“I. All railways, roads, canals, andpublic ways, by which the life of Francecirculates, to be absorbed by the state.

“II. The state should undertake allstage-coaches, carriers, waggons, andmeans of conveyance or transport, ofevery description.

“III. All joint-stock banks should beabsorbed by the state—(A l’état lesbanques confédérées.)

“IV. All insurance companies, mines,and salt-works, to be undertaken by thestate.

“V. No more forestalling, accumulating,regrating, or anarchical competition.Feudal industry is pierced to the heart;let us not allow it to raise itself fromthe dust.”[5]

Such are the proposals to be foundin a single journal which representsthe ideas that are now fermentingin the mind of France.

These propositions will probably“donnent à penser,” as the Frenchsay, to most of our readers. Some ofthem will perhaps be of opinion thatour lively neighbours are getting on atrailway speed in the regeneration of society.We recommend their projects tothe consideration of the numerousholders of French railway and otherstock, in the British islands. Theywill doubtless get good round sumsfor their claims of damages againstthe French government, when ithas absorbed all the joint-stock companiesof the country!—the more sowhen it is recollected, 1st, That thedamages will be assessed by jurieselected by universal suffrage. 2d,That they will be paid by a governmentappointed by an assemblyelected in the same way. We arenot surprised, when such ideas areafloat in the ruling and irresistibleworkmen of Paris, who have justoverturned Louis Philippe, at thehead of one hundred thousand men,that the French funds have fallenthirty-five per cent in these few days,and railway and other stock in a stillgreater proportion. The Paris 3 percents are now (March 18) at 50; the5 per cents at 72!

Nor let it be said these ideas arethe mere dreams of enthusiasts, whichnever can be carried into practice byany government. These enthusiastsare now the ruling power in the state;their doctrines are those which willquickly be carried into execution bythe liberal and enlightened masses,invested by universal suffrage withsupreme dominion in the Republic.Most assuredly they will carry theirideas into execution: the seedwhich the liberal writers of Francehave been sowing for the lastthirty years, will bring forth itsappropriate fruits. What power isto prevent the adoption of thesepopular and highly lauded “improvements,”after the governmentof Louis Philippe and Guizot hasbeen overturned by their announcement?These persons stood asthe barrier between France and the“social revolution” with which itwas menaced: when they were destroyed,all means of resisting it areat an end, and the friends of humanitymust trust to prevent its extensionto other states, mainly to thereaction arising from its experiencedeffects in the land of its birth.

Already there appears, not merelyin the language of the popular journals,but in the official acts of theProvisional Government, decisive evidencethat the socialist ideas areabout to be carried into execution bythe supreme authority in France.On March 1st, there appeared the followingdecree of the ProvisionalGovernment:—

“The Provisional Government, consideringthat the revolution made by thepeople should be made for them:

“That it is time to put an end to thelong and iniquitous sufferings of theworking classes:

“That the question of labour is one ofsupreme importance:

“That there can be no higher or moredignified preoccupation of the RepublicanGovernment:

“That it becomes France to studyardently, and to solve, a problem whichnow occupies all the states of Europe:

“That it is indispensable, without amoment’s delay, to guarantee to thepeople the fruits of their labours:

“The Provisional Government hasdecreed,—

“That a permanent commission shallbe formed, which shall be entitled, ‘TheCommission of Government for the Labourers,’and charged, in a peculiar andespecial manner, with their lot.

“To show the importance which governmentattaches to this commission, itnames one of its members, M. LouisBlanc, president of the commission, andfor vice-president, another of its members,M. Albret, mechanical workman.

“Workmen are invited to form part ofthe commission.

“It shall hold its sittings in the palaceof the Luxembourg.

How is the Provisional Governmentto find funds for the enormousmultitudes who will thus be thrownupon them, or to satisfy the boundlessexpectations thus formed of them, andwhich their own acts have done somuch to cherish? Already the wantof money has been experienced.Nearly all the banks of Paris havefailed; the savings’ banks have beenvirtually confiscated, by the depositorsbeing paid only a tenth in specie,and the Bank of France has suspendedcash payments. The government hasgot into an altercation with a class ofthe highest importance, under existingcirc*mstances, which is strivingto liberate itself from the impostswhich are more immediately felt byit. So early as March 2d, the journalistsclaimed an exemption fromthe stamp duties on the public journals;and on the government hesitatingto comply with their requests,they loudly demand the dismissal ofM. Cremieux, the new minister ofjustice. The Democratie Pacifique ofMarch 2d, observes—

“The greatest danger of our situationis, not that which comes from without,but that which comes from within. Themost imminent danger would be theslightest doubt on the intentions of government,the least retrograde step in thepresence of events. That disquietude, weare bound to admit, already exists in theminds of many—distrust is the precursorof revolutions.

“The government has had under itseyes the conduct of the people. Let itimitate it. Energy, constant energy, isthe only way to do good. The peoplehave proved it. It is by energy alone thatthe prolongation of struggles is prevented—theeffusion of blood arrested—dangerousreactions averted.

“Forward, and Force to power! Suchis the double cry of the Republic.

“The Chamber of Deputies and ofPeers must not only be interdicted frommeeting; like royalty, they must be abolished.

“M. Cremieux, the minister of justice,has forgotten his principles. He is notprepared for the part he has to perform.He blindly yields to old attachments andprejudices. At the moment when themost absolute liberty of the press, themost rapid and ceaseless emission of ideas,is the sole condition of the public safety—atthe moment when we are in the midstof a chaos from whence we cannot escapeif light does not guide our steps—at thatmoment M. Cremieux proposes to extinguish*t—he proposes this, a retrogradestep, to the minister of finance—the reestablishmentof the stamps on journals.

“A revolution of yesterday cannot bethus braved.

“These gentlemen wish a republic surroundedby republican institutions.

“The people have not yet laid downtheir arms.”[7]

The government, after having madea show of resistance, yielded to theirmasters. The duties on journalswere abolished, and absolute freedomgiven to the pouring of the rankestpolitical poisons into the mind ofFrance.

It is easy to see, with a governmentresting on such a basis, where thefirst practical difficulty will be found.Embarrassment of finance is the rockon which it will inevitably split: themore certain that it has been precededby a huge deficit created by theformer government; the more gallingthat it will be accompanied by theflight or hoarding of capital from themeasures of the present one. Capitalistsare universally alarmed overthe whole country. A monetarycrisis, as is the case with all successfulrevolutions, and that too of theseverest kind, has ensued. M. Gouin’sbank, the same which formerly borethe name of Lafitte, has failed underliabilities to the extent of three millions.Nearly all the other banking establishmentsof Paris have already followedthe example. The payment of all billswas, by government, postponed forthree weeks, from February 28: a fartherextension of the time of paymentfor a month after March 20, has beenpetitioned for by eight hundred of thefirst bankers and merchants in Paris.This amounts to a declaration of ageneral public and private insolvency.Overwhelmed by the difficulties ofhis situation, the first minister offinance has resigned; the second, M.Garnier Pages, has published afinancial account, which exhibits sodeplorable a state of the finances,that it may almost be said to amountto an admission of national bankruptcy.Despite all the efforts madeto uphold them, the French three percents, on this publication, fell to forty-seven.The terrors of the holders ofstock are extreme.

An able eye-witness gives the followingaccount of the state of Paris,amidst this terrible social and financialcrisis.—

“I have seen daily and intimatelypersons of all parties; Legitimatists, Conservateurs,or adherents of the late government—adherentsof the Molé Ministry ofhalf-an-hour—adherents of the BarrotMinistry, equally short-lived—friends andintimates of members of the ProvisionalGovernment. I can most truly and distinctlyaffirm, that I saw and heardnothing from any of them but alarm andconsternation; mingled with the strongestcondemnation of the two conflictingparties whose obstinacy had broughtabout a collision which every body hadfeared, though no one’s fears had comewithin the widest range of the reality.I heard only expressions of the convictionthat the present order of things couldnot last; that, in spite of the heroicefforts, the excellent intentions, and theacknowledged talents of several membersof the government, it had undertaken toconstruct an edifice which must fall andcrush them under its ruins; that it wasnow forced by fear upon promises, andwould be forced upon acts utterly inconsistentwith the stability of any governmentwhatever. In short, the profoundestanxiety and alarm sit at the heart of theeducated classes of France, of whateverparty—and, not the least, of those whohave undertaken the awful task of rulingher. Of that you may be fully assured.

“English Liberals will perhaps say‘This we expected; but the people?’Well, I must affirm that, if by ‘people’they mean the industrious, quiet working-classes,the real basis of society, the objectof the respect and solicitude of all enlightenedrulers—if they mean these men,the alarm and consternation are greateramong them than in the higher classes,in proportion to the slenderness of theresources they have to fall back upon; inmany cases this amounts to a sort ofblank despair. The more clear-sightedamong them see the terrible chances thatawait them; they see capital leaving thecountry, confidence destroyed, and employmentsuddenly suspended or withdrawn,to an extent never seen before.

“Let me mention a few small butsignificant facts:—

“My locksmith told me he had alwaysemployed four men; he has dischargedthree. An English pastry-cook, who hasconstantly employed fifteen journeymen,was about to discharge nearly all. Everybody is turning away servants, especiallymen, as the more expensive. I was toldthat good carriage-horses had been soldfor five hundred francs each. A vastnumber of houses are becoming tenantless;the removal of the English alonewould make a visible change in thisrespect. And what, think you, are thefeelings of all the tribe of water-carriers,washerwomen, and the humble dependentsfor existence on these houses?Nothing, during the three days, seemedto be more affecting and alarming thanthe sight of these humblest ministrantsto the prime wants of life rushing fromdoor to door, even in the quietest streets,to get their hard labour accomplished insafety. Our porteur d’eau was everymorning our earliest informant of theevents of the night, and I was struck withthe good sense and clearness of his views.‘Ces messieurs parlent d’égalité,’ he said:‘est ce qu’ils veulent se faire porteurs d’eau?C’est absurde—ce sont des mensonges.’(‘These gentlemen talk of equality: willthey turn water-carriers? It is absurd—theseare lies.’) ‘Ils vont nous ruinertous.’ (‘They are going to ruin us all.’)These last words I heard frequentlyrepeated by persons of the workingclasses. A poor commissioner, who, forhigh pay, and through long détours, conveyeda letter for me on the 23d, camein looking aghast. ‘Nous voilà sansmaître.’ (‘Here we are without a master,’)said he. ‘Bon Dieu! qu’est ce quenous allons devenir?’ (‘Good God! whatwill become of us?’) ‘Un pays sans maîtrece n’est plus un pays.’ (‘A country withouta master is no longer a country.’)‘Nous allons retomber dans la barbarie.’(‘We shall fall back into barbarism.’)This, indeed, was so soon felt by all, thatmasters were appointed. But has thatrestored the feeling of reverence forauthority, or of confidence in those whowield it, indispensable to civil society?

“I heard with astonishment Englishpeople on the road saying, ‘Oh, all is quietnow.’ ‘All is going on very well now.’From no Frenchman have I heard thissuperficial view of the case. Paris is indeedquiet enough, but it is the quiet ofexhaustion, fear, distrust, and dejection.The absolute silence of the streets at nightwas awful. But a few nights before the22d, I had complained of the incessant rollof carriages during this season of balls.From the night of the 26th to the 3d ofMarch, the most retired village could nothave been more utterly noiseless. Not acarriage—not a foot-fall—except at intervalsthe steady and silent step of thepatrol of the National Guard, listened foras the sole guarantee for safety. ‘Everyman,’ said a grocer, wearing the uniformof the Guard, to me in his shop,‘must now defend his own. We have noprotectors but ourselves; no police, noarmy.’”—Times, March 8, 1848.

These are sufficiently alarmingfeatures in the political and socialcondition of any country: but theybecome doubly so, when it is recollectedthat they coexist with unboundedexpectations formed in the labouringmasses, in whom supreme poweris now both practically and theoreticallyvested. The Revolution has beenthe triumph of the workmen over theemployers, of the “proletaires” overthe “bourgeois,” of labour overcapital. How such a triumph is toeventuate with a vehement and indigentpopulation, impelling the governmenton in the career of revolution,and capital daily leaving thecountry or hiding itself from the dreadof the acts of a government about tobe appointed by nine millions ofelectors, is a question on which it wellbecomes all the holders of property,in whatever rank, seriously to reflectin this country.

Some idea of the extravagance anduniversality of their expectations maybe formed from the following passagein the description of a still later eye-witness:—

“Paris is to all appearance tranquil;but there is much agitation that doesnot show itself outwardly. The workmenof all trades are intent on legislation whichshall secure more wages for less toil. Theybeset the Luxembourg with processions,and fill the Chamber of Peers with deputations.Louis Blanc has discoveredthat to organise labour in a pamphletand put the theory into practice are twovery different things. The walls are coveredwith the manifestoes of the severalbranches of occupation; every day seesa new crop; they reveal the existenceof dissentions among the workmen themselves,though they are all based onnearly the same principles; the seven-hoopedpot is to have ten hoops, and it isto be felony to drink small-beer. Thecochers have secured a tariff, with an advanceof wages; the tailors are demandingthe same; the ‘cheap’ establishmentsare in despair, for they supply classesthat cannot buy at higher prices. Ananxious employer placed the difficultybefore some of the men; the only answerrecorded was the comforting assurancethat every body will be able to pay fivepounds for his coat ‘as soon as society isregenerated!’ What is to be said tosuch magnificence of hope? A citoyencoatmaker can only shrug his shouldersand wait for the end. One step has beentaken that seems likely to lead to it—theCommission has opened a register of allemployments, and all seeking to be employed,in Paris. Not till the stern truthis revealed by figures will the full difficultybe known, and some estimateformed of what a government can not do.All the edicts that can be forced from itby the pressure of the hour will breakdown under the weight of necessity, asthey always have done.

“Parallel with this agitation, which ismaterial, runs another, which is philosophical.The republic is not perfectenough, and some vile distinctions stillexist, irritating to the eye of equality.The government is petitioned to abolishall marks of honour for civilians; thenames of distinguished citizens can berecorded in a golden book, a livre d’orof the Republic, as the recompense ofgreat services; but no cross or ribandis to be worn. Equality devant la mortis also insisted on; the same place in thecemetery and the same bier for all are torender the grave in appearance, as inreality, the great leveller. This proscriptionof the poor vanities of life and deathis made a serious object by some of theactive spirits of the time, as if there wereany real importance in them.”[8]—Times,March 13th, 1848.

If, with material resources continuallyand rapidly diminishing, capitalleaving the country, employment failing,bankruptcies general, the expenditureof the opulent at anend, the finances of the State inhopeless embarrassment, the FrenchGovernment can satisfy these extravagantwants and expectations withoutplunging in a foreign war, theywill achieve what has never yet beenaccomplished by man.

Who is answerable for this calamitousRevolution, which has thusarrested the internal prosperity ofFrance, involved its finances in apparentlyhopeless embarrassment, thrownback for probably half a century theprogress of real freedom in thatcountry, and perhaps consigned it toa series of internal convulsions, andEurope to the horrors of general war,for a very long period? We answerwithout hesitation that the responsibilityrests with two parties, and twoparties only—the King and the NationalGuard.

The King is most of all to blame,for having engaged in a conflict, and,when victory was within his grasp,allowing it to slip from his hands fromwant of resolution at the decisivemoment. It is too soon after thesegreat and astonishing events to beable to form a decided opinion on thewhole details connected with them;but the concurring statements fromall parties go to prove that on thefirst day the troops of the line wereperfectly steady; and history willrecord that the heroic firmness of theMunicipal Guard has rivalled all thatis most honourable in French history.The military force was immense; notless than eighty thousand men,backed by strong forts, and amplyprovided with all the muniments ofwar. Their success on the first daywas unbroken; they had carried abovea hundred barricades, and were inpossession of all the military positionsof the capital. But at this momentthe indecision of the King ruinedevery thing. Age seems to have extinguishedthe vigour for which hewas once so celebrated. He shrunkfrom a contest with the insurgents,paralysed the troops by orders not tofire on the people, and openly recededbefore the insurgent populace, byabandoning Guizot and the firmpolicy which he himself had adopted,and striving to conciliate revolutionby the mezzo termine of Count Molé,and a more liberal cabinet. It is withretreat in presence of an insurrection,as in the case of an invading army;the first move towards the rear is acertain step to ruin. The moment itwas seen that the King was givingway, all was paralysed, because allforesaw to which side the victorywould incline. The soldiers threwaway their muskets, the officers broketheir swords, and the vast array, equalto the army which fought at Austerlitz,was dissolved like a rope of sand.Louis Philippe fell without either theintrepidity of the royal martyr in1793, or the dignity of the elderhouse of Bourbon in 1830; and if itbe true, as is generally said, that theQueen urged the King to mount onhorseback and die “en roi” in frontof the Tuileries, and he declined,preferring to escape in disguise to thiscountry, history must record, withshame, that royalty perished inFrance without the virtues it wasentitled to expect in the meanest ofits supporters.

The second cause which appears tohave occasioned the overthrow of themonarchy in France, is the general,it may be said universal, defection ofthe National Guard. It had beenopenly announced that twenty thousandof that body were to line theChamps Elysés in their uniform onoccasion of the banquet; it was perfectlyknown that that banquet was amere pretext for getting the forces ofthis Revolution together; and that theintention of the conspirators was tomarch in a body to the Tuileries afterit was over, and compel the King toaccede to their demands. Whenthey were called out in the afternoon,they declined to act against thepeople, and by their treachery occasionedthe defection of the troops ofthe line, and rendered farther resistancehopeless. They expected, by thisdeclaration against the King of theirchoice, the monarch of the barricades,to secure a larger share in the governmentfor themselves. They went tothe Chamber of Deputies, intendingto put up the duch*ess of Orleans asRegent, and the Count of Paris asKing, and to procure a large measureof reform for the constitution. Whatwas the result? Why, that theywere speedily supplanted by therabble who followed in their footsteps,and who, deriding the eloquenceof Odillon Barrot, and insensible tothe heroism of the duch*ess of Orleans,by force and violence expelled themajority of the deputies from theirseats, seized on the President’s chair,and, amidst an unparalleled scene ofriot and confusion, subverted theOrleans dynasty, proclaimed a Republic,and adjourned to the Hotelde Ville to name a Provisional Government!The account given ofthis whole revolt by an eye-witness,which has appeared in the Times,is so instructive, that we make noapology for transferring it to our columns:—

“On the afternoon of Wednesday, Feb.23, Paris was greatly agitated, but nosevere fighting had taken place; a fewbarricades had been raised and retakenby the troops; the plans of the governmentwere complete—Marshal Bugeaudhad been named to the command of theforces in Paris, and M. Guizot informedthe King that he was confident that theExecutive Government could put downthe insurrection. The royal answer was—adismissal. The King dismissed M.Guizot, and dissolved the Cabinet at thatmomentous instant, when all the energiesof united power were required to fight inthe streets a battle which it had itselfdeliberately provoked.

“Still, however, the mischief might yethave been repaired if vigorous measureshad been taken. But, from that hour,nothing but the most extraordinary blundersand pusillanimity marked the conductof the Court. Count Molé was sent for,and the evening of Wednesday passed inattempts, or no attempts, we hardly knowwhich, on his part to form a semi-LiberalCabinet. In the city, the fall of theGuizot ministry was hailed with acclamationand illumination, as the first signof popular victory; and at that samecritical juncture the fatal discharge ofmusketry took place opposite the Ministryof Foreign Affairs, which stained thepavement with blood, and inflamed thepeople to a revolutionary pitch. Thenight was spent in preparation for a moreterrible morrow; but as yet the armyhad neither fraternised nor laid down itsweapons. It was, on the contrary, forthe most part prepared to act; but a circ*mstanceoccurred at Court which totallyparalysed its resistance.

“After Count Molé’s failure, the Kingsent for M. Thiers. That gentleman maybe said to have actually formed a Cabinetin conjunction with M. Odillon Barrotand M. Duvergier de Hauranne, for theyinstantly proceeded to the discharge ofthe highest possible duty which coulddevolve on ministerial responsibility.The one act of their government was thepublication of that inconceivable proclamation,stating that no further resistanceshould be made, and the promulgation oforders to the officers commanding regimentsto withdraw them. This was ofcourse the capitulation of the Monarchy.Marshal Bugeaud—who had the commandof the troops, had now completed his preparationsfor the general attack of thebarricades, and was confident of success—protestedmost energetically against thisextraordinary order, and said that if itwas acted on all was lost. The King’sthen ministers, M. Thiers and M. Barrot,insisted; the King took their advice, andMarshal Bugeaud resigned the commandof the troops, observing that it was uselessfor him to retain it if nothing was to bedone. General Lamoricière was thereforenamed to the command of Paris, andM. Thiers and his friends proceeded toeffect their pacific arrangements. Theeffects of their orders were immediatelyperceptible, although the declaration oftheir names was certainly not followedby the consequences they had anticipated.The officers of the army, indignant at sounexpected a termination of their duties,sheathed their swords; the men allowedthemselves to be disarmed by the mob,whom they had been ordered not to resist,and the people, encountering no seriousopposition except from the MunicipalGuard, which was cut to pieces, rushedon to the conquest of the Palais-Royaland the Tuileries. To sum up this narrativein two words—the dismissal of theGuizot government rendered it impossiblefor the Executive Government to act effectually;the subsequent advice of M.Thiers and the resignation of MarshalBugeaud, rendered it impossible to act atall. If this be, as we have every reasonto believe it is, a correct narrative ofthese transactions, we are not surprisedthat M. Thiers and his colleagues shouldnot have made themselves conspicuousin the subsequent passage of this Revolution.

“The mob of Paris, at no hour of theday, (the 24th,) was formidable to tenthousand men, much less to a hundredthousand, or at least eighty thousand.On the Thursday (24th) public opinionhad abandoned the émeute. The NationalGuard would now have done any thing toreproduce order, but they had no time;there was no opportunity to reunite themselves;besides which, they wanted courageand support, and did not even dream of theextreme to which things might be pushed.There never was, at any time, anyacharnement among the people; the troopswere every where well received; not ahostile head looked from a window. Itwas hoped that something might be doneby a demonstration of public opinion, butnothing more. The émeutiers the first andsecond day simply took advantage of theabsence of the National Guard. They wereall the time ill looked upon by the realpeople of Paris, but they were permittedto go on as a means of action on the courtand government. The accident, or ratherthe gross and infamous blunder, committedbefore the Bureau des Affaires Etrangères(of which the accounts published areerroneous), produced a violent irritation,which was ably worked upon by the Republicancommittee, who were all alongon the watch; but this irritation, whichcertainly changed the character of thecontest, gave no arms to the people; andalthough it increased their numbers, theywere never, even numerically, formidable,as I have said, to ten thousand men. Asfor the barricades, there was not one thatwas ever defended except against someweak patrol, and then, after a little popping,it was always abandoned. Literally,there was no fighting; there was skirmishingon the part of the brave Municipals—theonly force that acted—and Ipresume it acted on orders which did notemanate from the chief military authority,but had some separate and generalinstructions of its own. Literally, I repeat,there was no fighting. How couldthere be? There were no arms; that is,not a musket to a hundred men, tilleleven or twelve o-clock in the day, whenthe troops, without orders—except “notto fire,” or act against the people—became,in several parts of Paris, mixed upand united with them.”—Times, March 8and 14, 1848.

Here, then, is the whole affair clearlyrevealed. It was the timidity ofGovernment, and the defection of theNational Guard, which ruined everything; which paralysed the troops ofthe line, encouraged the insurgents,left the brave Municipal Guards totheir fate, and caused the surrender ofthe Tuileries. And what has beenthe result of this shameful treacheryon the part of the sworn defenders oforder—this “civic” prætorian guardof France? Nothing but this, thatthey have destroyed the monarchy,ruined industry, banished capital, renderedfreedom hopeless, and madebankrupt the state! Such are theeffects of armed men forgetting the firstof social duties, that of fidelity to theiroaths. How soon were these treacherousNational Guards passed in thecareer of revolution by the infuriatedrabble! How soon were Odillon Barrotand Thiers supplanted by Lamartineand Arago! How rapidly werethe duch*ess of Orleans and the Countof Paris expelled at the point of thebayonet from the Chamber of Deputies—thecry for reform drowned inthat of revolution! How many of thetwenty thousand National Guards,who by their treachery broughtabout the Revolution, will be solventat the end of two months? Not atenth of their number. They willperish deservedly and ignobly; ruinedin their fortunes, beggared in theirfamilies, despised by their compatriots,execrated by Europe! That they mayanticipate what history will say oftheir conduct, let them listen to theverdict which it has pronounced onthe National Guard which, on a similarcrisis, 10th August 1792, betrayedLouis XVI., as pronounced by anauthority whom they will not suspectof leaning to the Royalist side—M.Lamartine.

“The National Guard, on the 10thAugust, returned humiliated and inconsternation to their shops andcounting-houses; they had justly lostthe lead of the people. Thenceforthit could no longer aspire but to be theparade force of the Revolution, compelledto assist at all its acts, at allits fêtes, at all its crimes; a vain livingdecoration of all the mechanists of theRevolution.”[9]

Of which revolution is Lamartinenow speaking; of that of 10th August1792, or of 24th February 1848? Beyondall doubt history will pass aseverer judgment on the treacherywhich overthrew Louis Philippe thanon that which consummated the destructionof Louis XVI.: for the formerhad the example of the latter forits guide; they knew how soon themassacre of September followed thetriumph of August, and what incalculablecalamities the defection oftheir predecessors in the PlaceCarousel brought upon their countryand Europe.

What benefit have the workingclasses derived, or are they likely toderive, from this deplorable convulsion?Great ones they doubtlessexpect, as it has issued in a triumphof labour over capital. But what hasit realised? We shall mention oneor two particulars to illustrate thebenefits hitherto reaped by this classfrom its victory.

The savings’ banks of France hadprospered immensely under the firmand pacific government of LouisPhilippe. The following account ofthem is derived from official sources.

“The state of the savings’ banks inFrance at the time of the Revolution indicatedan extraordinary degree of confidencein the stability of the late government.In 1834 there were only seventysavings’ banks in France, and the amountof deposits on hand was 34,000,000 francs.In 1839 there were four hundred and fourbanks, and the deposits had increased to171,000,000 francs; in 1848, at the momentof the Revolution, the deposits hadrisen to 355,000,000 francs, or ten timesthe amount deposited fourteen years before.In 1839 the average value of eachdeposit was 550 francs, which is probablyincreased to 600 francs average at thepresent time. The partial suspension ofpayment by these institutions must affectat least half a million of persons of themost industrious and economical part ofthe population, chiefly belonging to thetowns, and they are deprived of a largeportion of their savings at the very momentthey most need them.”—Times,March 14, 1848.

Now, these savings’ banks, holdingdeposits to the amount of about£14,000,000 at the commencementof the Revolution, and which hadincreased tenfold during LouisPhilippe’s reign, have to all practicalpurposes been rendered bankrupt.Unable to stand the dreadful runupon them after the outbreak, or torealise the amount of their depositsby the sale of their funded property, inconsequence of its prodigious fall, theyhad no resource but to suspend payment.By a decree of Government,the holders of deposits in the savings’banks are to receive only a tenth incash, the remainder being payable sixmonths hence, in a paper now practicallyworth nothing. By this singleresult of the Revolution, above fivehundred thousand of the most meritoriousand hard-working of theoperatives of France have been ineffect deprived of the savings of awhole lifetime.

Nor is the condition of the labouringpopulation in any degree morefavoured. In the Times correspondentfrom Paris of March 14, we findthe following account of their presentcondition:—

“The financial question, the state oftrade and commerce, and the task of providingwork and food for the people, withwhich the government has charged itself,are additional motives for seriousness,however. The credit of more than onebanking-house is to-day said to be tottering.One firm, it is openly mentioned,has resolved to stop payment to-morrow.Trade is very bad. Work will soon becomescarce, and distress and outcry mustbe expected; and with the knowledge ofall these facts, and with the determinationto do every thing possible for the relief ofthe working classes, possessed by theProvisional Government, this source ofuneasiness is menacing to-day. I wish amore cheerful view of the situation ofaffairs were more general than it is, for itmight check the departure of rich nativesand foreigners from the capital, who continueto retire from it in alarming numbers,and, obviously, with no view to return, forwe hear of sales of carriages and horses,for a fifth part of the value they bore threeweeks since. Twelve thousand servantsare said to be already discharged in Paris,and many houses or hotels in the fashionablequarters have become literally devoidof occupants.”—Times, 14th March1848.

That such a state of things must inthe end terminate in domestic orforeign war must be evident to allwho have looked even on the surfaceof past events. The causes whichat present uphold, and must ere longdestroy the Republican Governmentin France, are thus ably stated by theParis correspondent of the same well-informedjournal:—

“The Provisional Government continuesto exist at the moment only fromtwo causes. The first is, that all respectablepersons hasten to its support underthe influence of fear. The other day everybody expected to be robbed and murdered:as the Provisional Government showed astrong desire to preserve order, all thoseindividuals, still surprised to find themselvesunplundered and unassassinated,attributed the miracle to the government,and ran to its support in self-defence.The adhesions have been readier andmore numerous many times over than in1830. The second cause which gives ashort reprieve to the government is, thatit humours the ferocious monster that madeit,—and which is ready at any moment tooverturn it as it set it up,—by the mostabsurd indulgences, by still more fatalpromises for the future. The same set ofruffians (heroes) who forced the Chamber,and who thrust the Provisional Governmenton the deputies, are still there toinvade the Hotel de Ville, and substituteanother idol for Lamartine & Co. Still Ibelieve they will not do so just yet;perhaps we may get on till the constitutionalor National Assembly meets, butI doubt it. But then, even then,—whatis to take place? Faction, clubs,war to the knife. The French are preciselythe same men they were in ‘89—theyare not changed in the least. Classeshave been modified by wealth, commerce,prosperity, &c.; but these are the quietclasses, who will be swallowed up in thecourse of the next five years. At the presentmoment the working, or the soi-disantworking classes, who are literallythe sovereign power, are looked uponwith fear, disgust, and abhorrence byevery man in France of a superior condition,including the National Guard; andthey are all speculating how to get quitof them; while, on the other hand, LouisBlanc is keeping them quiet by preachingUtopianism. He is doing so, honestlyand enthusiastically, it is said; and certainit is, that a great mass of the peopleis flattered and soothed by the idea ofconverting work into an amusem*nt, of obtainingperpetual easy employment by thestate, and a pension at fifty-five years ofa*ge. This pause, however, does not deceivethe commerce, the capital, the educationof France, and, as I said, the universalconsideration is how to throw off themany-headed tyrant. The plan of doingso, most consonant with the French character,is war. The National Guard isconvinced they must shortly fight thesem*n themselves, or send them to fightthe foreigner; the latter is the expedientthat will be hit upon; and unfortunatelythe state of Europe incites themto interfere in the concerns of others, fromwhom they will receive invitations which,in the condition of men’s minds in thiscountry, it will be impossible for any governmentto reject. Besides which, evenFrenchmen of the best order are, on questionsof national glory or honour, not tobe relied on for a moment; the best ofthem may be carried away by a word, aparagraph, a rumour, and all rave ‘Frontierof the Rhine,’ ‘Waterloo,’ and athousand other follies, which, howeversad, may be excused in the present stateof their neighbours, though not for thatreason the less to be lamented. In allinternational questions whatever, the characteristicsof the French are arrogance,and susceptibility of so extreme a nature,that no body of Frenchmen can be dealtwith by foreigners. A sovereign and aminister or two in cold blood, and with allthe weight of undivided responsibilityupon them, are difficult enough to manageeven by the ablest and most impartial ofnegotiators; but the masses must alwaysbe intractable.

“I give the present Provisional Governmentimmense credit for their efficientexertions, and I have considerable relianceon the good intentions of the majorityof them; but they will not last; and,above all, whether they last or not, theymust obey and not pretend to guide.Lamartine, by his genius, has now andthen gained a point; but he, as well as therest, have been rather the organs of thesovereign of the day than his directors andguides.”—Times, March 13, 1848.

It is not surprising that views ofthis description should be entertainedby all well-informed persons on thespot in France, for the new “NationalAssembly,” to whom the formation ofa constitution is to be intrusted in thatcountry, is to be composed in such away, as renders the direct or indirectspoliation of property a matter of almostcertainty. The following is thedecree of the Provisional Governmenton the subject:—

“French Republic.

“Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.

“The Provisional Government of theRepublic, wishing to resign, as soon aspossible, into the hands of the DefinitiveGovernment the powers it exercises inthe interest and by the command of thepeople,

“Decrees,

“Article 1.—The electoral assembliesare convoked in each district for the 9thof April next, to elect the representativesof the people in the National Assembly,which is to frame the constitution.

“Article 2.—The election shall havethe population for its basis.

“Article 3.—The total number of therepresentatives of the people shall be900, including those of Algeria and theFrench colonies.

“Article 4.—They shall be apportionedby the deputies in the proportion indicatedin the annexed table.

“Article 5.—The suffrage shall be directand universal.

“Article 6.—All Frenchmen, 21 yearsof age, having resided in the districtduring six months, and not judicially deprivedof or suspended in the exercise oftheir civic rights, are electors.

“Article 7.—All Frenchmen, 25 yearsof age, and not judicially deprived of orsuspended in the exercise of their civicrights, are eligible.

“Article 8.—The ballot shall be secret.

“Article 9.—All the electors shall votein the chief town of their district, byballot. Each bulletin shall contain asmany names as there shall be representativesto elect in the department.

“No man can be named a representativeof the people unless he obtain 2,000suffrages.

“Article 10.—Every representative ofthe people shall receive an indemnity of25f. per day during the session.”

Here is a tolerably democratic constitution,which will probably excitesome little disquietude in the breastsof the holders of French stock andrailway shares. Universal suffrage—asingle assembly of nine hundredmembers, each of whom is to be paida pound a-day during the session. Tomake the experiment still more perilous,the minister of public instructionto the Provisional Government hasissued a circular to the ministers of instructionthroughout the country, inwhich he enjoins them to recommendto the people “to avoid the representativeswho enjoy the advantages of educationor the gifts of fortune.”[10] Thiscircular excited, as well it might, sucha panic in Paris, that the other membersof the Provisional Governmentwere obliged to disown it. Butthat only makes matters worse: itshows what the Provisional Governmentreally meant, and how completelythey have already come tostand on the verge of civil war. Theprojected decree for levelling theNational Guard, by distributing thecompanies of voltigeurs and chasseurs(the élite) through the whole mass,has already produced an address bytheir battalion, in uniform, to the ProvisionalGovernment, which wasreceived at the Hotel de Ville byan immense crowd with cries of“A bas les Aristocrats! on ne passepas!” It is no wonder the NationalGuard are at length alarmed. Thearistocracies of knowledge and propertyare to be alike discarded!Ignorance and a sympathy with themost indigent class are to be the greatrecommendations to the electors!This is certainly making root-and-branchwork; it is Jack Cade aliveagain. Paris, it is expected, will returnfor its representatives

Truly the National Guard will soon reapthe whirlwind; we are not surprised theFrench funds have undergone so prodigiousa fall. The holders of Spanishbonds and American States’ debtsknow how universal suffrage assembliessettle with their state-creditors.Sidney Smith has told the worldsomething on the subject.

The “pressure from without” onthe Provisional Government becomesevery day more severe and alarmingas time rolls on: wages cease, stockfalls in value, savings’ banks suspendpayment, and all means of relief, savesuch as may be extorted from thefears of the government, disappear.The following is a late account ofthe state of matters in this importantrespect, from the French metropolis:—

“France, crowded, impoverished, indebted,and straitened at all points, seesan opening in the exercise of a sovereignpeople’s will. It gets a glimpse of lightand life through the Hotel de Ville.Hence this desperate competition for thenational resources; and hence, we grieveto add, this wasteful and improvidentdistribution.

“These deputations are a congenitalevil. They began from the very momentthe Provisional Government was proclaimedin the Chamber of Deputies. Itsprogress thence from the Hotel de Villewas a deputation. The members immediatelybegan to thunder at the doorsand clamour for admittance. A cluborator has since boasted that, had it notbeen for this importunity, nothing wouldhave been done—that not a step hasbeen taken without external impulse—andthat the people had to wait twohours, on that wonderful Thursday, beforethe Provisional Government wouldannounce a republic. Since that momentthe deputations may be said never tohave ceased in Paris. For the firstweek they did not affect a distinctivecharacter, but came as accident hadthrown them together—ten thousandfrom this quarter, and twenty thousandfrom that; sometimes the people, andsometimes the National Guard, or a medleyof all sorts. In those days they werearmed. Lamartine had to turn out sixtimes a-day, make gestures half an hourfor a hearing, and then spend his brillianteloquence on a field of bayonets andblouses. When the poet had sunk fromsheer exhaustion, the indefatigable deputationadjourned to the Ministry of theInterior, and drew forth M. Ledru Rollin,who had not learned his way aboutthe apartments, or the names of the officials,before he was required to promulgate,off-hand, a complete system for theinternal administration of France. It ispossible that his first thoughts mighthave been as good as his second on thissubject; but the demand was neverthelesspremature. The stream of deputationhas since become less turbid, violent,and full; but it has been quite continuous,and, to all appearance, Labitur etlabetur in omne volubilis œvum.

“We believe there is not a singlebranch of employment or of idleness inParis, that has not marched en masse tothe Hotel de Ville to demand more wages,less work, certainty of employment, and arelease from all the rules and restrictionswhich the experience of their masters hadfound to be necessary. It is unwise todamp the expectations of five thousandarmed men. In some cases, therefore,the government capitulated on ratherhard terms. By and by it adopted whatwe really think the best possible alternative.It requested the trades to nominatetheir several deputies, and set theoperative parliament to adjust all itsrival pretensions at the Luxembourg.Then there came deputations of women,of students, of pawnbrokers’ tickets, ofbankers, of bread-eaters, of bread-makers,of cabmen, of ’bussmen, of sailors, ofporters, of every thing that had, or hadnot, an office and a name. France, ofcourse, has had the precedence, having,in a manner, the first start; but thenations of the earth are beginning to findroom in the endless procession. All theworld will run into it in time. The vastcolumn is just beginning to form inChinese Tartary, and is slowly debouchinground the Caspian Sea. Already wesee a hundred European sections. Theyfollow in one another’s trail. An AnacharsisClootz is waiting to receive themat the barriers, and marshal them to theHotel de Ville.”—Times, March 15, 1848.

This state of matters is certainlyabundantly formidable to France andto Europe. A great experiment ismaking as to the practicability of theworking-classes governing themselvesand the rest of the state, without theaid of property or education. Francehas become a huge trades-union, thecommittee of which forms the ProvisionalGovernment, and the decrees ofwhich compose the foundation of thefuture government of the republic.Such an experiment is certainly newin human affairs. No previous exampleof it is to be found, at least, inthe old world; for it will hardly besaid that the republic of 1793, steepedin blood, engrossed in war, ruledwith a rod of iron by the Committeeof Public Salvation, is a precedent towhich the present regeneration ofsociety will refer, in support of theprinciples they are now reducing topractice. We fear its state has beennot less justly than graphically describedby one of our most distinguishedcorrespondents, who says—“Theyare sitting as at a pantomime;every thing is grand and glorious;France is regenerated, and allis flourish of trumpets. MeanwhileFrance is utterly insane—a vast lunaticasylum without its doctors.”

The present state of Paris, (March21,) and the germs of social conflictwhich are beginning to emerge fromamidst the triumph of the Socialists,may be judged of from the followingextracts of the correspondent of theMorning Chronicle, dated Paris, 18thMarch:—

“Paris, Friday Evening.—There hasbeen another day of great excitement andalarm in Paris. Upwards of thirty thousandof the working classes congregatedin the Champs Elysés, and went in processionto the Hotel de Ville to assurethe Government that it might dependupon their assistance against any attemptthat might be made to coerce it, fromwhatever quarter it came. I need hardlyinform you that this formidable demonstrationis intended as a contre coup tothe protest presented by the NationalGuards yesterday, against M. Ledru Rollin’sdecree dissolving the grenadier andlight companies of the National Guards.It is not the least alarming feature inthis affair, that it exhibits an amount ofdiscipline among the working classes, anda promptitude of execution, which arebut too sure indications both of the powerand the readiness of the leaders of themovement to do mischief. It was onlyyesterday that the demonstration tookplace which displeased the masses; yet,in one short night, the order goes forth,the arrangements are made, and beforeordinary mortals are out of their beds,thirty thousand of the working classes aremarshalled under their leaders, and ontheir march to make a demonstration oftheir force, in presence of the executivegovernment—a demonstration which, onthe present occasion, to be sure, is favourableto the Government, but which to-morrowmay be against it. Who havethe orders proceeded from that drewtogether these masses? How were theybrought together? The affair is involvedin mystery, but there is enough in it toshow an amount of organisation for whichthe public was not prepared; and whichought to show all those within its operationthat they are sitting upon a barrelof gunpowder. The fact is—and thereis no denying or concealing it—Paris isin the possession of the clubs, who rulenot only it, but the ostensible government.The National Guards, so powerful only aweek ago, are now impotent whether forgood or evil. “A house divided againstit*elf cannot stand.” The NationalGuards have quarrelled. The Chasseurslook with jealousy on the compagniesd’élite—the compagnies d’élite will notfraternise with the Chasseurs. Theeighty-four thousand men, who formedthe National Guards before the 24th ofFebruary, look with contempt on theone hundred and fifty thousand new menthrust into their ranks by M. Ledru Rollin,for election purposes, and call themcanaille. The new levies feel that theycannot compete in wealth with the goodcompany in which they so unexpectedlyfind themselves, and they call the oldguards aristocrats. Add to this the discontentof the grenadier and light companiesat being deprived of their distinctiveassociations and dress, the displeasure ofthe old officers, who are about to be deprivedof their epaulettes by their newand democratic associates, and the intriguingof the would-be officers to securea majority of suffrages in their ownfavour, and you may arrive at a judgmentof the slight chance there is of theNational Guards of the present day unitingfor any one purpose or object. Theresult of this is obvious. In case of anoutbreak, the National Guards, who wereso useful in re-establishing order on thetwo days after the abdication of LouisPhilippe, could no longer be depended on.Paris would be in the possession ofthe mob, and that mob is under thedirection of leaders composed of theworst and the most unscrupulous ofdemagogues.”

The same correspondent adds:—

“The financial and commercial crisiswhich has created such ravages here forthe last week is rapidly extending. Ihave already given you a distressing listof private bankers who have been obligedto suspend payment. Another bank,though not one of any great name, wasspoken of yesterday as being on the eveof bankruptcy; but on inquiry, I findthat the bank is still open this morning,although it is doubtful if it will continueso to the end of the day. I abstain frommentioning the name. The commercialworld is just in as deep distress as thefinancial world. Every branch of tradeis paralysed. It is useless to attempt togive particular names or even trades. Ishall, therefore, only mention, that in onebranch of trade, which is generally consideredone of the richest in France,namely, the metal trade, there is an almosttotal suspension of payments. It is notthat the traders have not property, butthat they cannot turn it into cash. Theyhave acceptances to meet, and they haveacceptances in hand, but they cannot paywhat is due by them, for they cannot getwhat others owe. In short, trade is paralysed,for the medium by which it isordinarily carried on has disappeared. Inother trades precisely the same circ*mstancesoccur; but I only mention thisone trade as showing the position of allothers. How long is this to last? Noone can say; but one thing certain is,that no symptom of amelioration hash*therto shown itself.”—Morning Chronicle,March 20.

As the experiment now makingin France is new, and in the highestdegree important, so it is to thelast degree to be wished that itmay go on undisturbed. The otherpowers of Europe cannot be too muchon their guard against it; but noarmed intervention should be attempted,if France retains the pacificattitude she has hitherto held inregard to other states. The republicansof that country have neverceased to declare that the first Revolutionterminated in internal bloodshed,military despotism, and foreign subjugation,because it was not let alone—becausethe Girondists plunged itinto war, in order to provide a ventfor the ardent passions and vehementaspirations of the unemployed multitudesin that country. Lamartine admits,in his celebrated circular, that in1792 “war was a necessity to France.”He disclaims, as every man of theleast knowledge on the subject mustdo, the idea that it was provoked bythe European powers, who, it is historicallyknown, were drawn into itwhen wholly unprepared, and as unwillinglyas a conscientious father ofa family is forced into a duel. Lamartinesays the same necessity nolonger exists—that the world hasbecome pacific, and that internalregeneration, not foreign conquest, isthe end of this revolution. We hopeit is so. We are sure it is ardentlydesired in this country that pacificrelations should not be disturbed withthe great republic, provided she keepswithin her own territory, and doesnot seek to assuage her thirst atforeign fountains. By all means letthe long wished-for experiment bemade. Let it be seen how society canget on without the direction of propertyand knowledge. Let it be seeninto what sort of state the doctrinesof the Socialists and St Simonians,the dictates of the trades-unions, theclamour of the working masses, willspeedily reduce society. Theirs bethe glory and the honour if the experimentsucceeds—theirs the disgraceand the obloquy if it fails. Let allother nations stand aloof, and witnessthe great experiment—“a clear stageand no favour” be the universalmaxim. But let every other peopleabstain from imitating the example,till it is seen how the experiment hassucceeded in the great parent republic.It will be time enough to follow itsfootsteps when experience has provedit is conducive to human happinessand social stability.

But while, as ardently as any Socialistin existence, we deprecate thecommencement of hostilities by anyEuropean power, and earnestly desireto see the great social experimentnow making in France brought to apacific issue, in order that its practicabilityand expedience may for everbe determined among men, yet it isevident that things may take a differentissue in that country. It ispossible—though God forbid weshould say it is probable—that thegreat republic may, from internal suffering,be driven to foreign aggression.This, on Lamartine’s own admission,has happened once: it may happentwice. France has four hundredthousand regular troops under arms;and every man capable of bearing amusket is to be forthwith enrolledin the National Guard. Twenty-fivethousand of that body have alreadybeen taken into regular and permanentpay, at thirty sous, or aboutfifteenpence, a-day, and sent to thefrontier. It is impossible to say howsoon this immense and excited mass,with arms in their hands, and littlefood in their stomachs, may drive thegovernment, as in 1792 they did thatof the Girondists, on Lamartine’sadmission, into foreign warfare. Itbehoves Europe to be on its guard.Fortunately the course which its governmentsshould pursue in such anevent lies clear and open. They haveonly to resume the Treaty of Chaumont,concluded in 1813, to curb theambition of the great military republicof which Napoleon was the head. Letthat treaty be secretly but immediatelyrenewed as a purely defensiveleague. Let no one think of attackingFrance; but the moment that Franceinvades any other power, let the fourgreat powers forthwith bring a hundredand fifty thousand each into thefield. Let not the wretched mistakebe again committed, of the otherslooking tamely on when one is assailed—“etdum singuli pugnant,universi vinc*ntur.”[11] The momentthe French cross the Rhine or theAlps, the states of Europe must standside by side as they did at Leipsicand Waterloo, if they would avoidanother long period of oppression bythe conquering republicans.

Nearly sixty years have elapsedsince Mr Burke observed—“The ageof chivalry is gone; that of sophists,economists, and calculators has succeeded,and the glory of Europe isextinguished for ever. Never moreshall we behold that generous loyaltyto rank and sex—that proud submission,that dignified obedience, thatsubordination of the heart, which keptalive, even in servitude itself, thespirit of an exalted freedom. Theunbought grace of life—the cheapdefence of nations, the nurse of manlysentiments—is gone. It is gone, thatsensibility of principle, that chastityof honour, which felt a stain like awound, which inspired courage whileit mitigated ferocity, which ennobledwhatever it touched, and under whichvice itself lost half of its evil, by losingall its grossness.”[12] What acommentary on these well-knownand long-admired words have recentevents afforded! It is indeed gone,the loyalty to rank and sex—theproud submission, the dignified obedience,the subordination of the heart,which formerly characterised andadorned the states of modern Europe.With more courage than the GermanEmpress, the duch*ess of Orleansfronted the revolutionary mob in theChamber of Deputies; but no swordsleapt from their scabbards in theChamber of Deputies when her nobleappeal was made to the loyalty ofFrance—no generous hearts foundvent in the words, “Moriamur prorege nostro, Maria Theresa!” It couldno longer be said—

The infuriated rabble pointed theirmuskets at the royal heroine, andthe few loyal members of the assemblywere glad to purchase her safety byremoving her from the disgracefulscene. Not a shot was thereafterfired; not a show even of resistanceto the plebeian usurpation was made.An army of four hundred thousandmen, five hundred thousand NationalGuards, thirty-four millions of men,in a moment forgot their loyalty,broke their oaths, and surrenderedtheir country to the worst of tyrannies,the tyranny of a multitude of tyrants.

“The unbought grace of life,” saysMr Burke, “the cheap defence ofnations, is at an end.” What a commentaryhas the triumph of theBarricades, the government of LouisPhilippe, afforded on these words!M. Garnier Pages, in his FinancialReport, has unfolded the state of theFrench finances, the confusion anddisastrous state of which he is fain toascribe to the prodigal expenditureand unbounded corruption of LouisPhilippe. He tells us, and we doubtnot with truth, that during the seventeenyears of his government, theexpenditure has been raised from900,000,000 francs, (£36,000,000,) to1700,000,000 francs, (£68,000,000;)that the debt has been increased duringthat period by £64,000,000; andthat the nation was running, underhis direction, headlong into the gulfof national bankruptcy. He observes,with a sigh, how moderate in comparison,how cheap in expenditure, andpacific in conduct, was the governmentof Charles X., which neverbrought its expenditure up to£40,000,000. It is all true—it iswhat we predicted eighteen years agowould be the inevitable result of a democraticrevolt; it is the consummationwe invariably predicted of the transportsfollowing the fall of Charles X.The republicans, now so loud in reprobationof the expenditure of the CitizenKing, forget that his throne was of theirown making; that he was a successfuldemocratic usurper; that his powerwas established to the sound of theshouts of the republicans in all Europe,amidst the smoke of the Barricades.A usurping government is necessarilyand invariably more costly than alegitimate one; because, having lostthe loyalty of the heart, it has nofoundation to rest on, but the terrorsof the senses, or the seductions of interest.It was for precisely the samereason that William III. in ten yearsraised the expenditure of Great Britainfrom £1,800,000 a year, to £6,000,000;and that, in the first twenty years ofthe English government subsequentto the Revolution, the national debthad increased from £600,000 to£54,000,000. When the moral andcheap bond of loyalty is broken,government has no resource but anappeal to the passions or interests ofthe people. The Convention tried anappeal to their republican passions,and they brought on the Reign ofTerror. Napoleon tried an appeal totheir military passions, and he broughton the subjugation of France byEurope. Louis Philippe, as the onlyremaining resource, appealed to theirselfish interests, and he induced therevolution of 1848. Mankind cannotescape from the gentle influence ofmoral obligations, but to fall underthe reaction of conquest, the debasem*ntof corruption, or the governmentof force.

But all these governments, say therepublicans, fell, because they departedfrom the principles of the Revolution,and because they becamecorrupted by power as soon as theyhad tasted its sweets. But even supposingthis were true,—supposingthat Mirabeau, Danton, Robespierre,Napoleon, and Louis Philippe wereall overthrown, not because they tookthe only method left open to them topreserve the support of the senators,but because they departed from theprinciples of the Revolution; do therepublicans not see that the very announcementof that fact is the most decisivecondemnation of their system ofgovernment? Do they expect to findliberals more eloquent than Mirabeau,republicans more energetic thanDanton, socialists more ardent thanRobespierre, generals more capablethan Napoleon, citizen kings moreastute than Louis Philippe? Republicanpower must be committedto some one. Mankind cannot existan hour without a government: thefirst act of the infuriated and victoriousrabble in the Chamber ofDeputies was to name a Provisionalone. But if experience hasproved that intellect the mostpowerful, patriotism the most ardent,genius the most transcendent, penetrationthe most piercing, experiencethe most extensive, are invariablyshipwrecked amidst the temptationsand the shoals of newly acquired republicanpower, do they not seethat it is not a form of governmentadapted for the weakness of humanity;and that if the leaders of revolutionare not impelled to destruction by anexternal and overbearing necessity,they are infallibly seduced into it bythe passions which, amidst the noveltyof newly acquired power, arise intheir own breasts? In either case,a revolution government must terminatein its own destruction,—inprivate sufferings and public disasters;and so it will be with thegovernment of M. Lamartine and thatof the new National Assembly, as ithas been with all those which havepreceded it.

“Deus patiens,” says St Augustin,“quia æternus.”[13]—What an awfulcommentary on this magnificent texthave recent events afforded! Eighteenyears ago Louis Philippe forgot hisloyalty and broke his oath; the firstprince of the blood elevated himselfto power by successful treason; headopted, if he did not make, a revolution.He sent his lawful monarchinto exile; he prevented the placingthe crown on the head of his grandson;he for ever severed France from itslawful sovereigns. What has beenthe result of his usurpation? Whereare now his enduring projects, hisfamily alliances, his vast army, hisconsolidated power? During seventeenyears he laboured with indefatigableindustry and great ability toestablish his newly acquired authority,and secure, by the confirmation of hisown power, the perpetual exile of thelawful sovereign of France. Loud andlong was the applause at first bestowedby the liberal party in Europe on theusurpation; great was the triumph ofthe bourgeoisie in every state at seeinga lawful monarch overturned bya well-concerted urban revolt, and theNational converted into a PrætorianGuard, which could dispose of crownsat pleasure. But meanwhile the justiceof Heaven neither slumbered norslept. The means taken by LouisPhilippe to consolidate his power, andwhich were in truth the only onesthat remained at his disposal, consummatedhis ruin. His steady adherenceto peace dissatisfied theardent spirits which sought for war;his firm internal government disconcertedthe republicans; his vast internalexpenditure drew after it aserious embarrassment of finance.He could not appeal to the loyal feelingsof the generous, for he was ausurper; he could not rest on thesupport of the multitude, for theywould have driven the state toruin; he could not rally the armyround his throne, for they would haveimpelled him into war. Thus hecould rest only on the selfish interests;and great was the skill with which heworked on that powerful principle inhuman affairs. But a governmentwhich stands on selfish feelings aloneis a castle built on sand; the firstwind of adversity levels it with thedust. Napoleon’s throne was foundedon this principle, for he sacrificed towarlike selfishness; Louis Philippeon the same, for he sacrificed to pacificselfishness. Both have undergonethe stern but just law of retribution.An eye for an eye, a tooth for atooth, has been meted out to both.To Napoleon, who had sent so manyforeign princes into banishment, andsubverted so many gallant states, adefeat in the field, a melancholy exile,and unbefriended death, in a foreignland; to Louis Philippe, who haddethroned his lawful sovereign, andcarried the standard of treason intothe halls of the Tuilleries, the fatewhich he allotted to Charles X., thatof being expelled with still greaterignominy from the same halls, beingcompelled to eat the bread of thestranger, and see his dynasty drivenfrom their usurped throne amidst thederision and contempt of mankind.

“If absolute power,” says M. DeTocqueville, “shall re-establish itselfin whatever hands, in any of the democraticstates of Europe, I have nodoubt it will assume a form unknownto our fathers. When the great familiesand the spirit of clanship prevailed,the individual who had tocontend with tyranny never found himselfalone—he was supported by hisclients, his relations, his friends. Butwhen the estates are divided, and racesconfounded, where shall we find thespirit of family? What form will remainin the influences of habit amonga people changing perpetually, whereevery act of tyranny will find a precedentin previous disorders, whereevery crime can be justified by an example;where nothing exists of sufficientantiquity to render its destructionan object of dread, and nothingcan be figured so new that men areafraid to engage in it? What resistancewould manners afford which havealready received so many shocks?What would public opinion do, whentwenty persons do not exist bound togetherby any common tie; when youcan no more meet with a man, a family,a body corporate, or a class ofsociety, which could represent or actupon that opinion; where each citizenis equally poor, equally impotent,equally isolated, and can only opposehis individual weakness to the organisedstrength of the Central Government?To figure any thing equal TO THE DESPOTISMwhich would then be establishedamongst us, we would requireto recur not to our own annals; wewould be forced to go back to thosefrightful periods of tyranny, when,manners being corrupted, old recollectionseffaced, habits destroyed, opinionswavering, liberty deprived of itsasylum under the laws, men made asport of the people, and princes woreout the clemency of heaven ratherthan the patience of their subjects.They are blind indeed who look fordemocratic equality in the monarchyof Henry IV. and Louis XIV.”[14] Whata commentary on this terrible prophecyhave recent events supplied!The revolutionists say, that France isentering the last phase of the revolution.—Itis true, it is entering it; butit is the last phase of punishmentto which it is blindly hurrying. Thesins of the fathers are about to bevisited on the third generation. Totalk of real freedom, stable institutions,protected industry, social happiness,in such a country, is out of thequestion. With their own hands, inthe first great convulsion, they destroyedall the bulwarks of freedomin the land, and nothing remains tothem, after the madness of socialismhas run its course, but the equality ofdespotism. They have thrown offthe laws of God and man, and Providencewill leave their punishment totheir own hands. “The Romans,”says Gibbon, “aspired to be equal:they were levelled by the equality ofAsiatic bondage.”

Amidst so many mournful subjectsof contemplation, there is one considerationwhich forces itself upon theview, of great importance in thepresent condition of this country.This revolution in France being arevolt of labour against capital, itsfirst principle is a deadly hostility tothe principle of free-trade. The recentbarbarous expulsion of the Englishlabourers from France, several thousandsin number, after having enrichedthe country by their labour, andtaught it by their example, proveswhat sympathy foreign industry meetswith from the great and fraternisingrepublic. The confiscation of theirhard-won earnings by the cessationof the savings’ banks to pay morethan a tenth in cash, shows what theyhave to expect from the justice andsolvency of its government. Withthe rise of the communist and socialistparty in France to power, whoseabomination is capital, whose idol islabour, it may with certainty be predictedthat the sternest and mostunbending prohibition of British goodswill immediately be adopted by thegreat philanthropic and fraternisingrepublic. All other countries whichfollow in any degree the example ofthe great parent republic, by thepopularising of their institutions, will,from the influence of the labour party,do the same. America already drawsnineteen million dollars, or nearly£4,000,000 sterling, from its imports,the greater part of which is a directtax levied on the industry of thiscountry. Reciprocity, always one-sided,will ere long be absolutely isolated.We shall be,

even more by our policy than oursituation.

What chance there is of free-tradedoctrines being adopted by the presentsocialist and free-trade government inFrance, may be judged of by the followingquotation from the Constitutionnel:—

“Is not, in fact, the consumer, such asthe free-traders represent him to us, astrange creation? He is, as he has beenwittily described, a fantastic being—amonster who has a mouth and a stomachto consume produce, but who has neitherlegs to move nor arms to work. We donot fear that the operative classes willsuffer themselves to be seduced by thosedoctrines. We are aware that they haveconstantly rejected them through theorgans of the press more especiallycharged with the defence of their interests;but it behoves them likewise thatthe Provisional Government should remainon its guard against principleswhich would be still more disastrous underexisting circ*mstances. M. Bethmont, theminister of commerce, has declared, in aletter addressed by him to the associationfor the defence of national labour, thathe would never grant facilities of whichthe consequences would be calculated toinjure our manufacturers. We see bythis declaration that the dispositions ofthe Provisional Government are good.The very inquiry which is now being heldto devise means to ameliorate the moraland material condition of the operatives,ought to confirm the government in thenecessity of maintaining the system whichprotects industry. Let us inquire whatthe consequence would be, in fact, if wewere so imprudent as to suffer foreignproduce to enter France free of duty.Political economy teaches us that wagesfind their balance in consequence of thecompetition existing between nations;but they find their equilibrium by falling,and not by rising. If that were not thecase, there would be no possibility ofmaintaining the struggle. Now, if weopened our ports, this cruel necessitywould become the more imperious forus, as, being placed opposite to Englandin conditions of inferiority, greater inrespect to capital, to the means of transport,and to the price of matters of thefirst necessity, we could not redeem thosedisadvantages except by a reduction ofwages. This, in fact, would be the annihilationof the operative.”—Constitutionnel,March 16, 1848.

This is the inevitable result ofrepublican and socialist triumph inthe neighbouring kingdom, and theimpulse given to liberal institutions,an inlet thereby opened to manufacturingjealousy all over the world.Debarred thus from all possibility ofreciprocal advantages; shut out forever from the smallest benefit in return,is it expedient for Great Britainto continue any longer her concessionsto foreign industry, or incur the blastingimputation of a suicidal policytowards her own inhabitants in favourof ungrateful and selfish foreigners,who meet concessions with prohibition,and industrial teaching with savageexpulsion from the instructedterritory.

“No revolution,” says Madame deStaël, “can succeed in any country,unless it is headed by a portion of thehigher, and the majority of the middleclasses.” Recent events have affordedanother to the many confirmationswhich history affords of thisimportant observation. Had theNational Guard of Paris stood firm,the troops of the line would neverhave wavered; the government wouldnot have been intimidated; a socialistrevolution would have been averted;public credit preserved; the savings’bank, the place of deposit of the poor—thepublic funds, the investment of themiddle classes—saved from destruction.When we contemplate thedreadful monetary crisis which hasbeen brought on in France by the revolution;when we behold the bank ofFrance suspending payments, and allthe chief banks of the metropolis renderedbankrupt by the shock; when webehold wealth in ship-loads flying fromits menaced shores, and destitution incrowds stalking through its crowdedand idle streets, we are struckwith horror, and impressed with adeeper sense of thankfulness at thegood sense and patriotic spirit of themiddle classes in this country, whichhas so quickly crushed the efforts ofthe seditious to involve us in similarcalamities. “The unbought loyaltyof men,—the cheap defence of nations,”—still,thank God! subsistsamongst us. The poison of infidelityhas not destroyed the moralbonds of society—the rolling-stone ofrevolution has not crushed the institutionsof freedom amongst us. Thereare hearts to love their country—armsto defend their Queen—not less amongour civil than our military defenders.The pillage of Glasgow on the firstoutbreak of the disturbances there,their speedy suppression, by the energyof the inhabitants, has not been loston the empire. It is not in vain thattwenty thousand constables came forwardto be enrolled in one day inGlasgow, and eleven thousand inManchester. We see what we haveto expect from the seditious; theysee what they have to expect fromthe middle classes of society, andthe whole virtuous part of the lower.With such dispositions in both,Great Britain may be exposed tolocal disorder or momentary alarm,but it can never be seriously endangered,or undergo that worst of horrors—asocial revolution. Nor will she,with such dispositions in her people,be less prepared to assert the ancientglory of her arms, should circ*mstancesrender that alternative necessary.She has no internal reformsto make that she cannot achievepeaceably, by the means which herconstitution affords. Her giant strengthslumbers, not sleeps. Our ships ofwar, in the noble words of Mr Canning,“how soon one of those stupendousmasses, now reposing ontheir shadows in perfect stillness,—howsoon, upon any call of patriotism,or of necessity, it wouldassume the likeness of an animatedthing, instinct with life and motion—howsoon it would ruffle, as it were,its swelling plumage—how quicklyit would put forth all its beauty andits bravery, collect its scattered elementsof strength, and awaken itsdormant thunder!”—how soon wouldthe flag of Waterloo again be unfurledto the breeze!

The following is a very loose imitation of a popular German air.

MONT BLANC.

[When Captain Sherwill and Dr Edmund Clark ascended to the summit of MontBlanc, they were much surprised to observe the greater apparent distance andfeebler splendour of the moon and stars. “The cloudless canopy of heaven was ofa very dark blue, but with a slight reddishness in the tinge, so as rather to resemblea beautiful deep violet than indigo.... The vault of heaven appearedprodigiously high and distant. After two days’ march upward, the blue expanseseemed to have receded from us much faster than we had climbed towards it....Perhaps there are few phenomena (adds Dr Clark,) so calculated to take an impressivehold of the imagination.”]

TO ——.

NO. II.

Lake Champlain was long knownto the Dutch, and through them to theEnglish, as the Lake of Corlaer. Itseems that one Corlaer was for a longtime the great man of a little Dutchsettlement on the Mohawk, where formany years he swayed the civic swordso potently and with such terror toevil-doers among the Indians, thatthey adopted his name into their languageto signify a white governor.This doughty Dutchman, therefore, leftthe title to his successors, and theCorlaers went through their declineand fall with as much dignity, in asmall way, as history ascribes to thePharaohs and the Cæsars. Like thefounders of other dynasties, however,the original Van Corlaer came to aremarkable and tragic end; and asthis deplorable event took place on theLake, now known by the name ofChamplain, the Dutch stubbornlyregarded their own hero as havingthe best right to name it. For a timeit seemed likely that fortune woulddecide for the Dutch; but, with afickleness for which the flirt is proverbial,she suddenly declared for theFrench claim; and time having ratifiedthe award, the name of Corlaer isno more heard among mortals, exceptwhen some one of antiquarian tastes,like myself, discovers, with a meditativesigh, that it once could start aghost as soon as Cæsar, and comevery near being “writ in water,”which, strange to say, would haverendered it immortal.

It seems that in those days therewas, somewhere in the lake, a remarkablerock which the Mohawks regardedas the dome of a submarine palace, inwhich dwelt with his mermaids awicked old Indian enchanter, whoruled over Boreas and Euroclydon.The superstition was quite coincidentin its particulars with the more classicaland familiar one which is servedup in the story of Æneas: but thismischievous king of the winds had themerit of being easily propitiated; andthe Indians, as they timidly passedhis stronghold, never failed to senddown to him the tributary peace offeringof a pipe, an arrow, or any thingelse, save their bottles of fire-water,of which the old fellow was dexterouslycheated. The doughty VanCorlaer, undertaking a voyage to thenorth, was duly informed of thesefacts; but he swore “by stone andbone” that he would not pay thetribute, or ask any one’s permission tonavigate the lake. I am sorry to addthat he would not be argued out ofhis rash and inconsiderate vow. Traditionrelates that, as he approachedthe rock, his mariners showed signsof fear, which appeared so puerile andidle to the enlarged soul of the hero,that he on the contrary steered closeto the fearful citadel, and, shamefullyexposing his person, made an unseemlygesture towards the abode ofthe Indian Æolus, and added someDutch formula of defiance. It isalmost needless to relate that thewrath of his ventose majesty wasgreatly excited. He scorned, indeed,to make a tempest about it; but despatchingseveral angry little squallsafter the insolent admiral, they boredhim fore and aft, and beset him fromso many quarters at once, in a narrowgorge of the lake, that, in short, hewas effectually swamped, and thusmade a warning example to all succeedingVan Corlaers. His name, asI said, was for a while bequeathed tothe lake; but even this poor recompensefor a disaster so terrible hasproved as evanescent as the bubbles,in which the last sigh of the unfortunateDutchman came up from the cavesto which, like the great Kempenfelt,he went down in a moment.

The lake, therefore, retains itsGallic appellation, and preserves thename and memory of Samuel deChamplain, a servant of Henry IV.,and justly surnamed the father of LaNouvelle France. The expedition inwhich it first received his name was aromantic one, and so well illustrateswhat I have already said of the borderfeuds of the seventeenth century, thatI must be excused for relating itsstory. Champlain had come down tothe shores of the lake with a party ofAdirondacks, and was advancingthrough the forest towards the landsof the Iroquois, when suddenly theycame in sight of a strong party ofthat nation, who showed no dispositionto decline an encounter. On thecontrary, setting up their warwhoop,they advanced pell-mell to the attack.The Frenchmen, betaking themselvesto an ambuscade, made ready to receivethem with their fusils; whiletheir savage allies awaited the foewith their usual coolness and contemptof danger. The Iroquois werethe more numerous, and, elated bytheir apparent superiority, came downwith the sweeping violence of a whirlwind.The Adirondacks seemed intheir eyes as chaff; and with howlsand hatchets they were just pouncingupon their prey, when the blazingfusils of Champlain and his comradeslaid the foremost of the Iroquois warriorsin the dust. The remainder fledinto the wilderness with the mostfrantic outcries of astonishment anddespair. It was the first volley offire-arms that ever reached the ear orthe heart of an Iroquois—the firstthat ever startled the echoes of thatlake, which was so soon destined totremble beneath the bellowing thundersof navies. They were defeatedthey knew not how; but they retiredto the depths of the forest, mutteringthe deadliest vows of revenge. It sohappened that another collision of thesame kind occurred soon after on theSaurel—a little river, much broken byrapids, through which the waters ofthe lake make their way to the sea.There was among the Algonquins abold and dashing chief whose namewas Pisquaret. He had made an incursionagainst the Iroquois, and wasladen with the scalps which he hadtaken from an Indian village which hesurprised at night and completely destroyed.As he was navigating therapids of the Saurel with his Adirondacksand several Frenchmen, he wassurprised by a powerful armament ofIroquois, who immediately bore downupon him, with great advantage fromthe current. The treacherous Algonquinsfeigned to give themselves upfor lost, and, setting up the death-songof the Adirondacks, appeared to awaittheir inevitable fate. The Frenchmen,throwing themselves flat in thebatteaux, and resting the muzzles oftheir carbines upon the gunnels,coolly calculated the effects of thecoming discharge; but Pisquaret andhis warriors raised their voices inchanting the victories of their tribe,inflaming the Iroquois by vaunts ofinjuries which they had done them,and defying them in return not tospare any torture in seeing how theAlgonquins could die. The exasperatedfoe was just pealing the war-cry,when the deadly blaze of thecarbines changed their exultation ina moment to howls of agony and dismay.But these were tricks whichcould not be repeated; and, long after,the empire of the Grande Monarquepaid dearly for these frolics in theunpruned wilderness. Those whoare fond of tracing the greatest politicalevents and changes to accidentsinconsiderable in themselves, havemaintained that the first volley offire-arms that startled the echoes ofLake Champlain, decided the fateand fixed the limits of French dominionin America. Nor is this theoryto be lightly dismissed as fanciful; forit cannot be doubted that the subsequentspread of the Anglo-Saxon raceover the hunting-grounds of theMohawks, and through them to thefurther west, was owing to the favourabletreaties which the English wereable to effect with the Iroquois inthe days of their power,—treatieswhich, had they been secured by theFrench, would have opened the wholeregion now called New York to theircountrymen, and filled it with a mongrelpopulation under the absolutecontrol of Jesuits and political adventurers.Nor can any thing beascertained more decisive of what wasat first a game and a problem, thanthe collisions I have described. TheIroquois soon found out the secret oftheir discomfiture, and associated thename of a Frenchman with that ofthe Algonquins in their inveteratehatred. And when they in turn foundPale-faces to seek their alliance, andsupply them with arms, they becamethe barrier of British enterprise againstthe encroachments of France; and soit was that the beautiful vale of Mohawk,the shores of Erie and Ontario,and the rugged mountains of Vermont,came to be filled with the sonsof Englishmen, and not with thedwarfish overgrowth of the FrenchCanadian provinces. The laws, civilinstitutions, and the religion of Englandthus found a footing in that greatterritory, which, as more or less influencingall the other members of theAmerican confederacy, is called theempire state:—and perhaps the bellsthat ring for the English servicethroughout that region would havebeen tolling for the Latin mass, butfor those early encounters on theshores of Lake Champlain.

Our delay at Whitehall was owing toa blunder of Freke’s. He had assured usthat we would certainly arrive in timeto take the steamer down the lake toSt John’s; but it had been severalhours on its way when we arrived atthe inn. Since the burning of asteamer several years before, there hadbeen but one on these waters; and asit was now on its downward trip, itcould not again leave Whitehall forseveral days. Here was a prettymess for some half-dozen of us!

There was nothing for us but bedtime;and poor enough beds it broughtus. I was up before the sun hadfound a chance to send a squint intothe town over its rocky eastern wall;and I wonder not that the sun is slowto visit it, for it is altogether a disagreeablehole. For this I was unprepared.Whitehall hath a royalprestige, and the notion of the head ofa lake had given me the pleasing expectationof a picturesque little harbour,and a romantic water view.There is nothing of the sort. Theharbour is well called the basin; andWood-creek, the canal, and the lake,just here, are all ditches together.Vessels of different sorts and sizes liehuddled and crowded at their confluence,and the waters are preciselyof the colour of café-au-lait! Shadeof merry Charles, how came they tochange Skenesborough into Whitehall?

I have compared the ditch-water tocafé-au-lait; but all I can say of mybreakfast is, that its coffee was notcomparable to ditch-water. Frekewas despatched to look us out a vesselwilling to take us any where, for stayinghere was out of the question. Hehad given us the Indian name of theplace as Kaw-ko-kaw-na, assuring usthat this euphonious polysyllable wasgood Iroquois for the place where theycatch fish. This little item of knowledgeproved to us a dangerous thing,for it suggested a fishing excursion tofill up the hours of Freke’s anticipatedabsence. We rowed ourselves forsome distance along a narrow channel,with marshes on both sides, whichlooked like the stronghold of that cohortof agues and fevers which, sincethe days of Prometheus, have delightedin burning and shaking therace of mortals. Wood-creek throwsitself into the basin with a foamingcataract of waters; and beyond themarshes are precipitous walls of rocks,that confine the view. These rocksthey call the Heights; and I doubt notthey would look well at a distance,but the mischief is, there is no viewingthem in so favourable a way. Theyrise like a natural Bastile, and so nearyour nose, that your only prospect isperpendicular; and you are consequentlyobliged to think more of yournose than the prospect. In the moonlight,the evening before, I did thinkthere was something magnificentabout the Heights; but this impression,like other visions of the night, did notsurvive the daybreak. I should thinka geologist or a stone-mason mightfind them interesting; and an unprincipledinhabitant of Whitehall, out ofpatience with life in such a place, oremulous of the Lesbian Sappho, woulddoubtless find them suitable to the nefariouspurpose of breaking his neck.This is all I can say for them; and asfor the fishing excursion, we soon gaveit up, and paddled back to the quay,out of patience with Freke for hisinstructions in Indian philology, andheartily tired of attempting to catchfish in Kaw-ko-kaw-na.

Freke, for once in his life, had beenemployed to some purpose. He metus on the quay, and immediately conductedus to a gay little sloop, to whichhe had already transferred our luggage,and which was ready for a start downthe lake to Plattsburgh. We wereintroduced to a raw-boned, barethroatedVermonter as “CaptainPusher,” and, ratifying the bargain ofour commissary, were soon snugly onboard his vessel; of which I regretthat I forget the name, though I distinctlyremember the letters that shoneon the painted sterns we passed—suchas the Macdonough, the Congress,the Green-Mountain-Boy, and theLady of the Lake. Whatever was itsname, its deck contained several basketsof vegetables and joints of meat,which gave us promise of a good dinner;and scarcely were we underweigh, before Sambo the cook beganto pare turnips, and grin from ear toear over savoury collops of mutton,which he was submitting to some incipientprocess of cookery.

We were favoured with a goodbreeze; but the channel of which Ihave spoken seemed to drag its lengthlike an Alexandrine. We reached aplace where it is so narrow, and makesan angle so abrupt, that there is a contrivanceon the bank which steamersare obliged to employ in turning. Itis best described by the name whichhas been given to it by the sailors, from

They call it the Fiddler’s Elbow; andas it seems the limit of Whitehall, wewere glad to double the cape as speedilyas possible. A squadron of ducks thatwere puddling in the dirty water of themarshes gave point to a quotation fromVoltaire, with which one of our companypaid his parting compliments toKaw-ko-kaw-na, as its author did toHolland—Adieu! canards, canailles,canaux.

After clearing this place, we foundan object of interest in the decayinghulks of the two flotillas that came toan engagement in Plattsburgh bay, inthe year 1814. The British and Americagalleys lay there rotting together,with many marks of the sharp actionin which they had well borne their part.The more imposing proportions of CaptainDownie’s flag-ship the Confiancearrested our particular attention. Shewas a sheer hulk, charred and begrimedby fire, and a verdant growth of grasswas sprouting from her seams and honourablescars. A few years before,she was a gallant frigate, cruising uponthe open lake, and bearing proudlyin the fight the red-cross of St George.Her commander fell upon her deck inthe first moment of the action; andafter a fierce engagement, during whichshe received 105 round-shot in her hull,she was surrendered. There wassomething in the sight of these rivalsquadrons thus rotting side by side,that might have inspired a moralist.How many brave fellows that oncetrode their decks were likewise moulderingin the dust of death! But inanother view of the matter there wassomething inspiring. They were awitness of peace between the two nationswho hold Lake Champlain betweenthem; and long may it be beforeeither shall wish to recall them fromthe nothingness into which they havelong since crumbled!

The lake becomes gradually wider,and though not remarkable for beauty,affords scenes to engage the eye andoccupy the mind. It is rather riverscenery, than what we naturally associatewith lakes. On the left are themountain ridges that divide its watersfrom those of Lake George; onthe right, is the rocky boundary ofVermont. The lake occupies thewhole defile, lying very nearly duenorth and south. As we approachedTiconderoga, the region became moremountainous, and the view was consequentlymore attractive. Before uson the east was Mount Independence,and just opposite, on the west, rosethe bold height of Mount Defiance,completely covering the fortress,which we knew lurked behind it tothe north. By the help of a goodwind, we were not long in reaching thespot where the outlet of Lake Georgedebouches. It comes into Lake Champlain,apparently from the north-west,at the foot of Mount Defiance; thelake making a bend and windingeastward; and between the lake andthe outlet, on a sloping and partiallywooded promontory of some hundredfeet in height, rise the rough but picturesqueruins of Ticonderoga. Theypresent an appearance not usual inAmerican scenery; and having everycharm of association which Indian,French, British, and patriotic warfarecan throw around such places, arenaturally enough endeared to Americans,and gratifying to the curiosityof travellers.

This fortress was originally built bythe French, in 1756; and subsequently,until the ascent of MountDefiance by Burgoyne proved its exposureto attack on that point, it wascontested, captured, and recaptured,and held by French, English, andAmericans, as a stronghold of masteryand power. It commanded the avenueto the Hudson, and the pass toLake George. The name Ticonderoga,in which every ear must detect a significantbeauty, is said to denote, inthe Indian dialect, the noise of thecataracts in the outlet; but the Frenchcalled the fort Carillon, and afterwardsVaudreuil, in honour of one oftheir governors in Acadie, the Marquisde Vaudreuil. In 1757, when Montcalm(who fell in the defence of Quebectwo years afterwards) was makinghis expedition against the English fortson Lake George, he remained at thisplace awaiting that powerful reinforcementof savages, whose treacheryand thirst for blood rendered the campaignso lamentably memorable. Toone who stands, as I did, on thatbeautiful peninsula, and surveys thequiet scene of land and water—sailsbetokening civilised commerce, and atrading village in Vermont, exhibitingevery mark of prosperous thrift—itseems incredible that within the lifetimeof persons yet surviving, thatvery scene was alive with savage nationswho called it their own, and gaveit to whom they would; but of whomnothing remains but wild traditions,and the certainty that they have been.Yet, only forty-three years beforeBritish and American flotillas werecontending for this lake, in sight of avillage with spires, and with noneother than civilised arts of war, thesame waters were covered with twohundred canoes of Nipistingues, Abnakis,Amenekis, and Algonquins,paddling their way to the massacre ofa British force in a fortress at thehead of Lake George. From FatherRoubaud, a Jesuit priest who accompaniedthem, the particulars of thatexpedition have been handed down.He describes the savages as bedaubedwith green, yellow, and vermillion;adorned with glistening ornaments,the gifts of their allies; their headsshaven, saving their scalp-locks, whichrose from their heads like crests, stiffenedwith tallow, and decorated withbeads and feathers; their chiefs bedizenedwith finery, and each nationembarked under wild but appropriateensigns. Such were the Christianswith whom Father Roubaud travelledas chaplain, and whom he led againsthis fellow Christians like anotherPeter the Hermit pursuing Turks. Itis the plague of Popery that it oftenexpends itself in inspiring the deepestreligious sentiment, without implantingthe least religious principle. TheItalian bandit kneels at a waysidecrucifix, to praise God and the Virginfor the plunder he has taken with bloodshed;the Irish priest, at the altar,devotes to death his unoffending neighbours,with the very lips which, as hebelieves, have just enclosed the soul,body, and divinity of the world’s Redeemer;and the Jesuit missionary ofNew France had no scruple in consecratingwith the most awful rites ofreligion, an expedition whose objectwas the scalps of baptised men, andwhose results were the massacre ofwomen and children. The holy fatherhimself is particular to relate the factthat he celebrated a mass before theembarkation, for the express purposeof securing the Divine blessing, and hecompliments the fervour with whichthe savages assisted at the solemnity!He had described the English to themas a race of blasphemers, and they, atleast, were not to blame for embarkingin the spirit of crusaders “againstblack Pagans, Turks, and Saracens.”Daily, for a whole week, as the armamentadvanced, did the wily Jesuitland them on one of the many islesthat gem the lower waters of LakeChamplain, on purpose to renew theaugust sacrament of the altar beforetheir eyes: and he describes thesesavages as chanting the praises ofthe Lamb of God, with a fervour fromwhich he augured the consummation oftheir character as Christians. At theend of a week, they descried with joythe French lilies as they waved overthe walls of Carillon; and in order tomake their approach more imposing,they immediately arranged their canoesunder their ensigns, and advancedin battle array. From the height onwhich I stood, Montcalm beheld hisallies, on a bright July morning, theirhatchets and tomahawks gleaming inthe sun; their standards and scalp-locksfluttering in the breeze; andtheir thousand paddles hurrying themthrough the waves of that beautifulwater: such a sight as no eye will eversee again. To a nobleman fresh fromthe gallantries of Versailles, it musthave been a spectacle full of wild andromantic interest; and the picture isaltogether such a one as any imaginationmay delight to reproduce.Yet, when we reflect that it is evennow but fourscore years and ten sincesuch a scene was a terrible reality,how striking the reflection that it hasas absolutely vanished from the earth,beyond the possibility of revival, as thedisplay of tournaments, and the moreformidable pageants of the Crusades.

The following year an expeditionagainst this fort was made by thegallant Abercrombie, who approachedit from Lake George, and endeavouredto take it by storm. It is commonlysaid that Lord Howe fell in this assaultbefore the walls; but in fact he fellthe day before, while leading an advancedguard through the forest.Ticonderoga was garrisoned by aboutfour thousand men—French, Canadians,and Indians—and their entrenchmentswere defended by almostimpregnable outworks. The Britishtroops nevertheless made the attackwith the greatest intrepidity, and inspite of a murderous fire, forced theirway to the walls, and even scaledthem, to be immediately cut down.But after repeated assaults, and theloss of two thousand men, GeneralAbercrombie was forced to desistfrom the attempt; and the Frenchkept the post for a time. It of coursebecame English in the following year,when the French power in America wasdestroyed by the taking of Quebec.

I have already referred to its seizureby the eccentric Ethan Allen, on thebreaking out of the American war in1775. This officer was a native ofVermont, who had been an infidelpreacher, and was notorious as theeditor of the first deistical publicationthat ever issued from the Americanpress. The revolution was hardlybegun, when the province of Connecticutgave him a commission to captureTiconderoga. With about threehundred of his hardy “Green-mountain-boys,”he was hasteningto the spot, when he fell in withArnold, bearing a similar commissionfrom Massachusetts. After some disputeas to the command, Allen wasmade leader, and Arnold his assistant.They arrived by night on the Vermontshore, opposite the fort. There theyfound a lad who had been accustomedto visit the fort every day with provisionsand pedlar’s wares, andcrossing by his directions, withoutnoise, they were shown a secret andcovered entrance into the fort itself.Climbing up through this passage,Allen led his men within the walls,and drew them up in the area of thefortress, having silenced and disarmedthe only sentry who guarded theentrance. The commander of thepost, who hardly knew there was war,was actually startled from his sleep,by Allen’s demand for its surrender.The drowsy officer inquired—“Bywhat authority?” And was answeredby Allen, half in banter and half inbombastic earnest,—“In the name ofthe Great Jehovah, and of the ContinentalCongress!” To one in hisstraits, with a sword at his nakedbreast, such a reply, however unintelligible,was sufficiently overpowering,and the post was surrendered withoutresistance. Its reduction in 1777, byBurgoyne, has been already described;but Ticonderoga is for ever endearedto Americans from the fact, that theflag of their independence was so earlygiven to the breeze from its summit.

A guide, who called himself EnochGold, led me over the ruins. Hepretended to have been with St Clair,and to have seen Burgoyne and hismen on Mount Defiance. He showedus the way through which Allen gainedhis entrance, and took us down intothe vaults and magazines. A subterraneanapartment was shown as akitchen, and the old fellow declared hehad eaten bread hot out of its ovens.We gave the soi-disant veteran theliberal rewards of a hero; but I suspectwe were paying him for his imagination,rather than for his hardships.

The shadows of the fortress werebeginning to lengthen on the lakebefore we returned to our bark. Themountains of Vermont, which aremostly well wooded, looked brightlygreen in the broad sunshine, andtempted us to wish we had time foran excursion to their heights. It wasafterwards my happiness to go intoVermont, on a visit to Lake Dunmore,which lies among its mountains, andsupplies delicious fish. I found ita truly Arcadian region, aboundingwith streams and pasturages, and richin flocks and herds. It breeds a ruggedrace of men, with some characteristicsdecidedly Swiss. It is said, indeed,that a Switzer, who had come to settlein America, preferred these diminutiveAlps, with their lakes and mountaineerpopulation, to any other part of thecountry; and, fixing his dwelling accordingly,soon ceased to be home-sick,and sigh at the ranz des vaches.

Crown Point, the twin sister ofTiconderoga, is only ten miles beyond;but we did not reach it as soon as wehad expected, for the wind hadchanged, and we were obliged to tack.Every now and then, the man at thehelm, which was our gallant captainhimself, would cry out,—“Heads!”and the boom would come sweepingacross the deck, with woe to the headthat wore a hat, or did not bow soonenough to save it. Several times Iexpected to see our friend Freke carriedoverboard bodily, and engulfedlike another Corlaer; for so profoundlywas he engaged with his cigar, as hesat, or rather squatted, on the hatches,that the captain’s monotonous warningfailed to alarm him till the wholecompany had echoed “Heads!” and,with other demonstrations of affectionatesolicitude, forced him to fallon all-fours.

At Crown Point the lake greatlyimproves. The water appears muchclearer, and the width of the lake isnearly if not quite fourfolded. It continuesto expand till it becomes ten ortwelve miles in breadth, and islandsbegin to be numerous. To the northwardthe higher peaks of the GreenMountains stretch away with magnificentoutlines; and on the west, ableak and craggy range of hills, whichare said to harbour even yet the wolfand the bear, approach, and thenrecede from the shore. Here, as earlyas 1731, the French built Fort Frederick,as the first move towards theseizure and claim of the whole surroundingterritory; and from thispoint they made their bloody andatrocious incursions into New England,and towards the Mohawk, ordismissed their hireling savages to doit for them. The recesses of FortFrederick are believed to have rivalledthe dungeons of the Inquisition inscenes of misery and crime. In itsgloomy cells were plotted the inhumanmassacres which drenched the Americansettlements in blood. There, itis said, the Indian butchers receivedtheir commissions to burn, tomahawk,and scalp; and there, in the presenceof Jesuit fathers, or at least with theirconnivance, was the gleaming goldcounted down to the savages in returnfor their infernal trophies of success;the silvery locks of the aged colonist,the clotted tresses of women, and thecrimsoned ringlets of the child. In1759 this detestable hold of graspingand remorseless tyranny was blownup, and abandoned by the French toGeneral Amherst. Soon after, theBritish Government began to erect afortification in the vicinity of theruins, and a noble work it was;though it proved of no use at all, afterthe enormous sum of two millionssterling had been expended on itswalls of granite, and ditches blasted inthe solid rock. The exploits of Arnoldand Sir Guy Carleton in thisvicinity have been already described.Since the close of the war of the Revolution,the costly works at Crown Pointhave been suffered to fall into decay;and they are now piles of ruin, coveredwith weeds, among which the redberries of the sumach are conspicuouslybeautiful in their time.

Though “Captain Pusher” madea landing at this point to procurea little milk for our tea, we did notgo ashore, and were soon on our wayonce more with a freer prospect, andperhaps with somewhat expandedspirits. The setting sun, in the clearclimate of America, is in fair weatheralmost always beautiful; and myrecollections of the rosy and purpletints with which it adorned thefeathery flakes of cloud that floatedaround the peaks of the Green Mountains,are to this day almost as brightin memory as when they first mademy heart leap up to behold them inthe soft summer sky of Vermont. Asthe lake grew wider and the darknessdeeper, there was of courseless and less to be seen; and thenoble scenery at Burlington, wherethe width of the lake is greatest,and the shores assume a bolder andhigher character of beauty, was toour great regret unavoidably passedin the night. Still, there is somethingin starlight upon the waters, innew and romantic regions, which peculiarlyinspires me. The same constellationswhich one has long beenaccustomed to view in familiar scenesand associations, come out like oldfriends in the heavens of strange anduntried lands; shining witnesses tothe brotherhood of differing nations,and to the impartial benevolence andunsleeping love of God. But Ihave no reason to regret that the onlynight I ever passed on Lake Champlainwas mostly spent in watching;for long before I was tired of gazingat Orion and the Pleiads, I was rewardedby the sight of one of themost splendid auroras that I ever beheld.In a moment, the wholenorthern heaven was illuminated withcolumnar light; and the zenith seemedto rain it down, so to speak—whilethe surface of the lake reflecting it,gave us, to our own eyes, the appearanceof sailing in some bright fluid,midway between a vault and an abyssof fire. This display of glory continuedto flash and quiver above usfor several hours. There were, inquick succession, sheets and spiresand pencils of variegated light, rollingand tremulous, wavy and flame-like,blazoning heaven’s azure with somethinglike heraldic broidery andcolours. Towards morning, the intensecold and heavy mountain dewsdrove me for a season to my berth;but I was on deck again in time tosee the moon make her heliacal risingover the eastern peaks, in the wanpaleness of her last quarter. Theapproach of day was attended witha fog; but it soon thinned off, and wemade Plattsburgh in good time. Herewe parted with our vessel, and herworthy commander; and though weneither gave him a piece of plate norvoted him an accomplished gentleman,we left him with such wishes as,if they have been fulfilled, have longsince removed him from the helm ofhis sloop, and the waters of LakeChamplain, to a snug little cot at Burlington,and the company of any numberof rosy little Green-Mountain boysand their interesting mother.

Plattsburgh is situated on the westernbank of the lake, just where thecrescent shore of a bold peninsulabegins to curve round a broad semicircularbay, several miles in circumference,and of liberal depth. Herethe American squadron, under CommodoreMacdonough, was anchoredon the 11th of September 1814, inorder to assist the land forces underGeneral Macomb, in repelling anexpected attack from the Britishtroops under Sir George Prevost.The English flotilla had been orderedup from the Isle-aux-Noix to engageMacdonough, and divert his fire fromthe shore; and accordingly, at abouteight o’clock in the morning, was seenoff the peninsula of Cumberland Head,and hailed by both armies with vociferousacclamations. The cannonadeinstantly began from the ships and onthe land, and for two hours and twentyminutes the naval engagement was continuedwith the most stubborn resolutionon both sides. Though the battle onshore was sorely contested, the actionbetween the squadrons was anxiouslywatched by both armies, and by thousandsof deeply interested spectators,who surveyed the field and the fleetsfrom the neighbouring heights. Macdonough’sflag-ship, the Saratoga, wastwice on fire; and though Downie hadfallen in the first moment of the conflict,the Confiance had succeeded indismantling all the starboard guns ofher antagonist, when the bower-cableof the Saratoga was cut, and a stern-anchordropped, on which she roundedto, and presented a fresh broadside.The Confiance was unable to imitatethis manœuvre, and she was obligedto strike, the remainder of the flotillasoon following her example. A fewof the British galleys escaped, but asthere was not another mast standingin either fleet, they could neither befollowed by friends or by foes. Thedecision of the contest was vociferouslycheered from the shore; and SirGeorge, perceiving the fate of his fleet,commenced a retreat, having sufferedthe loss of nearly a thousand men.This brilliant action in CumberlandBay has made the name of Macdonoughthe pride and glory of LakeChamplain; and deservedly so, for hisprofessional merit appears to havebeen no greater than his private worth.The brave but unfortunate Downie,who, with a squadron wanting a fullthird of being as strong as that of hisantagonist, maintained this gallantcontest, sleeps in a quiet grave atPlattsburgh, under a simple monumenterected by the affection of asister. He is always mentionedwith respectful regret; but Macdonoughis, of course, the hero ofevery panegyric. An anecdote whichwe heard at Whitehall gives me ahigher opinion of the latter, however,than all that has been justly said ofhis merits as an officer. A few minutesbefore the action commenced, hecaused his chaplain to offer the appropriateprayers in the presence of allhis fleet—the men standing reverentlyuncovered, and the commander himselfkneeling upon the deck. Anofficer of the Confiance is said tohave observed this becoming, butsomewhat extraordinary, devotionthrough his glass, and to have reportedit to Captain Downie, who seemed tobe immediately struck with a forebodingof the result. The sailors on ourlittle sloop told us another story ofthe action with great expressions ofdelight. It seems the hen-coop ofthe Saratoga was struck in the beginningof the action, and a co*ck becomingreleased flew into the rigging, and,flapping his wings, crowed lustilythrough the fire and smoke. Thegunners gave chanticleer a heartycheer, and taking the incident as anomen of victory, stood to their gunswith fresh spirit and enthusiasm.Smaller things than this have turnedthe tide of battles far greater, andmore important to nations and theworld.

We spent a day at Plattsburghsurveying the field and the fort, andpicking up stories of the fight. Relicsof the battle were every where visible;and grape-shot and cannon-balls werelying here and there in the ditches.The evening was fair, and we droveout to an Indian encampment on thepeninsula, the first thing of the kindI ever beheld. Entering one of thewigwams, or huts, I found the squawsengaged in weaving small baskets ofdelicate withes of elm, dyed and stainedwith brilliant vegetable-colours.An infant strapped to a flat board,and set like a cane or umbrella againstthe stakes of the hut, was looking onwith truly Indian stoicism. Themother said her child never cried;but whether it runs in the blood, oris the effect of discipline, is more thanI could learn. On the beach werecanoes of bark, which had been newlyconstructed by the men. A squaw,who desired us to purchase, lifted oneof them with her hand; yet it couldhave carried six or seven men withsafety on the lake. We observed thatmales and females alike wore crucifixes,and were evidently Christians,however degraded and ignorant. Theyspoke French, so as to be easily understood,and some English. Thesepoor and feeble creatures were thelast of the Iroquois.

Next day, in post-coaches, we cameinto Canada. At St John’s, where wedined, Freke boisterously drank to hisMajesty. So deep were the loyal feelingsof our friend, however, that he continuedhis bumpers to “all the royalfamily,” which, though not quite sogreat an achievement then as it wouldbe now, was quite sufficient to consignhim to the attentions of our host,where we left him without an adieu.We were much amused by the noveltiesof our road, so decidedly Frenchified,and unlike any thing in theStates. Women, in the costume ofFrench peasants, were at work in thefields; and we saw one engaged inbricklaying at the bottom of a ditchor cellar. The men in caps, smock-frocks,and almost always with pipesin their mouths, drove by in lightcharettes, or waggons with rails at thesides, drawn by stout little ponies ofa plump yet delicate build, and forcart-horses remarkably fleet. Forthe first time in my life I observedalso dogs harnessed in the Esquimauxmanner, and drawing miniature charettes,laden with bark or fa*ggots.Every thing reminded us that wewere not in England or America, butonly in Acadie.

We were jaunting merrily along,when vociferous halloos behind uscaused our whip to pull up with ajerk. A Yorkshire man, in terror offootpads, began to bellow Drive on!and our heads were thrust forth infarcical preparation for a stand-and-deliverassault, when a waggon wasdiscovered approaching us, in whichwere two men, one without a hat, hishair streaming like a meteor, and bothbawling Stop, stop! like the post-boyat the heels of John Gilpin. In amoment we recognised Freke. Withany thing but a volley of compliments,he assailed the driver for carrying offhis luggage, which sure enough wasfound in the boot, with his splendidinitials inscribed in a constellation ofbrass nails. His hat had been blownoff in the pursuit; but after adorninghimself with a turban, he was againadmitted to our company, though notwithout some reluctance expressed orunderstood. The fumes of his dinnerhad not entirely subsided; and I amsorry to say, that his enthusiasm forhis king and country was about ininverse proportion to the honour hedid them by his extraordinary appearance.I wish it had exhausted itselfin song and sentiment; but it wasevident that a strong desire to fightthe whole universe was fast supersedingthe exhilaration of reunionwith his friends. Unfortunately apoor Canadian, in passing with hischarette, struck the wheels of ourcoach; and though he alone was thesufferer, being knocked into a ditchinstantaneously, Freke was upon himin a second, inflicting such a drubbingas reminded me forcibly of a similarincident in Horace’s route to Brundusium.It was with difficulty that wesucceeded in reducing our hero to asense of propriety, and compellinghim to console the astounded provincialwith damages. The sufferer,who thanked him in French for thenot over generous remuneration,seemed altogether at a loss to knowfor what he had been beaten; and Iam happy to say that the politenessof the peasant seemed to restore ourmilitary friend to consciousness, and afear that he had behaved like a brute.At the next stage he provided himselfwith a Canadian cap, and onresuming his seat overwhelmed uswith apologies; so that we werecompelled to forgive the aberration,which was doubtless, as he said, attributablesolely to his loyal concern forthe health of his Majesty, and to anoverflow of spirits at finding himselfonce more in the pale of the Britishempire.

It was late in the afternoon whenwe arrived at Laprairie, that littleold Canadian town on the St Lawrence,where passengers take thesteamer to Montreal. Here was celebratingsome kind of fête which hadbrought a procession of nuns into thestreet, around whom were congregatedgroups of smiling children intheir holiday dresses. I entered achurch, which I found nearly deserted.A few of the poorer sort of personswere at prayer, saying their aves andpaters by the rosary—not, as is sometimessupposed, through voluntary devotion,but in performance of appointedpenances, which they makehaste to get through. Some funeralceremony seemed to be in preparation;for the church was dark, and acatafalque near the entrance gave mea startling sensation of awe. Allthat Laprairie could show us was soonbeheld; but our usual fortune hadattended us to the last, and we wereagain too late for the steamer. Itwould not cross again till the morrow;yet there was the city of Montrealdistinctly visible before our eyes.From the quay we could discern, downthe river, the tin roof of the conventof Grayfriars, glittering brightly inthe descending sun. In fact, thewhole city was glittering, for everywhere its spires and roofs shone witha sheeting of the Cornish material,which somehow or other, in thisclimate, seems to resist oxidisation.In other respects, the scene was notremarkable, except that there wasthe river—the broad, free, and magnificentSt Lawrence, with its rapidsand its isles. Nuns’ Isle was aboveus, and abreast of the city, with itsfortress, was the green St Helen’s,said to be musical with the notes ofbirds, and fragrant with its flowersand verdure.

We were regretting the prematuredeparture of the steamer, when one ofour party came to announce that someCanadian boatmen were willing totake us over in a batteau, if we wouldembark without delay. It was ninemiles, and the rapids were high; butwe were informed that our ferrymenwere born to the oar, and might confidentlybe trusted with our lives.We therefore lost no time in stowingourselves, and part of ourluggage, into a mere shell of aboat, manned by half-a-dozen Canadians,who pulled us into deepwater with an air and a motion peculiarlytheir own. Once fairly embarked,there was something not unpleasantin finding ourselves uponthe St Lawrence in a legitimatemanner; for steamers were yet anovelty in those waters, and wereregarded by the watermen with thesame kind of contempt which an oldEnglish mail-coachman feels, in thebottom of his soul, for stokers andrailways. Finding ourselves, by alucky accident, thus agreeablylaunched, we naturally desired tohear a genuine Canadian boat-song,and were not long in making theoarsmen understand that an augmentationof their pay would be cheerfullyafforded, if they would butfavour us with music. Every onehas heard the beautiful words of TomMoore, inspired by a similar adventure.He says of the familiar air towhich they are set, that though criticsmay think it trifling, it is for him richwith that charm which is given byassociation to every little memorialof by-gone scenes and feelings. Icannot say that the air of our voyageurswas the same; yet I am quiteinclined to think that the words whichhe gives as the burden of the Canadianboat-song which he heard sooften, were those to which we weretreated. Barbarous, indeed, wastheir dialect if they attempted to giveus any thing so definite as the chanson,

but there was a perpetually recurringrefrain which sounded like do—daw—donny-day,and which I suppose tobe a sort of French fol-de-rol, butwhich I can easily conceive to havebeen, as our English Anacreon reportsit—

Rude as was the verse and themusic, however, I must own that, inits place on that majestic river, as wewere approaching the rapids whosewhite caps were already leapingabout our frail bark, with the meditativelight of sunset throwing a mellowradiance over all, there was somethingthat appealed very strongly to theimagination in that simple Canadianair. I am not musical, and cannotrecall it; yet even now it will sometimesring in my ears, when I goback in fancy to that bright season ofmy life when I too was a voyageur;and I have often been happy thataccident thus gave me the pleasure ofhearing what I shall never hear again,and what travellers on the St Lawrenceare every year less and lesslikely to hear repeated. Indeed, I amalmost able to adopt every wordwhich Moore has so poetically appendedto his song. “I remember,”says he, “when we entered at sunsetupon one of those beautiful lakes intowhich the St Lawrence so grandlyand so unexpectedly opens, I haveheard this simple air with a pleasurewhich the finest conceptions of thefinest masters have never given me;and now there is not a note of it whichdoes not recall to my memory the dipof our oars in the St Lawrence, theflight of our boat down the rapids, andall the new and fanciful impressions towhich my heart was alive during thewhole of this very interesting voyage.”

But our trip was not all poetry andsong. When we were fairly uponthose bright-looking rapids, we foundour little nutshell quite too heavilyloaded, and were forced to feel ourevident danger with somewhat ofalarm. The billows whirled and tossedus about, till our Canadians themselvesbecame frightened, and foolishlythrowing up their oars, began to crossthemselves and to call on the Virginand all the saints. The tutelar of theSt Lawrence is said to inhabit hardby, at St Anne’s,—but such was ourwant of confidence in his power to interfere,that we met this outbreak ofRomish devotion with a protest sovehement that it would have surprisedthe celebrated diet of Spires.Certain it is that, on resuming theiroars, the fellows did much more for usthan their aspirations had accomplished,when unaided by efforts. Wesoon began to enjoy the dancing of ourbatteau, which gradually became lessviolent, and was rather inspiring.Still, as no one but a coward wouldsport in safety with dangers whichwere once sufficient to appal, let meconfess that I believe I should bethankful that my journey and mymortal life were not ended together inthose dangerous waters. I trust itwas not without some inward gratitudeto Him who numbers the veryhairs of our head, that we found ourselvesagain in smooth tides, and weresoon landed in safety on the quay atMontreal.

The stirring period of the middleages, rich in examples of bold empriseand events of romantic interest,includes no more striking andremarkable episode than the invasionand conquest, by the brother of StLouis, of the kingdom of the TwoSicilies. As an episode it has hithertobeen treated—introduced, and not unfrequentlycrushed into unmeritedinsignificance, in works of generalhistory. By both historian and poetfragments have been brought intostrong relief; as an independentwhole, no writer, until the presenttime, has ventured and chosen toattempt its delineation. The virtuesand misfortunes of the last legitimatedescendant of the imperial house ofStauffen, a house once so numerousand powerful, have been wept overby the minstrels to whose fraternityhe belonged, vaunted by indignantchroniclers, and sung by the greatestof Italy’s bards. The gallant and successfulinsurrection by which thebrightest gem was wrenched from theFrench usurper’s fire-new diadem, andset in Arragon’s crown, has beenrepeatedly recorded and enlargedupon, and not unfrequently mistold.But the integral treatment of theconquest of Naples, in a work devotedto it alone, and worthy of the weightand interest of the subject—the narrativeof the ousting of the Germandynasty and establishment of a Frenchone, including the circ*mstances thatled to the change, and apart from contemporaryand irrelevant history—wereleft for the elegant and capablepen of an author honourably known forextensive learning and indefatigableresearch. The puissant rule of Frederickthe Hohenstauffe—the heroicvirtues and Homeric feats of Charlesof Anjou—the precocious talents, fatalerrors, and untimely end of the lucklessConradin—have found a fit chroniclerin the accomplished Count ofSt Priest.

Besides acknowledged talents andgreat industry, this writer has broughtto his arduous task a familiar acquaintance—theresult of long and assiduousstudy—with the times and personagesof whom he writes, a sound judgment,and an honest desire of impartiality.In his quality of Frenchmanthe latter was especially essential,to guard him against the naturalbias in favour of an illustrious andvaliant countryman, that might lead,almost unconsciously, to an undueexaltation of the virtues, and extenuationof the crimes, of the heroof his narrative. Nor was this theonly instance in which he was liableto temptation. The circ*mstancesand causes of the massacre knownas the Sicilian Vespers, were handeddown, in the first instance, byItalian writers, in the adoption ofwhose views and assertions subsequenthistorians have perhaps displayedtoo great servility. If we considerthe vindictive and treacherousinstincts of the Sicilians, their fierceimpatience of foreign domination, andthe slight account made of human lifeby the natives of southern Europegenerally, we cannot too hastilyreject the assertions and arguments bywhich M. de St Priest props hisopinion, that the vengeance was greaterthan the offence, the oppressed morecruel than the oppressor. Historyaffixes to an entire nation the stigmaof goading a conquered people to madness,by arrogance, injustice, and excess.M. de St Priest takes up thedefence, and, without claiming forhis client an honourable acquittal,strives, by the production of extenuatingcirc*mstances, to induce theworld to reconsider its severe andsweeping verdict. He asks whetherthe evidence has been sufficientlysifted, whether the facts have beenproperly understood and appreciated,or even known. “I think,” he says,“they have not. The Sicilians themselvesacknowledge this. One of theirmost distinguished writers has suspectedfalsehood, and sought thetruth; but he has done so only in avery exclusive, and consequently avery incomplete point of view. Hehas aggravated the reproach that restsupon the memory of the French of thethirteenth century. In my turn, Ihave resumed the debate with a nationalfeeling as strong, but less partialI hope, than that of most of the Italianand German annalists, in whose footstepsour own historians have troddenwith undue complaisance. It is timeto stand aloof from these, and to replyto them.” It would be inverting theorder of our subject, here to dilateupon M. de St Priest’s views concerningthe massacre, to which we mayhereafter recur. He scarcely makesout so good a case for the French victimsto Sicilian vengeance as he doesfor the most prominent personage ofhis book, Charles of Anjou, whosecharacter he handles with masterlyskill. He admits his crimes—sets offwith their acknowledgment; and yetso successfully does he palliate themby the received ideas of the time, bythe necessities and perplexities of amost difficult position, that the readerforgets the faults in the virtues of thehero, and receives an impression decidedlyfavourable to the first Frenchsovereign of Naples. “Had I proposed,”—wequote from the preface—“towrite a biography, and not a history,to paint a portrait instead of apicture, I might have recoiled beforemy hero. The blood of Conradinstill cries out against his pitilessconqueror; but the crime of the chiefmust not be imputed to the army.Aged warriors were seen to weep andpray around the scaffold of a child.The end I propose is not that of aretrospective vindication—an ungrateful,and often a puerile task. Charlesof Anjou was guilty. That fact admitted,he still remains the greatestcaptain, the sole organising genius,and one of the most illustrious princesof a period fertile in great kings. Likehis brother Louis IX., from whom, inother respects, he was only too different,he valiantly served France. Hecarried the French name into the mostdistant countries. By his politicalcombinations, by the alliances hesecured for his family as much as byhis victories, Charles I., King ofSicily, seated his lineage upon thethrones of Greece, Hungary, and Poland.Yet more—he saved the westernworld from another Mahomedaninvasion, less perceived, but not lessimminent, than the invasions of theeighth and seventeenth centuries. Thebust of Charles of Anjou merits a placebetween the statues of Charles Marteland John Sobieski.”

This high eulogium, at the verycommencement of the book, strikesus as scarcely according with the promiseof impartiality recorded upon thefollowing page. The meed of praiseexceeds that we should be disposed toallot to the conqueror of Naples. Still,upon investigation, it is difficult tocontrovert his historian’s assertions,although some of them admit of modification.Here M. de St Priest ratherveils and overlooks his hero’s faultsthan denies them to have existed. Hesays nothing in this place of the misgovernmentthat lost Sicily, within afew years of its reduction. Yet to suchmisrule, more even than to the excessesof a licentious soldiery—partlyconsequent on it—was attributable thetemporary separation of that fairisland from the Neapolitan dominions.Subsequently he admits the imprudentcontempt shown by Charles to thisportion of his new kingdom, his injudiciouschoice of the agents and representativesof his authority, the exclusionof the natives from public officesand employments—filled almost whollyby Frenchmen—with many other arbitrary,oppressive, and unjust measures,sometimes more vexatious inform than efficient for the end proposed;as, for instance, the decreedisarming the Sicilians, which musthave been wretchedly enforced, sincethe Palermitans, when the signal forslaughter was given, were at no lossfor weapons to exterminate theirtyrants. Whilst admitting the skillshown by Charles in his foreign policy,and in the formation of great andadvantageous alliances, we must refusehim, upon his advocate’s own showing,the merit of able internal administration.His military virtues are lessquestionable, although the greatest ofhis victories, which placed his rival inhis power and secured his seat on theNeapolitan throne, was due less to anygeneralship of his own than to thebold stratagem of a gray-headedcrusader.

Apart from its historical importance,M. de St Priest’s work is valuableas exposing and illustrating thepeculiar ideas, strange customs, andbarbarous prejudices of a remote andhighly interesting period, less knownthan it deserves, and whose annalsand archives few have explored moreindustriously than himself. In thispoint of view are we disposed, whilstglancing at some of the principalevents it records, especially to considerit; and under this aspect it willprobably be most prized and esteemedby the majority. A greater familiaritythan the general mass of readerspossess with the complicated historyof the second period of the middleages is requisite for the due appreciationof the book, and especially of itsfirst volume. This is purely introductoryto the conquest. The name ofthe conqueror is mentioned for the firsttime upon its last page. The matterit contains is not the less essential. Itsketches the establishment of the Normandynasty in Sicily; the elevationof that country into a monarchy byDuke Roger II.; the fall of the familyof Tancred, and the reign of FrederickII., (Emperor of Germany, andgrandson of Barbarossa,) who inheritedthe crown of the Two Sicilies inright of his mother, the posthumousdaughter of Roger, and the last of theNorman line. This brings us into thethick of the long-standing feud betweenthe Pope and the Empire, which,after having had the whole of Europefor its battle-field, at last concentrateditself in a single country. “Towardsthe middle of the thirteenth centuryit was transported to the southernextremity of Italy, to the rich andbeautiful lands now composing thekingdom of Naples. The quarrel ofthe investitures terminated by thecrusade of Sicily; a debate aboutecclesiastical jurisdiction ended in adispute concerning territorial possession.But although reduced to lessvast proportions and more simpleterms, the antagonism of the pontificateand the throne lost nothing ofits depth, activity, and strength. Farfrom becoming weakened, it assumedthe more implacable and rancorouscharacter of a personal encounter. Thewar became a duel. It was naturalthat this should happen. So soon asa regular power was founded in thesouth of Italy, Rome could not permitthe same power to establish itself inthe north of the peninsula. The interestof the temporal existence of thepopedom, the geographical position ofthe States of the Church, rendered thispolicy stringent. The Popes couldnever allow Lombardy and the TwoSicilies to be united under one sceptre.A King of Naples, as King of theLombards, pressed them on all sides;but as Emperor he crushed them. Thisformidable hypothesis realised itself.A German dynasty menaced the HolySee, and was broken. A French dynastywas called to replace it, andobtained victory, power, and duration.”When this occurred—when the Pope,beholding from the towers of CivitaVecchia his earthly sway menacedwith annihilation, and the Saracenhordes of Sicily’s powerful King ravagingthe Campagna, fulminated anathemasupon the impious invaders,and summoned to his aid a prince ofFrance—Manfredi, Prince of Tarento,or Mainfroy, as M. de St Priest prefersto call him, the natural son ofFrederick II., was the virtual sovereignof the Two Sicilies. Frederick,who died in his arms, left him regentof the kingdom during the absence inGermany of his legitimate son Conrad—namedhis heir in preference tohis grandson Frederick, the orphanchild of his eldest son Henry, who haddied a rebel, conquered and captive.This was not all. “The imperialwill declared the Prince of Tarentobailiff or viceroy of the Two Sicilies,with unlimited powers and regalrights, whenever Conrad should beresident in Germany or elsewhere.Things were just then in the state thusprovided for. Mainfroy became ipsofacto regent of the kingdom; andthe lucky bastard saw himself notonly eventually called to the powerfulinheritance of the house of Suabia,but preferred to the natural and directheir of so many crowns.”

The death of Frederick the Hohenstauffe,who for long after his deceasewas popularly known—as in our daya greater than he still is—as theEmperor, revived the hopes andcourage of Pope Innocent IV., whor*solved to strike a decisive blow atthe power of the house of Suabia.Mainfroy was then its representativein Italy. He was only nineteen—afeeble enemy, so thought Innocent,whom a word from the pontificalthrone would suffice to level with thedust. But where the sanguine Popeexpected to find a child, he meta man, in talent, energy, and prudence.These qualities Mainfroy displayedin an eminent degree in the strugglethat ensued; and when Conrad landedin his kingdom, which had beenrepresented to him as turbulent andagitated, he was astonished at thetranquillity it enjoyed. He embracedhis brother, and insisted on his walkingby his side, under the same dais,from the sea to the city. This goodunderstanding did not last long. Conradwas jealous of the man who hadso ably supplied his place, and jealousyat last became hatred. He deprivedMainfroy of the possessions securedto him by his father’s will, banishedhis maternal relatives with ignominy,and did all he could, but in vain, todrive him to revolt. Under thesecirc*mstances, it is not surprising thatwhen Conrad died, at the age of twenty-six,leaving Berthold, Margrave ofHohemburg, regent of the kingdomduring the minority of his son ConradV., or Conradin—who had been bornsince his departure from Germany,and whom he had never seen—therewere not wanting persons to accuseMainfroy as an accessary to his death.Mainfroy had already been charged—falsely,there can be little doubt—ofhaving smothered, under mattresses,his father and benefactor, the EmperorFrederick. There was more probability,if not more truth, in the accusationof fratricide; for, if Conrad hadlived, doubtless Mainfroy would,sooner or later, have been sacrificedto his jealousy or safety. “The majorityof chroniclers assign to Mainfroy,as an accomplice, a physician ofSalerno; and add, with the credulityof the times, that he killed the King ofthe Romans by introducing diamonddust, an infallible poison, into hisentrails. Others, bolder or betterinformed, give the name of the poisoner,and call him John of Procida.”Whether this death resulted from poisonor disease, it was hailed as a happyevent by the Italians, and with agreat burst of laughter by the Pope,who at once renounced his project ofcalling a foreign prince to the throneof Sicily, and resumed, with freshardour, his plans of conquest andannexation. Advancing to the Neapolitanfrontier, he was there met bythe Prince of Tarento and the Margraveof Hohemburg, who came toplace themselves at his disposal, andto supplicate him on behalf of the infantConradin. The Pope, who sawa proof of weakness in this humility,insisted that the Two Sicilies shouldbe delivered up to the Church; sayingthat he would then investigate therights of Conradin, and admit them ifvalid. The Margrave, alarmed at theaspect of things, made over theregency to Mainfroy, who accepted itwith affected repugnance. A powerfulparty called this prince to thethrone: it was the aristocratic andnational party, averse alike to papaldomination and to the government ofa child. They entered into an agreementwith Mainfroy, by which theyswore to obey him as regent, so longas the little King should live; stipulatingthat if he died a minor, or withoutdirect heirs, the Prince of Tarentoshould succeed him as sovereign. TheMargrave of Hohemburg, faithless tothe trust reposed in him by Conrad,agreed to these conditions, and promisedto deliver up to Mainfroy thelate King’s treasures. Instead of sodoing, the double traitor made hisescape with them, leaving the newregent in such poverty that, in orderto pay his German mercenaries, he wascompelled to sell the hereditary jewelsand gold and silver vases of hismother’s family.

If Mainfroy had made good fight indefence of Conrad’s rights, we may besure he did not less strenuously strivewhen his own claim was to be vindicated.Unfortunate at first, andabout to succumb to papal power andintrigues, he, as a last resource, threwhimself into the arms of the Saracensof Lucera. These unbelievers hadbeen greatly encouraged by his father,who was passionately addicted tothings oriental. “From his infancy,”M. de St Priest says of Frederick, “helived surrounded with astrologers,eunuchs, and odaliques. His palacewas a seraglio, himself a sultan. Thiswas quite natural. In Sicily all visibleobjects were Asiatic. The externalform of the houses, their internalarchitecture, the streets, the baths,the gardens, even the churches, borethe stamp of Islamism. The praisesof God are still to be seen engravedin Arabic on marble columns; and inthe same language were they traced,in gold and diamonds and pearls, uponthe mantle and dalmatica of Sicily’sQueens and Kings. Palermo wasthen called the trilingual city. Latinand Arabic were equally spoken there;and the Italian, the favella volgare,originated at the court of Frederick-Roger,under the Moorish arcades ofhis palaces at Palermo and Catania.The language of Petrarch was murmured,for the first time, beside thefountains of the Ziza. The outwardforms of Islamism were then, insouthern Europe, the ensign hoisted bythat small number of liberal thinkers,the avowed enemies of ecclesiasticaland monkish domination, who willinglyassumed the name of Epicureans.”Further on we have the following,explanatory of the peaceablesettlement of the infidel in Sicily, andcuriously illustrating the contradictionsand bigotry of the time. “Withan audacity previously unheard-of,Frederick II., after fighting and conqueringthe Saracens who overranand disturbed Sicily, transported entirecolonies of them to Lucera, in theCapitanata, in the immediate vicinityof the patrimony of St Peter, thusplanting, in the heart of his kingdom,the Mahomedan standard he wasabout to combat in Syria. Decrepidthough he was, Pope Honorius felt thedanger and insult of such proximity.What were the arms of the holy seeagainst an opponent that none of itsanathemas could touch? The Pontiffbecame indignant, vented threats; butwas soon appeased. When the wilyFrederick saw him angry, he promiseda crusade; whereupon the Pope calmedhimself, and treated the Emperor asa son.” Subsequent Popes were lesseasy to pacify, and ban and excommunicationwere heaped upon theEmperor’s head. Gregory IX., inhis bulls, called him “a marinemonster, whose jaws are full of blasphemies;”to which complimentaryphrase Frederick replied by the epithetsof “great dragon, antichrist,”and “new Balaam.” A third extractwill complete the sketch of the Saracens,and their position in Sicily.“Surrounded by odaliques and dancingwomen; giving eunuchs forguards to his wife, the beautiful IsabellaPlantagenet, a daughter of theEnglish King; often clothed in orientalrobes; in war-time mounted onan elephant; in his palace surroundedby tame lions; always accompaniedby a troop of Mussulmans, to whom heshowed great indulgence, permittingthem the violation of churches andwomen, debauch and sacrilege,—FrederickII., in the opinion of hissubjects, was no longer a Christianprince. During the last ten years ofhis reign this state of things reachedits height. The number of barbariantroops daily increased. Seventeennew companies, summoned fromAfrica, were dispersed, like an invadingarmy, over the Basilicata andCalabria. Finally, the Emperor wentso far as to instal them in the placesof masters of ports, and in other officesthat gave these Mussulmans jurisdictionover Christian populations.” Andwhen a Saracen captain, named Phocax,in garrison at Trani, ill-treated acitizen of noble birth, Messer SimoneRocca, and grossly outraged his wife,the aggrieved man could obtain nosatisfaction. “The Emperor onlylaughed. ‘Messer Simone,’ he said,to the complainant, ‘dov’è forza nonè vergogna. Go, Phocax will not doit again; had he been a native of thecountry, I would have had his headcut off.’” On the death of this indulgentpatron, the Saracen colony inthe kingdom of Naples saw its existencemenaced. The infidels were lostif Rome became mistress of the country.The triumph of the Pope wouldbe the tocsin of their extermination.They resolved to defend themselvesto the last. They held Lucera, Accerenza,and Girafalco, three impregnablefortresses; they also commandedat other points, less strongbut still important. They felt themselvesnumerous, courageous, and determined.Mainfroy could not doubtthat they would gladly rally roundthe banner of their benefactor’s son;and in this hope he set out for Lucera,where John the Moor thencommanded. This man, a slave whomthe Emperor’s caprice had raised tothe highest dignities, promised Mainfroythe best of receptions. But whenthe Prince of Tarento reached Lucera,the traitor had gone over to the Pope,taking with him a thousand Saracensand three hundred Germans, and leavingthe town in the keeping of a manof his tribe, Makrizi by name. Onlearning this treachery, Mainfroy stilldid not renounce his project of confidinghimself to the Arabs—so cherishedby his father, so favoured byhimself. Only, instead of approachingthe fortress with his little army,as regent of the kingdom, he preferredto go as a knight-errant, attendedonly by three esquires, like a paladinof the Round Table. This portion ofMainfroy’s life, as well as many otherpassages in M. de St Priest’s book, readslike an extract from some old romanceof chivalry. After wandering about,in the gloom and rain of a Novembernight, and losing his way repeatedly,Adenulfo, one of Mainfroy’sthree men-at-arms, and formerlyforester to Frederick II., perceived awhite object in the darkness, and recogniseda hunting-lodge built by theEmperor. He conducted the princethither, and they lighted a large fire,—amost imprudent act, for the flamewas easily perceptible at Foggia, whereOtho of Hohemburg was then ingarrison with a portion of the papalarmy. But Mainfroy was young anda poet. At sight of the splendid treesblazing on the hearth, he forgot thepresent, and thought only of the past;perhaps he recalled the time, not yetvery distant, when as a child, onwinter nights like that one, and perchancein that very place, he had seenhis father, on his return from an imperialhunt, seat himself at that samehearth, and talk familiarly with hisattendants of his wars and his amours,singing the praises of the lovely Catalanas,[17]and venting curses on thePope. The illusion was of short duration.At early dawn Mainfroy andhis little escort took horse, and afteran hour’s march they beheld, throughthe misty morning air, the tall hill ofLucera, and on its summit the Saracencitadel and its massive walls,crowned with two-and-twenty towers.But the guardians of the gate refusedto open without orders from Makrizi,who moreover, it would appear, hadthe key in his keeping. Sure that hewould deny admittance, they urgedthe prince to enter as he best might,for that, once within the walls, allwould go well. Beneath the gatewas a sort of trench, or gutter, tocarry off the rain, and through this itwas not difficult for a young man oftwenty, slender and active like Mainfroy,to squeeze himself. He attemptedto do so, but the Saracens could notsupport the sight of their Emperor’sson grovelling on the ground like areptile. “Let us not,” they exclaimed,“allow our lord to enter our wallsin this vile posture. Let his entrancebe worthy of a prince! Let us breakthe gates!” In an instant these wereoverthrown; Mainfroy passed overtheir ruins, and was carried upon theshoulders of the Saracens to the publicmarket-place, surrounded by a joyousmultitude. He met Makrizi, who,furious at the news of his entrance,was summoning the garrison to arms.“Makrizi! Makrizi!” cried the Saracensand the people, “get off yourhorse, and kiss the prince’s feet!”The Arab obeyed, and prostratedhimself. Mainfroy had valiantlyplayed his last stake, and fortunefavoured his audacity. In Lucera hefound the treasures of Frederick II.,of King Conrad, of the MargraveBerthold, and of John the Moor.Then, as ever, money was the sinewof war. Its possession changed theaspect of affairs. In less than amonth, the proscribed and fugitiveMainfroy had dispersed the Pope’sarmy, taken and executed John theMoor, and marched upon Naples toseize a crown. And now, for manyyears, his career of success was unchequeredby a reverse. His armswere uniformly triumphant in thefield; he was the most magnificentprince, and passed as the richestsovereign, in Europe. At last themarriage of his daughter Constancewith the Infante Don Pedro, sonof King James of Arragon, crownedhis prosperity. Concluded in defianceof the court of Rome, this marriageallied the bastard Prince of Tarentowith the French royal family; forIsabella of Arragon, sister of his son-in-lawDon Pedro, became the wife ofPhilip, son of Louis IX., and heir apparentto the crown of France. Thislast piece of good fortune nearly turnedMainfroy’s head. Instead of defendinghimself against the Holy See, heassumed the offensive, and invadedits territories. Moreover, he nowopenly professed, and established asa principle, that the right to disposeof the imperial diadem was not vestedin the Popes, but in the senate andpeople of Rome. “It is time,” headded, “to put an end to this usurpation.”Such maxims, thus publiclyproclaimed, rendered the Pope irreconcilable.The papal dream of annexingthe Two Sicilies to the pontificatehad long melted into air beforethe sun of Mainfroy’s arrogant prosperity;and Urban IV., convinced thatthe Church had need of a valiant anddevoted defender, turned his eyesnorthwards, whilst his lips pronouncedthe name of Charles of Anjou.

Charles, the good Count of Anjou,as some of the chroniclers call him,was married to Beatrix of Savoy,Countess of Provence, whose hand heobtained in preference to two formidablerivals,—Conrad, son of theHohenstauffe, and Pedro of Arragon.The latter we have just referred to ashaving subsequently married a daughterof Mainfroy. Through life Peterand Charles were destined to berivals; and if the latter had the advantageat the outset, his competitorafterwards in some degree balancedthe account by robbing him of theisland of Sicily. In 1248, soon afterhis marriage, Charles embarked atAiguesmortes with his brother Louisand their wives, on a crusade,—wassick to death at the island of Cyprus,but recovered, and performed prodigiesof valour in fight with the Saracen.It seemed as if the scent ofbattle sufficed to restore him his fullvigour; and he displayed a furiousimpetuosity and reckless daring thatalmost surpass belief. On arrivingoff Damietta, and at sight of theSaracen army waiting on the shore,he and St Louis sprang from theirgalley, and waded to land, with the waterto their waists. Surrounded by theenemy, Charles raised a wall of corpsesaround him, until his knights came upto the rescue. Heading them, hecharged the infidel host, ordering tostrike at the horses’ breasts. Thenoble Arab chargers fell by hundreds;the Saracens fled; Louis and Charlespursued; Damietta was the prize ofthe Christians. “The adventurousprince feared the elements as little ashe did man. One day the Saracensthrew Greek fire upon the crusaders’tents. Struck with surprise at sightof this mysterious enemy, the Christianswere so terrified that they dared notattempt to extinguish the flames. ‘Iwill go,’ cried the Count of Anjou.They tried to retain him by force, buthe broke from them like a madman,and succeeded in his design. Atanother time, St Louis, from the topof a hill, saw him engaged single-handedwith a whole troop of Saracens,who hurled at him darts withflaming flags, which stuck into andburnt his horse’s crupper. Thus didCharles display the first symptoms ofa will incapable of receding even beforeimpossibilities,—a dangerous applicationof a great virtue; but then, thesefeats of the Count of Anjou delightedevery body. Other exploits followed.Like a Christian Horatius, Charlesone day stopped the whole Mussulmanarmy upon a wooden bridge.” Thisgreat bravery was accompanied bypride, egotism, and hardness of heart,and these qualities caused bickeringsbetween him and St Louis. Nevertheless,the brothers were fondlyattached to each other; and whenCharles returned to Provence he displayeda depth of emotion on partingfrom his king that surprised the army,which did not give him credit for somuch fraternal affection. There wasgreat contrast of character betweenhim and his royal brother. “Theyhad in common,” says M. de St Priest,“military courage, chastity, probity,and respect to their plighted word....St Louis was a Frenchman,Charles of Anjou a Spaniard. StLouis had that communicative disposition,that taste for social enjoyment,that necessity of expansion andgentle gaiety, generally attributed toour nation. He was evidently theman born beside the waters of Loireor Seine. Charles, on the otherhand, seemed to have received lifeupon the rugged rocks of Toledo, orin the naked and melancholy plains ofValladolid. He was proud andgloomy; no smile ever curved hislips. Uncommunicative, he confidedhis designs to no one. Althoughhasty, violent, and passionate, hestrove to conceal his emotions. Heslept little, spoke less; never forgota service or an injury. His indulgencefor his partisans and servantswas unbounded: if he was passionatelyfond of gold, it was especiallythat he might shower it upon them.Charles and Louis were a contrasteven in form and colour of face.Louis was fair and ruddy; Charleshad black hair, an olive skin, nervouslimbs, and a prominent nose. Goodnesswas the characteristic of the king,severity of the count. Both of imposingaspect,—one as a father, theother as a master—Louis inspiredrespect and love, Charles respect andterror. By the admission of all hiscontemporaries, nothing could be moremajestic than the look, gait, andstature of the Count of Anjou. In anassemblage of princes he eclipsedthem all. A poet who knew him well,and who calls him the most seignorialof men, shows him to us at the courtof France in the midst of his brothers,and characterises him by this energeticline—

Such was the man who, on the 15thMay 1265, embarked at Marseilles forRome, with a thousand chosen knightsupon thirty galleys, leaving the mainbody of his army at Lyons to crossthe Alps with the Countess Beatrix,under the nominal command of theyoung Robert de Bethune Dampierre,heir to the county of Flanders, andthe real guidance of Gilles de Traisignies,constable of France. At themoment of his departure, timid counsellorsmagnified the peril of the enterprise,and the superiority of the hostilefleet that watched to intercept him;but nothing could shake the determinationof the Count of Anjou. “Goodconduct,” he said, as he put foot onhis galley’s deck, “overcomes illfortune. I promised the Pope to beat Rome before Pentecost, and I willkeep my word.” If fortune had notfavoured him, however, it is doubtfulif he would have succeeded in runningthe gauntlet through the sixty Siciliangalleys, manned with the practisedmariners of Pisa, Naples, and Amalfi,that waited to pounce, like hawk onsparrow, upon his feeble armament.Independently of this formidable squadron,the entrance of the port ofOstia was encumbered, by Mainfroy’sorder, with beams and huge stones,against which the French ships wereexpected inevitably to shatter themselves.Altogether, the marine preparationswere so formidable, theywere proclaimed with such ostentation,and Mainfroy appeared so convincedof their efficacy, that at Romethe partisans of Charles and the Popelost courage. The decisive momentarrived, and no fleet appeared; whensuddenly a rumour spread that Charleswas shipwrecked and drowned. TheGhibellines, or imperialists, hailed thereport with delight, the Guelfs withterror. Friends and enemies alikebelieved the fatal intelligence, whenat break of day, on the eve of Pentecost,a boat, containing ten men,entered the Tiber. Amongst theseten men was Charles of Anjou. Heowed his safety to his peril; deliverancehad grown out of impendingdestruction. A violent storm had hada double result: Mainfroy’s fleet,which for some days past had blockadedthe Tiber, was compelled to putto sea, and the thirty Provençal galleyswere dispersed in view of Pisa. Charleswas wrecked on the coast of Tuscany;to escape capture by one of Mainfroy’slieutenants, he threw himself into askiff, and the wind guided him intothe Tiber, which he entered unperceivedby the Sicilian admiral. Suchwas the fortunate chance that servedhim. Men believed him at the bottomof the sea, and at that momenthe landed in Italy.

Mainfroy prepared for defence, affectingboundless confidence in theresult of the approaching strife, but inreality uneasy at the approach of hisformidable foe. His hatred found ventin sarcasm and abusive words. “Althoughthe name of the terrible Charlesof Anjou did not encourage childishdiminutives, Mainfroy and his flatterersnever spoke of him otherwisethan as Carlotto” (Charley.) Thiswas not very dignified or in goodtaste. But Charles was at no loss fora retort. When his wife had joinedhim, at the head of thirty thousandmen, and the royal pair had beencrowned in the Church of the Lateran,in sight and amidst the acclamationsof an immense multitude, King andQueen of Sicily, he marched uponNaples. At the frontier, Mainfroy,after a vain attempt to intimidate thePope, endeavoured to delay his progressby negotiation. “Tell the Sultanof Lucera,” replied Charles to theSwabian envoys, “that between usthere can be neither peace nor truce;that soon he shall transport me to paradiseor I will send him to hell.” Andhaving thus branded his opponent asan infidel, and his opponent’s cause asunjust, he resolutely entered the Neapolitanstates. The first barrier to hisprogress, the fortified bridge of Ceprano,was opened to him by Riccardod’Aquino, Count of Caserte, out ofrevenge for the alleged seduction orviolation of his wife by Mainfroy. Thecount was about to defend the post,when news of his dishonour reachedhim. He vowed a terrible revenge;but, scrupulous even in his anger, hesent to consult the casuists of theFrench camp, whether a vassal hadthe right to punish the liege lord whohad outraged him in his honour. Thecasuists made an affirmative reply, andCaserte gave free passage to Charlesof Anjou. History is more positiveof the count’s treason than ofthe outrage said to have induced it.The occupation of the bridge was buta small step towards the conquest ofthe Two Sicilies. Charles’s path wasbeset with obstacles, augmented bythe difficulty of transporting his warlikeengines, and by fierce dissensionsin his army. These alone were sufficientto ruin the enterprise; but thevalour and military science of theFrench prince supplied all deficiencies.His operations were sometimes, however,a little impeded from piousscruples; as, for instance, when heput off the assault of a town for twodays, in order not to fight on AshWednesday. Nevertheless his progresswas rapid and triumphant, andsoon the silver fleur-de-lis of France,and the crimson ones of the Guelfs,floated above the walls or over theruins of Mainfroy’s strongest forts.All the Saracens who fell into Charles’shands were immediately put to thesword. At last, in the valley of SantaMaria de Grandella, and at four milesfrom the town of Benevento, the Frencharmy—to which were now united thelevies of many disaffected Neapolitannobles—came in sight of Mainfroy’shost, drawn up in order of battle.The strength of the two armies is variouslystated, but it appears certainthat the numerical advantage was considerablyon the side of Charles. Beforeengaging, each leader made aspeech to his troops. That of Charlesreminds us of Cromwell’s well-knownexhortation to his men, totrust in God and keep their powderdry. “Have confidence inGod,” said the valiant and piousFrenchman, “but neglect not humanmeans; and be attentive, when battlebegins, to what I now tell you: strikeat the horses rather than at the men,not with edge, but with point; so that,falling with his horse and being unableto rise quickly, on account of theweight of his armour, the cavalier mayimmediately have his throat cut bythe ribauds. Let each of you be alwaysaccompanied by one of thosevarlets, and even by two. Forget notthat, and march!” The manœuvreprescribed by Charles of Anjou, andwhich he had already essayed in Palestine,was forbidden by chivalrousetiquette, which stigmatised as disloyalthe act of striking at the horses’heads. But Charles was not at atournament. His aim was victory,and his injunction was well receivedby his knights, whom his words excited,says a chronicler, as the huntsmanexcites the dogs. There wasneither blame nor murmur. Neverthelesshis chevaliers were the flowerof nobility; but they did not holdthemselves engaged in a regular war;they looked upon the expedition as acrusade against infidels. The bishopof Auxerre gave a final benediction;the trumpets sounded, and the signalof battle echoed through both camps.

Neither army had left its groundwhen the clamour of many thousandvoices was heard; and, like a whirlwind,the Saracen archers from Lucerapoured upon the field. Crossingthe little river Calora, theyfell upon the French infantry with adischarge of arrows. The French,with loud cries of “Down with theSaracens! Down with the swine!”rushed furiously to meet them. Themedley was terrible, and at first victoryfavoured the turban. Charles’stroops broke and fled, when RuggieroSan Severino rallied them, waving, byway of banner, a bloody shirt, strippedfrom a soldier’s corpse. Philip de Montfortbrought up the reserve, and threwhimself upon the Saracens, whom hecut to pieces with cries of “Montfort,chevaliers!” “Swabia, chevaliers!”replied Gualvano Lancia, who, withoutwaiting orders from Mainfroy,hurried forward a thousand men ofthe best German troops. He fell uponthe French, who were weary withstriking, and made a great slaughterof them. Charles of Anjou, who in hispart of the field performed, as usual,prodigies of valour, now left the winghe commanded and attacked GualvanoLancia. The Germans and Saracenswere cut to pieces and dispersed; butthe Italian battalions, commanded bynobles of the country, had not yetshared the combat. Mainfroy had keptthem as a reserve, and now calledupon them to follow him. Instead ofso doing, they turned their backs andfled. At the same moment a silvereagle, surmounting Mainfroy’shelm, fell and broke in pieces. Atthis evil omen, the son of the Hohenstauffefelt himself lost. He turnedtowards the faithful few who still stoodby him, and said in the words of theCatholic Church: Hoc est signum Dei.Then, followed by Tibaldo Annibaldi,he plunged into the thickest of thehostile squadrons, and was seen nomore alive. For three days nothingwas heard of him, and Charles of Anjouthought he had escaped, when asoldier led his war-horse past thewindow of Gualvano Lancia and twoother Ghibelline prisoners. On recognisingthe steed, the captives burstinto tears, and implored the soldier, aPicard, to tell them the fate of itsrider, whether prisoner, slain, or fugitive.“The Picard, having learnedwho the prisoners were, replied thus:‘I will tell you the truth; duringthe fight, the man who mounted thishorse came up, uttering terrible cries.He rushed into the mêlée, followed byanother cavalier much less than himself,and fell upon us with such couragethat, had he been supported by othersas brave, he would have beaten us orgiven us much to do. I showed frontto this knight and wounded his chargerin the head with a lance-thrust; thehorse, feeling itself wounded, threwits rider; then the ribauds despoiledhim of his arms and made an end ofhim. As his scarf was very beautiful,I took it, as well as his horse; and herethey both are.’ Such was the nobleend of Manfred, or Machtfried, ofStauffen, whom the French were wontto call Mainfroy of Sicily.” Withgreat difficulty, the royal corpse wasfound, amidst heaps of slain, and theFrench chevaliers entreated Charlesto allow it honourable burial. “Willingly,”replied Charles, “were he notexcommunicated.” The new King ofSicily could not reasonably be expectedto grant ecclesiastical intermentto the man, whom he had foughtand supplanted on the sole ground ofhis being out of the pale of the church.So a trench was dug at the foot of thebridge over the Calora, the body waslaid in it, the army filed by, and eachsoldier, as he passed, threw a stoneupon the unconsecrated grave. Asgreat warriors have had worse monuments.But papal hatred followedMainfroy even beyond the tomb.Under pretence that the remains ofthe excommunicated hero infected thepontifical soil, Clement IV.’s nunciohad them unearthed and dragged atnight, without torches, to the banksof the Garigliano. There they wereabandoned to the pelting storm andprowling beast of prey. “Whilst asavage fanaticism thus insulted theashes of Sicily’s King, poetry preparedhim a glorious revenge. Eight monthsbefore the battle of Benevento, a childwas born at Florence, in May 1265,whose name was Dante Alighieri.Dante protected the memory of Mainfroy.”

For eight days the unfortunate townof Benevento was abandoned to thehorrors of the sack. At the end ofthat time Charles called his greedysoldiers from pillage and excess, ralliedthem round his standard and marchedto Naples. The magnificence of hisentrance dazzled and delighted thepeople, surpassing even the vauntedsplendour of the proud Hohenstauffen.In every respect Charles’s victorywas complete. The Anjevine bannerfloated throughout the kingdom ofNaples; and after very slight resistanceon the part of Gualvano Lanciaand of Conrad of Antioch, an illegitimategrandson of the EmperorFrederick, Sicily and Calabria werealso reduced and tranquillised. Butthe triumphant king was still surroundedwith difficulties. His pecuniaryobligations were numerousand heavy, and his new kingdomoffered no resources for their acquittal.The population was greatly reduced,agriculture had disappeared,commerce was at the very lowest ebb,the nobility were ruined, and revenuethere was none. On the other hand,Charles’s troops were clamorous forarrears; and the Pope, who hadpledged the treasures of the Romanchurches to Tuscan bankers for fundsto carry on the war, was urgent in hisdemands of repayment, and went sofar as to threaten his debtor with excommunication.Charles the Firstwas in great perplexity. The clergy,who alone had some means, he wasforbidden to tax, by the terms of histreaty with the Pope. In this dilemma,the King was compelled to resort toimposts and extortions, which renderedhim odious to his subjects. In thisrespect he was no worse, perhaps, thanhis immediate predecessors, who seldomscrupled to raise a forced contribution,even by the armed hand; buthis manner of procuring his supplieswas particularly obnoxious to theNeapolitans. He reduced it to a regularsystem, based upon the Frenchfiscal forms. The people preferredthe occasional swoop of a party ofSaracens to the tax-gatherer’s systematicspoliation. The irritation becamegeneral. Murmurs and complaintswere heard on all sides, mingledwith regrets for Mainfroy. ThePope, unwilling to share Charles’sunpopularity, dissatisfied at the nonpaymentof his advances, and butslightly appeased by the present of agolden throne and candelabra senthim from the sack of Benevento,wrote harsh letters to his ally, andsent him long lectures and instructionsas to how he should govern, biddinghim, above all things, to be amiable.This was not much in Charles’s way;neither did his political views at allagree with those of his Holiness ClementIV. He was certainly by nomeans amiable, and, moreover, hecommitted a grievous blunder, commonenough with his countrymen,and which alienated the affections ofhis subjects. He tried to Frenchifyhis new dominions. Obstinately benton moving the mountain, he would noteven meet it half-way. He scornedto take a lesson from the Normanfounders of the kingdom, who “governedSicily not as conquerors but asold hereditary sovereigns,” and werecautious of the too sudden introductionof foreign innovations. His object,according to M. de St Priest’s ownshowing, was at least as much the increaseof the power and importance ofFrance, as the happiness of the peoplehe had come to reign over. His historianadmires him for this, and for hiswish “to make half Europe, not avassal, but a dependency of France.”He introduced the forms of Frenchadministration, abolished the officesand etiquette that had existed sincethe days of King Roger, and replacedthem by those of the court of Vincennes,changes which excited greathatred and dislike to their author.He abandoned the Castel Capuano,the residence of Frederick II., andbuilt the Castel Nuovo, on the modelof the Paris Bastile. The copy hassurvived the original. But we mustpass over, for the present, the meritsand errors of Charles, and his ambitiousdesigns upon Italy and the East,to bring upon the scene the last heir ofthe house of Stauffen.

Conrad, known in history by thediminutive of Conradin,[18] was born atLandshut, in Bavaria, on the 25th ofMarch 1252, and was hailed in hiscradle by the high-sounding titles ofking of Jerusalem and Sicily, king ofthe Romans, future emperor, &c. Notone of these imaginary crowns did heever enjoy; even his paternal heritagewas wrested from him whilst yet aninfant; the grandson of Frederick II.knew want and poverty, and wasmore than once indebted to faithfulfriends and adherents for a roof tocover his head. The events of hislife were as remarkable as the yearscomposing it were few. “Born in1252, he died in 1268. The intervalembraces but sixteen years, and yetthat short period is animated by allthe passions, emotions, and tumult ofa virile mind. We find in it, in ahigh degree, ambition, courage, friendship,and, in a more doubtful perspective—love.In reality, Conradin hadno childhood. His life had nothing todo with the laws regulating humangrowth. From the cradle his existencewas one of agitation.”

An anecdote, whose truth modernwriters have contested, but to whichM. de St Priest gives credit, confirms,in conjunction with many other circ*mstances,the child’s extraordinaryprecocity of intelligence and feeling.Considering his mother as widow ofan emperor, although his father hadnever legally borne the imperial title,since he had not been crowned atRome, Conradin treated her with theutmost ceremony and observance ofetiquette. Suddenly, weary of livingin dependence at the court of herbrother, Louis the Severe, Duke ofBavaria, Queen Elizabeth-Margaretmarried Meinhard de Gorice, brotherof the Count de Tirol, and from queenbecame a mere countess.[19] This alliance,unequal but not low, greatlyshocked Conradin: in the words ofa chronicler, he was moved by itbeyond power of expression, andfrom that moment he abstained frompaying his mother the usual honours.She asked him the reason. “Mother,”replied Conradin, “I rendered youthe homage due to an emperor’swidow; now you are married toone less than him, and I, a king andan emperor’s son, can no longer renderyou the honours due to an empress.”He who spoke this was butseven years old, and hence manywriters have treated the words as fiction.But it must be borne in mindthat from his very cradle he had beennourished with the hopes of his party,whose pretensions and dreams of triumphhad been unceasingly instilledinto him. The talk of all around himhad been of sceptres to reconquer, victoriesto win, rebels to chastise; andthe pathetic but deceitful picture of anoppressed people, sighing for his return,had been kept continually beforehis eyes. Every act of his life waspremature. Brought up in a politicalhot-bed, he showed early symptomsof imperfect mental growth, and wascrushed and annihilated by the firststorm. Whilst yet a very young child,he was surrounded by the emptyforms of sovereignty, and made tothink himself both a man and a king.His uncle and stepfather dragged himfrom town to town, dressed in regalrobes, and compelled him to hold provincialdiets. Whilst thus parading,they unscrupulously despoiled him.Before he was ten years old, the Dukeof Bavaria made him sign a will bequeathingto him the whole of his possessions,in case of his death withoutheirs. Even this did not satisfy thegreedy Bavarian, who soon afterwardsextracted from him, by manner ofdonation, some of his richest domains inRhineland and the Palatinate. Theexample found imitators. Princes,bishops, cities, and abbeys fell toothand nail upon the heritage of the unfortunatechild. The bishops of Augsburgand Constance, the counts ofWurtemburg, the burgraves of Nuremberg,the king of Bohemia, andseveral others, shared the spoils.The houses of Austria and Prussiadate their rise from that time—thenucleus of the two monarchies wasformed by fragments of Conradin’sdominions; and the whole of Germanyas it now appears, in its kingdomsand divisions, may be traced back tothe fragments of this total wreck andinfamous spoliation. Thus plundered,nothing remained but to start thevictim on his travels; a royal Quixotein search of a crown. At first heshowed small disposition to such an adventure,and more than one deputationof Ghibellines, and even of Guelfs,departed unsuccessful from before theyoung king’s footstool; until at lastGualvano Lancia, Mainfroy’s relativeand faithful adherent, and Corradoand Marino Capece, presented themselvesat the gate of the ancient castleof Hohenschwangau. Lancia had beenamnestied after the battle of Benevento,at the request of the Pope, butmuch against the will of Charles ofAnjou. He took the oaths to thenew king, but soon afterwards left thekingdom, and now appeared beforeConradin as deputy from the wholebody of Ghibellines, which had reconstituteditself throughout the entirekingdom of the Sicilies, and sent tothe grandson of the Emperor Frederickassurances of its devotion, thepromise of an army, and considerablesums of money. Lancia wasthe bearer of one hundred thousandgold florins. Thus was it, says thechronicler, Saba Malaspina, that thelittle sleeping dog was roused up: “adsuscitandum catulum dormientem.” Inspite of the tears and entreaties of hismother, who had a foreboding of hisfate, and urged him to remain withher, Conradin published a lengthymanifesto, asserting his rights to thecrown of Sicily, put himself at thehead of ten thousand men, hired byGhibelline gold, and entered Italy,full of confidence, hope, and enthusiasm,accompanied by his bosom friend,Frederick, Duke of Austria, son ofthe Margrave of Baden, and followedby the Duke of Bavaria, and by othernobles, who promised him support,but shamefully abandoned him atVerona, upon the most absurd andfrivolous pretexts. The poor boy wasborn to be every body’s dupe. Hebelieved implicitly the hypocriticalprofessions of his treacherous kinsman,made over to him one of the lastshreds of his German possessions, andparted from him with tears in his eyes,remaining alone at Verona, with Frederickof Austria, who was only threeyears his senior, for sole ally—histroops reduced by the defection ofhis uncle and the others to about threethousand men. Instead of marchingat once to Pisa, and taking ship forSicily, whose inhabitants were ripefor insurrection, he sent Corrado Capecethither, and himself lingered twomonths in total inaction. Pisa wasdevoted to the house of Swabia; Capecehad no difficulty in obtaining agalley (Conradin would have founda fleet as easily), and after calling atTunis for the Spanish Infante DonFadrique, with four hundred Spaniardsand Saracens, he landed atSciacca, gained an advantage overthe French, and saw the greater partof Sicily declare for Conradin. Aftera while, Conradin, having raisedmoney from the Ghibelline towns,and recruited his forces, moved forwardto Pavia; whilst Charles ofAnjou, advancing northward to meethis rival, entered Pisa sword in hand,upset its towers and ruined its port.It would lead us too far, and be of nogreat interest, to trace the singularcomplications of Italian affairs at thismoment, and the perplexities of thePope, who was at least as jealous ofthe abode of Charles in Tuscany, asof the feeble attempt of the old Germandynasty to regain its seat uponthe Neapolitan throne. We mustconfine ourselves to the career ofConradin, and follow his fortunes,now drawing to a lamentable close.There was a bright flash, however,before the final setting of his star.He occupied Pisa—still the first portin Italy—in spite of the devastationsof Charles of Anjou; on all sides theGhibelline party raised its head, andhis enterprise assumed a serious aspect.Clement IV. became alarmed, andsent, for the third time, an order toConradin to lay down his arms, andappear in person before the pontificalchair to justify his conduct, underpain of all manner of excommunication.Conradin, who seems to haveinherited a wholesome contempt forthe Pope, replied by despatching afleet of four-and-twenty Pisan galleysto Sicily. This was another blunder.He should have gone himself, withall his forces, and certain successawaited him. Charles of Anjou absent,his troops dispersed and surprised,Sicily was lost to the Frenchdynasty. But Conradin, like a childas he was, thought only of a triumphantmarch on Rome and Naples.For a paltry pageant, he threw awaya kingdom. Whilst his adherentsgained ground in Sicily, Apulia, Calabria,and other provinces, he nullifiedtheir advantages by folly anddelay. His only forced marches wereupon the road to ruin. A successfulbut unimportant ambuscade, in whichfifty of the enemy were cut off, completelyturned his head. The prisonerswere conducted in triumph toSienna; and Conradin and his army,brimful of confidence, scoffing at pontificalanathemas, and followed by acrowd of Ghibellines which every houraugmented, marched upon Rome,taking the longest route by way ofViterbo, in order to show themselvesto Clement IV., then resident in thatcity. They passed under its walls,crowned with verdure and flowers,more like bacchanals and vintagersthan men-at-arms. From the windowof his palace Clement witnessedthe loose array. “Behold!” said he,“the sheep led to the slaughter!”The prelates surrounding him remainedsilent, in respectful doubt.The pontiff, penetrating their thoughts,persisted in his assertion. “Truly,”he said, “in eight days nothing willremain of that army.” His firmvoice, his imposing countenance, hisfervent piety, impressed the hearerswith a conviction that he spoke prophetically.The event justified theprediction, the result of politicalclear-sightedness rather than of divineinspiration.

Conradin’s reception at Rome completedhis intoxication. He wasaccompanied into the city by a chorusof young girls, singing and tambourine-playingin the midst of the soldiers.Magnificently dressed ladiesshowed themselves at the windows ofthe palaces; the people thronged thestreets. Every where he passed undertriumphal arches, hastily raisedin his honour. They consisted ofcords tied across the street, and supporting,instead of the usual garlandsof laurels and flowers, the mostprecious objects the Romans possessed;rich furs and garments,bucklers, rings, bracelets, arms andjewellery of all kinds. Amidst publicacclamations in honour of his courageand beauty, Conradin ascended tothe Capitol, escorted by the mostillustrious Romans of the Imperialparty. What head of sixteen would nothave been turned by such incense! Atlast he quitted Rome at the head offive thousand German and Italian men-at-arms,and of nine hundred Spanishcavaliers; surrounded and pressedon all sides by a clamorous and jubilantmultitude. He had formed a planwhich showed resolution and somemilitary skill. Instead of marchingto Ceprano, the usual route of theconquerors of Naples, and in whichdirection he was persuaded Charles(then besieging Lucera) would advanceto meet him, he conceived thebold project of turning his enemy’sflank by penetrating into the Abruzzi,effecting a junction with the Saracensof Lucera, and thence proceeding toNaples. But Charles was too old asoldier to be easily outwitted. Advisedfrom Rome of Conradin’s departureand route, he abruptly raised thesiege he was engaged in, and marchedday and night to Aquila, the key ofthe Abruzzi. Thence he pushed onto the heights of Androssano, near theruins of the old Roman town of Alba,and appeared before the astoundedConradin, who thus suddenly beheldin his immediate front an enemy hedeemed far in his rear. A day passedwithout blows: Charles made a reconnaissance;Conradin, to frightenhis opponent, to whom the fidelity ofthe inhabitants of Aquila was mostimportant, caused false deputies to beintroduced into his camp, dressed inmunicipal robes, and bearing apparentlythe keys of their town. Informedof this event, Charles felt veryuneasy, but concealed his anxietyfrom all but three knights, with whomhe set out at nightfall and galloped toAquila. He arrived at midnight;the inhabitants were asleep. Hestruck upon the gates of the citadel,and cried with a loud voice, “Forwhom do you hold this fort?” “ForKing Charles,” replied the sentinel.“Then open, for I am the king!”Reassured by the joyful reception hemet, Charles returned to his camp,weary with a ride that had lasted allnight. But he had little time forrepose. Both armies were early afoot:on the one side the flower of Frenchand Provençal chivalry; on the othera medley of Germans, Spaniards, andItalians. The forces were very unequal.Conradin brought 6,000 horsem*ninto the field; Charles only halfthe number. On both sides wereequal fury, hatred, and eagerness tocommence the fray. Charles of Anjou’saudacity and impetuosity mightpossibly have had disastrous results,but for the opportune arrival ofErard de Valéry, constable of Champagne,his earliest friend and companionin arms. “Erard was thenvery old, but still full of vigour. Hiscolossal stature, herculean vigour, andwhite hair gave him resemblance tothe centenary giant of an Arabiantale. Formerly he had refused tobecome a priest, that he might remainin the society of princes and nobleladies. Now, a true Christian soldier,he lived only in God. The old chevalierwas on his way from the HolyLand, returning to France with ahundred good knights in his train.Whilst traversing the kingdom ofNaples, he heard of the king’s presence,and would not proceed withoutvisiting him.” Charles urged him totake part in the approaching fight.Erard refused, alleging his age, hiswish to die in peace far from humanturmoil, and, finally, a vow to fightonly against infidels. Charles overruledall objections, replying to thelast one that his opponents wereexcommunicated, and consequentlyworse than infidels. Then the waryold chief arranged an ambush, whichwould have been utterly unsuccessfulwith an ordinarily prudent foe,but which answered well enough withthe unlucky Conradin, who had noteven made the necessary reconnaissances.Charles, who had great deferencefor the Sire de Valéry, willinglyput himself under his orders, leavinghim the direction of all things. Thearmy was divided into three bodies,of which the strongest, commandedby Charles himself, was placed inambush behind a hill in rear ofthe Neapolitan position. The othertwo, sent forward against Conradin,were beaten and cut to pieces, aftera combat that lasted from sunrise tillsix in the evening. Henry de Cousance,a French marshal, who resembledCharles in stature and appearance,and who, with a purple mantleover his armour and a crown upon hishelm, took post in the centre of thearmy, to personate the king, waskilled early in the action. “MeanwhileCharles of Anjou, in ambuscadewith Erard de Valéry and his eighthundred knights, trembled with rage.Burning with eagerness to strike in,he rode up and down in rear of thehill, like a lion in his cage; he wasdying with impatience and grief,(moriva di dolore, says Villani, vedendola sua gente cosi barattare.)With inflamed eyes, he from time totime looked Valéry in the face, thussilently demanding permission to showhimself and fight. He might haveforeseen the massacre of his twosquadrons. The plan of battle adoptedwas likely to entail this disaster.But what he had not foreseenwas that it would be impossiblefor him to support such asight.” When the gallant Cousancefell, pierced with a thousand blows,and Conradin’s army made the welkinring with exulting shouts of“Victory! the tyrant is dead!”Charles wept with rage. But hispromise to Valéry chained him to hisrock of agony. What follows ishighly romantic and chivalrous. Theknights who surrounded him said,‘So noble a fate is it to die for thejustice of a royal cause, that we wouldinfinitely rejoice thus to lose our lives.Be well assured, sire, that we willfollow you every where, even todeath.’ With feverish impatiencethey waited the signal of Erard deValéry, who remained imperturbable.Suddenly Guillaume de l’Estendard(one of the commanders of the troopsalready engaged) crossed the battle-fieldat speed, feigning to fly, in orderto draw the Spaniards on. Theyfollowed. Then the old knight raisedhis enormous head and gigantic personabove the brow of the little hill,and said to the King, ‘Marchons!’Charles was off like a dart, followed byValéry and the eight hundred chevaliers;they swept across the plain, andfound Conradin, Gualvano Lancia, andFrederick of Austria seated unhelmedand unarmed on the bank of the littleriver Salto, like conquerors reposing;whilst the German mercenaries weredispersed in search of booty, strippingthe dead and loading the spoils oncarts. Charles and his reserve of freshand picked men had a cheap bargainof them, as also of the Spaniards, whowere taken prisoners, on their returnfrom the pursuit of Estendard, almostto a man. A complete victory, alloyedonly by a heavy loss of brave and devotedfollowers, remained to Charlesof Anjou. “Such,” says M. de StPriest, “was the celebrated battle ofAlba, improperly named the battle ofTagliacozzo, after a village more thansix miles from the scene of action. Itis one of those deeds of arms of whichhistory will ever preserve the memory,less on account of the greatness of theresult, than for the dramatic interestattaching to the quarrel and the men.On the one hand we see a young princein the flush of youth and brilliant valour,full of conviction of his good right,the noblest and most unfortunate ofpretenders; on the other, a warriorterrible even to ferocity, but not lessconvinced of the legitimacy of hiscause, one of the greatest princes, and,beyond contradiction, the greatestcaptain of his time.” M. de St Priestproceeds to attribute the chief meritof the victory to his hero. “In thisbloody game at bars, full of snares,traps, surprises, where we see theseterrible condottieri, covered withblood, running after each other likeschoolboys at play, success was dueless to the odd stratagem of Valérythan to the rapid march, the four days’race in the mountains, from Lucera toAquila. If Charles showed himself agreat general, it was less when inambuscade behind the hill of Capello,than when, like a bird of prey hoveringabove the wild Abruzzi, he fellwith a swoop upon the imprudentband, who deemed him astray in thedefiles, lost in the ravines, or fallenamongst precipices.”

Meanwhile Conradin, his army destroyed,his hopes shattered, was afugitive, with scarcely a follower.One or two days he abode in Rome,protected by the Ghibellines; then,driven forth by the return of theGuelfs, consequent on the ruin of hiscause, he fled with Frederick of Austriaand a few Italian nobles, to thesea-coast, near the castle of Astura, afortress of the Frangipani family.Hiring a boat, they set sail for Pisa,but were pursued and overtaken by afast galley, whose commander summonedthem to bring to, and orderedthe passengers to repair to his quarter-deck.Conradin asked in astonishmentwho this man was, and heardin reply that it was Giovanni Frangipani,master of the neighbouringcastle. At this name Conradin wasoverjoyed. “Giovanni is a Roman,”he said; “his family have always beendevoted to the house of Swabia; theyhave been loaded with benefits by theEmperor Frederick; a Frangipaniwill assuredly defend and befriendme.” Full of confidence, he went onboard the galley. “I am King ConradV.,” was his hasty speech to thelord of Astura, “and I have soughtto reconquer the kingdom of my ancestors.”Frangipani made no reply:the prince was astonished at hissilence, asked him to assist his flight,descended at last to entreaties, offered,it is said, to marry his daughter; butthe stern pirate remained mute, andon reaching land, threw the prince andhis companions into a dungeon. Deliveredup to Charles, they were ledto Rome on foot and in chains. “Oh,my mother!” cried Conradin, withbitter tears, “you foretold this, and Iwas deaf to your words. Oh, my mother!what grief for your old age!”He did nothing but sob the whole ofthe road, Saba Malaspina tells us, andseemed half dead, and as if out of hissenses. But this weakness, which, insuch misfortune and in a mere child,was not unnatural, soon gave way totranquil fortitude and Christian resignation.

The ashes of the fires lighted inRome to celebrate Conradin’s triumphantpassage had scarcely cooled,when he re-entered the walls of theEternal City, a fettered captive marchingto his doom. Thence he was takento Naples, where an imposing andnumerous tribunal assembled to judgehim. Many of its members werefor a mild punishment, some fornone at all; others remained silent;one only opined for the death of theaccused. But Charles had determinedon his young rival’s destruction; hethrew his word and influence into thescale, and sentence of decapitationwas pronounced on Conradin of Swabia,Frederick of Baden, known asDuke of Austria, and the barons takenin their company. The two princeshad not expected such severity, andwere playing at chess in their prisonwhen it was announced to them. Theypiously confessed, were absolved bythe Pope, who relented at this extrememoment, and were led to the scaffold,which was covered with a red clothin honour of the victims’ royal blood.The executioner was there, with nakedarms and feet, and axe in hand. Conradinembraced him, having previouslydone the same by his friend Frederickand the other sufferers—then laid hishead upon the block. When the axerose, the French chevaliers who stoodaround the scaffold fell upon theirknees and prayed; and as they did so,the head of Conradin rolled upon thecrimson cloth. At this sight the Dukeof Austria started up as if crazed withdespair; he was seized and executed,uttering horrible cries. This butcheryat last roused the indignation of theFrench knights. Robert de Béthunethrew himself upon the prothonotary,who had read Conradin’s sentence, andwith a blow of his sword cast himdown half dead from his platform.This strange and unreasonable act,proceeding from a generous but savageimpulse, was greatly applauded by thespectators. Even Charles himself wascompelled to feign approval of hisson-in-law’s violence.

No funeral honours were paid toConradin and his companions. Theywere buried secretly in the sand, onthe shore of the sea, at the mouth ofthe river Sebeto. Of their captivity,judgment, and death, M. de St Priestdeclares himself to have given, withthe fidelity of a conscientious historian,an exact and truthful account.At the same time, he subjoins variousdetails that have obtained more orless credence, but which he treats asfables. It has been said, that whenConradin embarked at Astura, he gavea ring in payment of his passage; thatthe boatmen who received the jeweltook it to Frangipani, and that thefugitive was recognised and arrestedupon this romantic indication. Accordingto traditions, the Duke of Austriawas executed the first, and Conradinkissed his head, which, all severed andbleeding as it was, still invoked theHoly Virgin. Robert de Béthunekilled, it has been affirmed, the prothonotaryRobert de Bari, whose signatureis found, however, in manysubsequent acts. And to crown allthese marvels, it has been confidentlyasserted that, after the execution ofthe two princes, a masked strangerstabbed the headsman. Very recentand trustworthy writers have recordedas fact, that Conradin, just before receivingthe fatal blow, threw a gloveamongst the crowd, to be taken toPeter of Arragon, to whom he bequeathedhis vengeance and crown.A German chevalier, Truchsess deWaldburg, (M. de St Priest calls himWaldburg de Truchsess,) gathered upthe gage, and with much risk anddifficulty bore it to its destination.The present historian discredits thewhole of this glove-story—a fiction, hesays, of the invention of SylviusPiccolomini. He is more unwillingto doubt the following touching tradition:—“Oneday the inhabitants ofNaples beheld in their bay a vessel ofstrange form and colour; hull, sails,and rigging were all black. A womanin deep sables left the ship,—itwas Queen Elizabeth-Margaret, Conradin’smother. At the rumour of herson’s captivity she embarked all hertreasures, and, gaining intrepidityfrom her maternal love, this Elizabeth,previously so feeble and fearful thatshe dared not leave her castles inSwabia and the Tyrol, exposed herselfto the perils of the sea, as bearerof her child’s ransom. But it wastoo late. When she reached Naples,Conradin was dead. Then the unhappymother implored a single favour:she desired to erect a monument tohim she wept, on the spot where hehad perished. Charles would notconsent, although he authorised theerection of a church upon the place ofexecution, and contributed a considerablesum towards the work,—an expiatoryoffering which, in conjunction withthe useless ransom, attested at oncethe grief of an inconsolable mother,and the tardy remorse of a pitilessvictor.” The church is to be seen atNaples, upon the square of SantaMaria del Carmine; beneath its altaris the tomb, with its inscription; thestatue of Elizabeth stands there witha purse in its hand. Surely this isconfirmation strong of the truth of thetradition! Unfortunately, church, inscription,and statue are all of a recentdate.

The events just detailed left Charlesof Anjou at the pinnacle of powerand greatness. The magnitude of thedanger he had run added to the lustreof his triumph. Nothing now resistedhim; he might almost be styled themaster of Italy. Every where theGuelfs drove the Ghibellines beforethem; every where the Swabian eaglefled before the red and silver lilies.The cause of the Ghibellines was lost.The fortunate conqueror was on everypoint successful. His domestic prosperitykept pace with his political andmilitary success. Charles, then forty-twoyears old, beheld himself surroundedby a numerous posterity.He had two sons and three daughters.His queen, Beatrix of Provence, wasdead; but soon he contracted a secondmarriage with the young and beautifulMargaret of Burgundy. Natureherself seemed to favour him; for inthe short space of three years, all hisenemies, in any way formidable, disappearedfrom the scene. Amongstothers, the valiant and adventurousCorrado Capece, taken prisoner by theimplacable Guillaume de l’Estendard,had his eyes put out, and was hungupon a gibbet of extraordinary altitude,erected for the purpose upon thecoast of Catania. The Saracens ofLucera still held out. Besieged by apowerful army, with Charles at itshead, they resisted for six months,till reduced to eat hay and roots.The bodies of stragglers from thetown being opened by the besiegers,only grass was found in their bellies.At last they gave in. Charles, witha wise policy, showed them mercy,contenting himself with banishingthem from Lucera, and distributingthem amongst the towns of the interior.Although the piety of the firstFrench king of Sicily was carried almostto an exaggerated extent, it didnot degenerate into fanaticism; atleast not into that fanaticism whichengenders persecution. He neveradopted the prejudices of the timeagainst the Jews; on the contrary,he delivered them from the hands ofstate inquisitors, and suppressed thedistinctive mark they were compelledto wear upon their garments. Financialconsiderations may not improbablyhave stimulated, at least as muchas the dictates of reason and humanity,this enlightened spirit of tolerance;but still it is to the credit ofCharles that he did not, like manyvery Christian kings and nobles of hisand subsequent centuries, smite theIsraelite with one hand whilst strippinghim with the other. The Kingof Jerusalem was merciful to his subjects.Charles it was who first addedthis title to that of King of Sicily, bypurchase from the old Princess Maryof Antioch, who called herself Mademoisellede Jerusalem, and claimedthat crown, then little more than aname. When Charles, for a pensionof four thousand livres tournois, acquiredher rights, he hastened to vindicatethem. They were disputed byHenry, King of Cyprus, who had theadvantage of possession; for he heldPtolemais, the last fragment of thechristian kingdom of Palestine. TheKnights of St John supported him;Venice and the Templars backedKing Charles. The latter carried theday.

Master of southern Italy, armedprotector of the north, Charles I. hadno longer aught to check him; theEast was open before him. Alreadyhe occupied a part of Greece. Allthat mountainous coast of Albania,celebrated in our days for the devotednessof the Suliots, belonged to him bythe death of Helena Comnenus,Mainfroy’s widow, daughter of thedespot of Thessaly and Epirus. Healso held the island of Corfu, thatnatural bridge thrown between Italyand the East. The town of Durazzorevolted in his favour, and called himwithin its walls. He swayed Achaia andthe Morea, and had constituted himselfcandidate for the throne of Constantinopleby marrying his daughter toPhilip de Courtenay, nominal heir tothe Latin Empire, but living in realityon the alms of his father-in-law. Itseemed, then, that he had nothing todo but to bid his fleet sail for Byzantium.But in the midst of his ambitiousprojects he was interrupted bythe new crusade, the last undertaken,got up by Saint Louis, and in whichCharles could not refuse to join. Thedeath of St Louis terminated the expedition;and after dictating terms ofpeace to the sultan of Tunis, in whosedominions the adventurers had landed,their return to Europe, by way ofSicily, was decided upon. It was notconsistent with Charles’s character toforget or abandon an enterprise he hadonce decided upon; and on landing atTrapani, he assembled the council ofcrusading kings and princes, and proposedto them to re-embark for Constantinople.It was a bold andsagacious idea to take advantage ofthis unusual assemblage of navalforces to establish French power inthe East; but Charles, indefatigablehimself, spoke to disheartened anddisgusted men. All refused, andEdward Plantagenet (afterwardsEdward I. of England) rejected withinsulting energy his uncle’s proposition,declaring that he would winterin Sicily, and afterwards return toSyria, which he did, without otherresult than the wound cured by thewell-known trait of conjugal affectionand courage of the virtuous andintrepid Eleanor of Castile. Subsequently,the realisation of Charles’sambitious designs upon the East, longentertained, was continually preventedby one circ*mstance or another, untilat last the affairs of Sicily gave himoccupation at home, effectually precludingaggrandisem*nt abroad. Essentiallya man of war, he nevertheless,in time of peace, showed skill,intelligence, and activity in the administrationof the kingdom of Naples.Had the distant provinces of his dominionsbeen as well governed, M. deSt Priest affirms that the Two Sicilieswould not, during more than twocenturies, have been sundered and atenmity. But Charles abandoned theisland Sicily to his lieutenants. Hepositively disliked and ill-treated it,and determined to dispossess Palermoof its title of capital, in favour of thecity of Naples, of which he was enthusiasticallyfond. Palermo was toodevoted to the house of Swabia; and,moreover, to maintain correspondencewith the north of Italy, with Rome,and especially with France, it suitedCharles far better to fix his headquartersand seat of government atNaples. From the very first moment,he had been greatly struck by theaspect of the latter city. The brightsky and sunny sea and mountainamphitheatre that still charm andfascinate the tourist, had a far strongereffect upon the prince whom conquestrendered their master. He at oncementally fixed upon Naples as hiscapital, and gradually accomplishedhis project—without, however, announcingit by public declaration, andeven continuing to give to Palermothe titles establishing its supremacy.But, whilst retaining the empty nameof superiority, the Sicilian city feltit*elf substantially fallen; and thismay have been a cause, and no slightone, that its inhabitants were the firstto rise in arms against the galling yokeand insolent neglect of their Frenchrulers.

M. de St Priest’s third volumebrings Charles to the zenith of hisfortunes. Invested for life with thehigh dignity of sole Roman senator, hehad the full support and heartyalliance of Martin IV.—a Frenchpope, whose election had been compelledfrom the conclave by theintimidation of the sword. It wasthe first time since Charles hadentered Italy that the pontifical chairhad been occupied by a man on whosedocility he could entirely reckon.Papal mistrust and jealousy had beenthe bane of many of his projects. Allapprehensions from that quarter werenow removed, and, strong in this holyalliance, he again prepared for hiseastern expedition. All was ready;at the head of five thousand men,without counting infantry, and of ahundred and thirty ships, he had onlyto give the order to steer for theBosphorus. But in Sicily, the storm,long brewing, was on the eve ofbursting forth; and the powerfularmament intended for distant conquest,was found insufficient to retainpresent possessions. The decline ofCharles’s life was also that of hispower: his last days were days ofheaviness, disaster, and grief.

People wander into Wales principallyin search of health and amusem*nt; afew for business; manywithout any purpose whatever, exceptthe desire of changing place anddoing something. Any one who findshimself in either of these classes neednot fear being disappointed in theresults of his visit; for there is motionand change enough throughout thecountry; sufficient business to makeit worth the while of those who knowhow to buy and sell; amusem*nt forall who are worth amusing, and healthenough for all the world. Let noman, however, deceive himself withthe vain expectation that he shallhave no ups and downs in his pilgrimagethrough the country; let no onesuppose that it is perpetual sunshinethere; nor let any one fondly thinkthat, because he does himself thehonour of whipping a stream withfly and line, therefore, at every throwa sixpound trout is sure to swallowhis bait. Far otherwise. The touristin Wales must not be a man of manyexpectations, and then he will not bedisappointed; he must be content togo many a weary mile to see somechoice bit of scenery, and then tocome as many or more miles homeagain; he must make up his mind tohave plenty of rain, wind and cold,in the hottest day in summer; andhe may cast his fly all the way upfrom Conwy to Penmachno withouthaving “one single glorious rise.”In fact, he must be a patient reasonableman, and then he may adventurehimself in Taffyland withoutfear.

But if he is an acute observer ofnature—if he loves to see the wildestforms that mountains, and streams,and lakes can assume—if he likes tomake himself a denizen of the clouds,and to hold converse with the childrenof the mist—if he can appreciate primitivenational manners—if he hasever so small a smattering of Englishhistory—if he can listen to simple,plaintive music, and can be content tosee birds, beasts, and fishes all enjoyingthemselves in their original freedom,then let him hasten to the mountainside, wander up the valley, strollalong the river, or dream away hisday by the shingle bank on the seashore; he will never repent of a visitto Wales.

The old road from Chester to Holyheadhas been, and now is more thanever, the main line of entry for Saxonsand other foreigners into the Cimbricland; but there are others quite asgood. From Salop to Bangor byTelford’s Parliamentary road, throughsome of the finest scenery the countryaffords; or from Wrexham byLlangollen’s Vale and Bala’s Lake,athwart the land to Dolgelly; or fromAberystwyth, creeping along the sea-coastby Barmouth and Tremadoc toCaernarvon; or from Liverpool by thefast-going steamers close under Orme’sHead to the Menai Bridge; any ofthese ways is good. The main thingis once to get the foot fairly plantedon Welsh soil; the natural attractionsof the country will be sure to lead thetraveller onward, and can scarcelylead him amiss.

Let no one come into Wales with asuperfluity of luggage; the lighterthe impediments of travelling, thequicker and the cheaper is that travellingperformed. Let no one, unlessabsolutely forced to it, pretend totravel alone; solitude is sweet nodoubt, but Montaigne remarks thatit is still sweeter if there be somebodyto whisper this to; add to whichthat society enlivens the journey, and,as the Scotch song has it,

Seeing too that conveyances are notso plentiful in the principality as theymight be; and that a car or chaisecosts no more for four than it doesfor one; let all those who are wisein their designs of Welsh travel comeby pairs, or double couples. Fouris an excellent number for a travellingparty, since in case of dispute thevotes are either even, or are three toone; four make up a parti carré atdinner; four balance a car well; fourcan split into two parties if need be;and four coming together to an innare sure to fare much better than onesolitary traveller.

Don’t go to Wales in July, the wettestand windiest month of the twelvethat the principality has the honourof knowing. May is a sweet month;the colours of the woods and mountainsgay and delicate, with little rain,and generally as much sun as iswanted. In June, every thing is infull perfection, and there are longdays to boot, and you may then remainout under a rock all night withoutdamage. August corresponds toJune, but the days are shorter, andthe company to be met with is commonlymore select. September is generallythe equivalent of May, butthe colours are glowing with the richtints of autumn; and though the daysare still shorter, yet the sights to beseen in them will make up for thisfalling off. No person goes amongthe mountains in winter, except thosewho cannot help it; yet this is nottheir least advantageous period forbeing witnessed; and those who canbrave frost and snow, and the unchainedforce of all the winds ofheaven, will be repaid for the laboursand discomforts of such a visit.

For those who are fond of the rod,the gun, and the chase, North Walesis a land of choice. Whether theybob for whales in Bardsey Sound,or hunt up the brooks and prattlingstreams of Merionethshire, or seekthe banks of many a glassy mountainpool, they will find enough to repaythem for their trouble. The shooterwill find, from the grouse of Montgomeryshireand Caernarvonshire to thepartridges and the snipes of Anglesey,abundant occupation for his gun. Andthe huntsman, though he cannot gallopover Caddir-Idris, will find manya wily fox more than a match for himand all his dogs, among the desolatecairns of the mountain tops, or mayfind hares as big as sheep, and fleetenough to try the mettle of the besthorse he will dare to ride afterthem.

Whenever a tourist wishes to passhis summer months healthily andagreeably, but is in doubt whither togo, let him start off for Wales—NorthWales—forthwith; and let him notreturn till wood and water, and hilland dale have ceased to call forth hisadmiration.

Do not trust too implicitly to guidebooks,good traveller; take them andconsult them; but beware of theirlying propensities. They have inveigledmany a loving subject of herMajesty’s into a scrape, and haveproved the dearest things he everadmitted into his pocket. Go withyour eyes open; go with a little commonsense; go to be pleased: don’tgo to find fault. Make up your mindto rough it if need be; and don’t giveyourself the airs of my Lord Duke atevery little wayside inn that yourdignity may be forced to put up at.You may then travel smoothly andcheerfully through the Cimbric territory.

Take also this along with you. TheWelsh are tremendously slow coaches.Indolent, pig-headed, and careless,the dolce far niente is their mottothroughout life; and, were they leftto themselves, they would positivelyretrograde through unwillingness togo a-head. It is of no use hurryingthem; a Welshman was never in ahurry in his life; time, like water, is tohim of little value; he has plenty andto spare of it, and the waste of eithercommodity is not thought of. InWales, they let both run away oftento little purpose; they have fewer“water privileges” than any onecould imagine; and they turn theirprivilege of an ad libitum supply ofleisure to very poor account. So donot hurry a Welshman; for you willnot gain any of his time, but willonly lose some of your own, by sodoing.

The true way to enjoy Wales, andto understand the country, is to goand fix your quarters at some quietlittle country inn in a spot to yourtaste; and remain there for a fortnight—amonth—or as long as yourgusto endures; walking up the wholecountry around, until you know everycrook and cranny of it, until it becomesin fact your “ancient neighbourhood.”Many, or rather innumerableare the spots where you mayso fix yourself, and where your enjoyments,though simple, may be extreme.If you are a bachelor, you canget clean beds, sheets of driven snow,plenty of good milk, mountain mutton,and bread and butter à discrétion;and what the deuce does a man wantmore? If he is young, and in goodhealth and spirits, and cannot fareupon this, let him put up his trapsand go to the antipodes. Or, if youare in the softer predicament of havingwith you what, when you and I wereyoung, you know, used to be calledpoetice, the “girl of your heart”—butwhat now in Polichinellic phraseologyis termed the “wife of your bussum”—why,even in this extremity, you mayfind room for two in any inn that youventure to light upon. The ladymust not be too fine in her notions, itis true; she must be of that breedand mettle that will enable her toface the mountain breeze, and wipewith hasty foot—as friend Gray says,—thedews of the upland lawn; tomeet the sun or the moon, or anyother natural phenomenon that is tobe encountered on the hill-side. Inshort, she must be the sort of girl thatcan mount a rough pony, or scrambleover a stone wall, and not care forher bonnet or her locks in a peltingshower, but must be content to followher liege lord, and love him—andlove his pursuits too, whether by thepurling brook, or on the misty height.Be sure of it, my friend, that withsuch a companion as this, Welshscenery—mountain scenery—nay, anyscenery, will have for you a double—ay,a tenfold charm.

Men enjoy mountains: women enjoywaterfalls. There is no saying whyit is; but the fact is positive. Perhapsit may be that men can toil up therugged steep with greater ease, andtherefore enjoy themselves the morewhen they reach the top. Perhaps itis that there is something grand, andbold, and rough, and dangerous, inthe very nature of a mountain, whichthe masculine mind is alone capableof fully understanding. In waterfalls,there is all the beauty of form, andlight and graceful motion, and harmonioussound, and cooling freshness,and ever-changing variety that womanalways loves; and there are overshadowingtrees, and an escape fromthe noontide sun, and the hum ofinsect life, and moss-grown stones,and soft grassy banks. Waterfallsand their adjuncts have a kind ofmystic influence about them that actswith all-persuasive energy on thefemale mind: hearts like stones areworn down by their action, and theswain has often been indebted tothe Naiad for the granting of hisprayer.

Well; wherever you may be,whether single or double, any wherein Wales, the first thing to do is tomake a bargain with your landlady,(Welsh inns are always kept bywomen,) whereby you may be“boarded and lodged and done for”at so much a day, or a week, or amonth, or whatever time it mayplease you to stay. This is the verybest of all plans for “taking yourpleasure in your inn;” you knowthen the exact cost of your stay—theprecise damage done to your pocket;you dine comfortably, without fearingthat you are swallowing a five shillingpiece in the midst of each chop,and you can witness the last day ofyour sojourn arrive without dread ofthat unpleasant winding up—the bill.You may get boarded and lodgedcomfortably, nay luxuriously, as faras mountain luxury goes, for apound a-week: you may take yourfull swing of the house for this; andyour landlady will ask for a repetitionof the honour next year when youdepart. So let no man say that livingin Wales is extravagant; it isonly the savoir vivre that is the scarcecommodity.

And if you would know where togo and find comfortable quarters ofthis kind, and at this rate, then takeour advice, gentle reader, and listento a few experiences. Go to Bala,and fish the lake there till not a troutis left in it, and cut away at minehost’s mutton and beef, when youcome back from your day’s excursion,as though you had not eaten for aweek; and turn in by ten at night,—notlater, mind; and be up again byfive, and out on the mountain side,or amid the woods by six, and homeagain by seven to your morning fare.So shall you have health and happiness,and freedom from ennui thelivelong day.

Or go to Ffestiniog, up among itsmountains, and ramble over to thelakes below Snowdon, and visit thecompany at Beddgelert and Tan-yBwlch—ratheraristocratic places intheir way, and made for travellerswith long purses. At Ffestiniog youare in the neighbourhood of the bestmountain scenery of Wales; and asfor vales and streams, you havesuch as you will never see elsewhere.

Or else go to Bettws-y-Coed nearLlanrwst, the village of the confluenceof so many streams and valleys;that sweet woodland scene, thatchoice land of waterfalls, and sunnyglades, and wood-clad cliffs. Hereyou may have variety of scenery inthe greatest perfection; and here youmay enjoy the happiest admixtureof the wild and the beautiful that theprincipality can boast of. It is indeeda lovely spot; and, providedthe visitor has some intellectual resourcesand amusem*nts within himself,one that the tourist can neverget tired of. It will bear visitingagain and again. Decies repetitaplacebit.

But, dear sir, if you are bent uponmaking the grand tour, and if youpositively will see the whole of thecountry, then by all means start fromChester, and make a continual rounduntil you arrive at Shrewsbury; soshall you see the whole length andbreadth,—the bosom and the verybowels of the land. You must go andsee Conwy, Penmaen Mawr, and “theBridge,” as it is still emphaticallycalled—Telford’s beautiful exemplificationof the catenary curve—andthen go and hunt out Prince Edward’snatal room in Caernarvon’s towers;and then clamber up Snowdon;and then go down again to CapelCurig and Beddgelert, and so pass byPont Aberglaslyn to Tan-y-Bwlch,Ffestiniog and Dolgelly; and thenmount Cadair Idris; and then run upto Bala and Llangollen, and sostretch away to the abode of the“proud Salopians.” And a veryagreeable tour you will have made,no doubt; but you will not knowWales for all that. You have notbeen along the byeways, nor over thedreary heath, nor into the river’sbed, nor under the sea-crag’s height:you will not have seen a tithe of thewonders of the country. You mustsee all these great places of course:but you ought to look after muchmore than this; you must wanderover the broad lands of the Vale ofClwyd, and look up all its gloriouslittle trout streams; you must go tothe solitary heights of CarneddLlewelyn, and the Glidr above NantFrancon; and you must get up toLlyn Idwal, and have nerve enoughto climb over and under the rocks ofthe Twll Du; and you must go tothe very end of Llŷn, or else you willnever know what it is to lie downflat at the edge of the Parwyd precipice,and look down six hundredfeet sheer into the sea, with not ablade of grass nor a stone betweenyou and the deep blue waters freshfrom the Atlantic. And you mustclimb over the bleak Merionethshirehills to seaward, and hunt up thelonely fishing pools that abound intheir recesses; and you must dive intothe green wooded valleys of Montgomeryshire,and learn whence theSevern draws all its peat-brownwaters. There is occupation enoughin this for the longest summer thatever yet shone on Wales; you maystart on your pilgrimage with thefirst green bud of spring, and end itwith the sere and yellow leaf ofautumn: but it is only in such lengthenedand lonely rambles as these thatthe real beauties of the country areto be seen, and that the full lovelinessof nature—unsophisticated nature—isto be perceived.

Take your fishing rod with you,take your sketch book; explore thewhole country; bring it away withyou both in mind and on paper:leave care and trouble behind you;banish all reminiscences of town; goand be a dweller with the birds andthe dumb animals, with the leavesand the stones, with the oak in theforest and the carn on the mountain,and gain thereby a fund of healthand satisfaction, that shall endure formany a long day and year, nor beexhausted even then.

You are too old a traveller, wewill suppose, to need many instructionsas to the general apparatus required;only mind and err rather onthe side of scantiness than otherwise;you can get all you really wantat the first town you come to. Whois the rash man that would risk agood hat or a good coat on a Welshmountain? Alas! he shall soon knowthe end of his gear, and lament overthe loss of his pence. The very ideaof going into cloud-land with anythingon that you care about spoiling, orrather that can by any possibility bespoiled! Is it not your privilege,your aim, your pride, when you getamong the mountains, to be able togo right on end, through stream andbog, over rock and swamp, withoutstopping to think of habilimentaryconsequences? You may tell an oldtraveller by the “cut of his jib;” it isonly your thorough co*ckney thatcomes down in his new green shootingcoat, and his bright shepherd’s plaidtrowsers, just out of the tailor’shands, and a hat with the shine notyet taken out of it. Look at thattall, thin, bony, sinewy man, goingalong the road there with an easygait, neither stiff nor lax, neitherquick nor slow, but always uniform,whether up hill or down hill, or onlevel ground, always at the samepace; his knees never tightened, hisinstep never approaching to a hop;but in all weathers and in all seasons,over rough or smooth, never fallingunder three nor quite coming up tofour miles an hour. And look at hislow-crowned felt hat,—he wears aJim-Crow one, by the way, in veryhot weather,—why, you would notgive it to a pig-driver, so brown andbattered it seems: and look at hisfunny little coat; neither a coat nora jacket,—neither black, nor brown,nor blue, but a mixture of allcolours, just as the rain may havebeen pleased to leave portions of itsdye remaining. And his trowsers,shrunk to mid-leg proportions, arejust covering the tops of his gaiters,yet allowing a bit of his gray worstedsocks to appear. A stout stick whichhe twirls merrily in his hand, and alight leathern wallet, not bigger thanyour letter-bag, thrown over oneshoulder,—or else his fishing-basketcoming snugly under his elbow. Heis the true pedestrian,—he is theancient traveller,—he is the lover ofthe Cymro and the Cymraeg,—he isthe man that enjoys himself thoroughlyin Wales.

Once upon a time, dear friend,we found ourselves coming overMoel Siabod, that wild and beautifulhill rising over the eastern side ofCapel Curig; swinging away in oursimplicity of heart, and purposing toreach the lonely fastness of Dolwyddelanby noon, on a piping hot Julyday. We had crowned the mountainridge, and had come half-way downthe eastern slope, when we foundourselves at the edge of a great peatbog, with never a path, nor a stone,nor any thing to guide us through it.Beyond and below it lay the valleyfor which we were making, green,smiling, and beautiful, as Welshvalleys generally are. Above andbehind us rose the bare crags of themountain, darkening into a purplecrest as their summits reached thefleecy clouds. We had nothing to dobut to adopt the glorious old rule offollowing our nose; and so, withoutfurther ado, we tried to pick our wayacross the bog. We have a reminiscenceof sundry skippings fromtuft to tuft of heather, and of wonderfuldisplays of agility; and at lastwe began to congratulate ourselveson the immense display of juvenilevigour which we were making. Onemore leap on to a fine bright pieceof green grassy sward, and we weresafe. Beyond it lay a ridge of rockand terra firma to carry us onward.One more spring and we shouldhave crossed the bog. So now heregoes for it; three paces backwards, agood swing with the arms,—one, two,three, and away!—plump into thevery middle of the green sward,—andthrough it, down, down, down,until our hat and stick alone remainedaloft! Why, ’twas the most treacherousplace of the whole; a kind ofsyren’s isle that tempted men to destructionby the beauty of outwardform,—though beauty of sound, indeed,there was none. How we gotout has always remained a mystery;but we floundered and tumbled about,and cut more extraordinary figureswith our arms than we had done atany time the last ten days with ourlegs, until at length we seemed tocrawl out like a fly out of a treaclepot, and to attain some drier ground.Our black velvet shooting coat, andour nice white ducks had never madesuch an approximation of colourbefore: we had put on the sad andsober russet brown in which damenature so much delights, and we cameforth from our grassy bed a goodspecimen of the tints of the mountaindye-house. It was enough; our resolutionwas taken:—half an hour’ssharp walking down the descentbrought us to the banks of the Lledr;we were not five minutes in selectinga proper spot; and there we immediatelyconverted ourselves into ourown washerwoman, after the mostprimitive fashion that any antenoachiteever adopted. In anotherhalf hour we were beginning to lookwhitish again; and by the end ofthe sixty minutes we were clad ingarments on the most approved hydropathicprinciples; wet bandages wehad plenty of,—for if any one hadoffered us the wealth of India, wecould not at that moment have produceda single dry thread on ourbody. But here our pedestrian resourcesagain came to our aid; thesun shone more bright than ever;we were in the bottom of the valley:the heat was intense. The villagewas still four miles off, and bythe time we arrived abreast of thewelcome notification of “Cwrw dda,”we were dried, ironed, mangled, folded,and plaited, more commodiously,(though less uniformly,) than everour buxom little laundress couldhave done for us.

Once and again we got into abrown predicament in Wales, not soeasily got rid of, nor leaving so fewdisagreeable reminiscences. You willexcuse us for mentioning it, if youplease; but our tableau de mœurswould not be complete without it.And here we beg leave to give noticethat fastidious readers may at onceclose their eyes and read no more, orelse skip over this page and tryanother. If they become offended,‘twill be their own fault; what businesshave they to be prying into oursecrets?

Once upon a time we did a rashthing: we made up our mind—andalso our knapsack—to go to BardseyIsland. Now, ’tis a hundred to onethat you never heard of BardseyIsland; and that, though your carefulparents may have paid many aguinea per quarter for you, while atschool, to learn Geography and theuse of the Globes, you never yet werequestioned by your usher as to whereBardsey Island was, nor what sort ofa place it might be. Know, then,that it lies, a solitary green isle, somethree miles or so from the extremesouth-western point of Caernarvonshire,—asort of avant-poste to Wales,like the Scilly Isles to Cornwall. Onit live some five-score of inhabitants,real natives, supporting themselveson oysters and lobsters, and othermarine monsters. An occasionaldog-fish is there reckoned a luxury.’Tis a vastly curious place,—theoddest kinds of sea-birds to be foundthere of any spot under the sun,—atleast in these latitudes; the rarestshells; the most unique sea-weeds;the greatest pets of periwinkles;and such loves of limpets! We wereoff, then, for Bardsey:—do not gothere, dear reader—take our warningby the way, and remain rather athome. We got to a place with a mostout-of-the-way name—Pwllheli; asort of ne plus ultra of stupidity anddulness; and from thence we madeour way in a car to one of more euphoniousdenomination, Aberdaron. Thiswas really a lovely spot, embosomedin a deep valley, at the corner of aromantic bay, with an expanse ofsnow-white sand, sufficient to accommodateall the bathers in England,—thesea of as deep a blue as at Madeira,and rocks like those of Land’s End,with the eternal spray of the oceanplaying over them. A picturesqueold church, partly converted into aschool, partly into a pigeon-house—andthe main entry to which was byone of the windows, stands at oneend of the village with a miserablepot-house at the other. There is astream and a bridge for loungers tolean and spit over; but other amusem*ntin the place is none. As forpublic accommodation, it has not yetbeen thought of; strangers do notcome there. None but the adjoiningboors come thither to sot and gossip;—andas for our dear mellifluousAnglo-Saxon tongue, ’tis a thingnever heard of. On arriving thereand exploring the localities, andarranging for a boat to Bardsey nextmorning, we began to think about abed, and soon perceived, on reflection,the total absence of any suitableaccommodation within the limits ofthe village. But mark you the excellenceof Welsh hospitality. Thegrocer of the place, the man of “theshop” par excellence, hearing of, orrather seeing us in a quandary, sentus his compliments, with a polite requestthat we would take up ourquarters under his roof for the night.This was genuine hospitality; wehesitated not; and a better turn outin the way of feeding we have notoften met with. Broiled steaks ofsalmon, fresh caught in the adjoiningstream, fowls, and a good slice ofCheshire cheese, soon set our gastronomiccapabilities at ease. Porter—someof Guinness’s best—and aglorious jorum of whisky and water,moistened our clay, and comfortedour inward man. None of yourwishy-washy whisky, or poor palelimpid compound, such as you buyin London; but some of the realpotheen, just arrived from Wicklow—thick,yellow, oily, and slow tocome out of its narrow-necked bottle.And then such a bouquet!—none buta genuine smuggler ever tasted thelike. ’Twas a thing to be tasted, notdescribed,—the real nectar of theDruids—if not of the Gods. Beingsomewhat fortified by these stout appliances,and having discussed half-a-dozenof Pontet’s best Havannahs,we mounted the rickety stairs thatled through the lofts of our host’sdwelling to a goodly dormitory atthe further end. And here the worthyman had really set out for us hisbest bed: all the little china and plasterimages were ranged in prime order onthe mantel-piece; and pictures of theQueen of Sheba and the ProdigalSon adorned the walls with unfadingbrilliancy. The bed looked as cleanas ever we saw a bed in our lives; therewas an odour of lavender about theroom, and we were soon between thesheets, lost in dreamy oblivion.

We awoke: ’twas a lovely morning,with the earliest sun shiningbrightly in through the lattice; andwe thought in our emotion to springout of bed. Off went the bed-clothesat a bound, and we sat erect!—buthow shall we describe our horror?We had gone to bed more or lesswhite—more or less European in thetinge of our skin: we awoke of a glaringred, or, where the crimson dyewas less vivid, we bore a mottled appearance,like a speckled toad. And,as Gulliver once lay among the Lilliputians,who ran from him, on hisstirring, in frightened thousands, sothere were now our accursed nightvisitants scampering away from us inevery direction, possible and impossible,by thousands—nay, by myriads.The bed was literally brown withthem; and ever, as we moved a limb,fresh gangs of latent devourers fledfrom beneath, and scoured across thesheets. They had lost the supernaturalform our dreams had giventhem, and assumed the more homelyone of ordinary fleas—of fleas of allsizes from a pea to a pin’s head! OldNereus gave us some relief, for werushed into his arms as soon asdoors could be opened, and boltsforced out of their sockets; but, formany a long day after, we bore aboutus a vivid impression of our visitantsat Aberdaron.

Do not, therefore, venture to sleepin a Welsh cottage; nor scarcely ina farm-house: trust yourself only toan inn,—your chances of soundrest and an untenanted bed are atleast more favourable there;—but ifever you are benighted and forced toremain away from headquarters,make up your mind fairly to bivouacit amid the fern and the heather,or else sit up at your vigils by yourhost’s fire-side. The chirping cricketand the purring cat shall then beyour sole companions.

We might detain you till doomsdaywith these “incidents of travel;” butwe shall leave you to make your ownexperiments;—yet, ere you ventureinto the wilds of Taffyland, peruseand carry with you for your use andedification the following:—

TRIADS FOR TRAVELLERS.

Three mountains that every bodygoes up: Snowdon, Cadair Idris, andPenmaen Mawr.

Three mountains that nobody willrepent going up: Holyhead Mountain,Carn Madryn, and the Breiddin.

Three mountains that nobody goesup: Plinlimmon, Arrenig, and CarneddLlewelyn.

Three castles that every body sees:Caernarvon, Conwy, and Harlech.

Three castles that every body oughtto see: Beaumarais, Criccaeth, andDenbigh.

Three castles that nobody sees:Flint, Dolwyddelan, and CastellPrysor.

Three wells that every body shouldgo and drink from: Holywell, Wygfair,and Ffynnon Beuno.

The three great waterfalls of Caernarvonshire:Rhaiadr-y-Wenol, theFalls of the Conwy, and the Falls ofthe Ogwen.

The three great waterfalls of Merionethshire:Pistill-y-Cain, Rhaiadr-y-Mawddach,and Rhaiadr ddu.

The three grandest scenes in Wales:Llyn Idwal, Y-Glas Llyn, and Pen-y-Cil.

The three sweetest scenes in NorthWales: Beddgelert, Tan-y-Bwlch,and the Banks of the Menai.

The three beautiful lakes: LlynGwynant, Llyn Peris, and LlynTegid.

Three vales that every body oughtto see: the Vale of Ffestiniog, theVale of Llanrwst, and the Vale ofDolgelly.

The three rich vales: the Vale ofthe Clwyd, the Vale of the Dee, andthe Vale of the Severn.

Three passes that every body oughtto go through: the Pass of Llanberis,the Pass of Pont Aberglaslyn,and the Pass of Nantfrancon.

Three good pools for anglers: LlynTegid, Lyn Ogwen, and Llyn Cwlid.

Three good rivers for fishermen:the Dee, the Conwy, and the Vyrniw.

The three finest abbeys of NorthWales: Valle Crucis, Cymmer, andBasingwerk.

The three finest churches in NorthWales: Wrexham, Gresford, andMold.

The three bridges of North Wales:Conwy Bridge, Menai Bridge, andLlanrwst Bridge.

Three out-of-the-way places thatpeople should go to: Aberdaron,Amlwch, and Dinas Mowddwy.

Three islands that are worth visiting;Puffin Island, Bardsey Island,and the South Stack.

Three places that no man dares goto the end of; Twll Du in the Llidr,Cilan Point in Llyn, and Sarn Badricoff Barmouth.

Three things that nobody knowsthe end of; a Welchman’s pedigree,a Welchwoman’s tongue, and thelandlord’s bill at ——.

Three things, without which nopedestrian should adventure intoWales; a stout pair of shoes, a lightwallet, and a waterproof cape. (Somelearned travellers have proposed tosubstitute “stick” for “wallet” inthis Triad, but the fact is that, whenyou go to Wales, you may cut yourstick.)

The three companions of the Welshtourist; a telescope, a sketch book,and a fishing rod.

The three luxuries of travelling inWales; a stout pony, a pleasant companion,and plenty of money.

Three things which, who evervisits Wales, is sure to take awaywith him; worn-out shoes, a shockingbad hat, and a delightful recollection ofthe country.

Three things without which no mancan enjoy travelling in Wales; goodhealth, good spirits, and good humour.

The three nastiest things in Wales;buttermilk, cwrw dda, and bacon andeggs.

Three things that the tourist should.not do; travel in the dark—wait indoors because it may be a rainy day—andtry and keep his feet dry.

The three qualifications for properlypronouncing the Welsh language;a cold in the head, a knot inthe tongue, and a husk of barley inthe throat.

The three languages which a manmay speak in Wales when he doesnot know Welsh: that of the Chinese,that of the Cherokees, and thatof the Houhnyhms.

The three languages which willcarry a man all over Wales withoutknowing a word of Welsh; that ofthe arms, that of the eyes, and thatof the pocket—Farewell! dear reader,nos-dda-wch!

The Law of England forms themost remarkable characteristic of thecountry. The Law is the spirit of thenational liberty, the guardian of thenational religion, and the foundationof the national government. Britainhas the proud distinction of beingalmost the only country on earth,where no act of arbitrary power canbe suffered—where no man’s person,property, or conscience, can be subjectedto insult with impunity—andwhere every man has rights, and allare alike under the safeguard of Law.

We propose to give a rapid sketchof the history of this great principlein England.

It is singular that the most intellectualnation of the ancient world—Greece—hasnot left us any systemof law. Cicero speaks with professionalscorn of all jurisprudence exceptthe Roman. He would not havespoken thus of the Mosaic law, if hehad known it. But one of the mostextraordinary circ*mstances of theHebrew commonwealth, is the generalignorance of its incomparable institutions,which prevailed among themost active inquirers of the northernworld. But law existed from theearliest periods in Greece, though itsname was often and curiously changed.In the time of Homer, the nameof law was Themis, or establishment.In the time of Hesiod, the name wasNomos, or distribution. In aftertimes, it was Dikè, or justice. Thecause of the Greek want of system wassaid to be the number of judges intheir courts, which rendered the decisionrather matter of popular sentimentthan of fixed rule.

The systematic nature of the Romanlaw arose from there being in generalbut one judge in each court. Thetwo prætors—the one for the city,and the other for the external jurisdiction—wereannually appointed,and were accustomed, on entering ontheir offices, to state the rules onwhich they intended to act. Thoserules became gradually embodied, andfinally formed the groundwork of theRoman law.

In the language of Rome, Law wasLex, from Lego, as the proposal of therule was read by the magistrate tothe assembly of the people. TheAnglo-Saxon name was Laga, fromLegen, to lay down—from whichcomes our word Law.

Law in England ascends as highas the time of the Druids, who, however,had no written code. But theyseem to have left us the custom ofGavelkind—the division of the propertyof an intestate between thewidow and the children, and theburning of a widow found guilty ofher husband’s murder.

The Roman, Pictish, and Saxoninvasions, with the Heptarchy, filledthe country with a general confusionof laws, until the time of Alfred.This great king and man of geniusundertook to remodel the whole constitutionof the West-Saxon monarchy—adesign, for whose executionhe has been praised by all the philosophiclawyers, as exhibiting thehighest sagacity.

The principle of his reform was, tomake every man answerable to animmediate superior for his personalconduct, and that of his neighbourhood.For this purpose, Englandwas divided into tithings and hundreds,and perhaps into counties, allbeing under a supreme magistrate—theking. He also collected into avolume all the customs of the variousdistricts, which he issued for theguidance of the several country courts.Those in their turn were liable toaccount to the king’s courts, whichwere kept in the royal household, andwhich travelled with this great king,whose life seems to have been chieflyoccupied in traversing the kingdom ashigh minister of law, and teaching itsprinciples to his people.

The Danish invasions shook thiscode, but had not the power to crush*t. It was renewed by King Edgar,a man of vigour and talents. Thedigest was completed by his grandson,Edward the Confessor—thewhole forming the common law, orlaw common to the whole realm.

The principles of the Saxon law,which were the principles of theirfathers in the German forests, andwere the principles of truth and nature,were briefly these:—The establishmentof the Wittena-gemote, orassembly of wise men—a species ofparliament, without which no newlaw could be made, or old onechanged; the election of all magistratesby the people; the hereditarydescent of the crown; the commutationof capital punishments, on thefirst offence, for a fine; military servicein proportion to land; forfeitureof land for treason, but not corruptionof blood; the descent of lands to allthe male’s equally, without right ofprimogeniture, (a rule unworthy ofSaxon wisdom;) the use of countycourts in ordinary cases, with courtsheld before the king in the higher;last, and most important of all, trialby jury (though trial was also held byordeal.)

Of those principles, some wereevidently unfit for subsequent civilisation;and some refined themselves.But the whole system, when comparedwith the old Roman code, and withmany of the codes of Europe whichfollowed it, exhibits an extraordinaryevidence of the manliness of feeling,and justness of conception, existingamong the Saxon ancestry of England.

In the eleventh century, the NormanConquest burst in upon thecountry with the force of an inundation,and swept before it throne,liberty, and laws. The influence ofRome now began to act powerfullyon the people. Ecclesiastical courtswere formed, separate from the civil,and the Romish priesthood weregradually exempted from the secularpower.

Another formidable innovation wasin the “royal forests.” The Normankings were “mighty hunters,” andwhole counties were stripped of theirpopulation, to give room for beastsof chase. They transplanted theforest laws of the Continent intoEngland, and the penalties of theirgame laws were terrible. In theSaxon times, though no man wasallowed “to kill the king’s deer,”yet every man was allowed to kill thegame on his own estate. But theNorman law made the king theproprietor of all game, and no mancould kill bird of the air, or beastof the field, without express royallicense, by a grant of free-warren,which was more for the purpose ofpreserving the game than giving aright to the subject.

With one exception, the Normaninvasion was an unequivocal calamity.That exception was the right of primogeniture—aright essential to theestablishment of a nobility, to thepermanence of families in a conditionof honour, and to the prevention of agradual pauperism and degradation ofsociety, as the lands became dividedmore and more. In all others, it wasa sudden and mischievous extinctionof all popular rights, and of all theprinciples of national progress. Itmade law arbitrary by curtailing thepower of the county courts, andgiving it to the king’s Normanjusticiers, who thus became mastersof every thing, and, by their Normansubtleties, altogether confused thenational law. It introduced thefeudal law, which was tyrannical inits essence. It almost excluded thenational language from all public use,Norman-French alone being used inall the courts. It introduced the trialby combat, the origin of that customwhich, under the name of duelling,authorises murder, provided themurdered man has previously hadformal notice that his murder wasintended; and also, that he had achance of adding the murder of hisadversary to his own. And to thisNorman tyranny was due the wholelong series of ruinous wars, whichinvolved both England and Francein infinite wretchedness, for little lessthan a hundred and fifty years.

The Saxon law continued in thisstate of humiliation until the reignof John, with slight occasional advancestowards freedom. But, inthis reign, the severity of the forestlaws roused the barons into insurrection,and the King was forced to signthe two famous regulations, the ForestCharter, and the Great Charter. Theformer diminished some of the crueltiesof the forest law, and the latterlaid the foundations of the Constitution,by restoring the general principlesof the Saxon law. It protectedthe subject from the severity ofroyal fines and royal loans, and considerablynarrowed the wasteful expenditureof the throne. In privaterights, it established the testamentarypower of the husband over part ofhis estates, and the law of dowery.In public police, it established a uniformityof weights and measures, gaveprotection to commercial strangers,and forbade the alienation of lands bymortmain. In matters of public justice,it forbade all denials and delaysof justice, established the court ofCommon Pleas at Westminster, torelieve the suitor from following thecourts round the country; directedassizes and annual circuits to beheld, and appointed inquests. Itestablished the liberties of London,and of all the cities, towns, and portsof England. And finally, and by itsnoblest act of power, it declared theprotection of every man in his life,liberty, and property, unless convictedby the judgment of his peers,or the law of the land. This wasperhaps the noblest document everpublished by a people, and well deservesits name of Magna Charta.

In the Popish controversy of ourday, the existence of Magna Chartahas been adduced as a proof of thefreedom encouraged under Popery.But it is forgotten that the wholeproceeding was instantly denouncedby the Pope, and laid under anathema.It was a recurrence to the laws oftheir Saxon ancestors, demanded bythe severe necessities of the time, andoriginating in impulses of humannature too strong for the bondage ofthe national superstition.

The glorious Reformation in thesixteenth century produced a hiddenand powerful change in the aspect ofEnglish law. The Papal supremacyfell, and relieved the law of a mostintolerable obstruction. The crownbecame the true head of the government.Man no longer gave a dividedallegiance to an English monarch andan Italian monk; and the appointmentof the bishops was thenceforthtaken from foreign hands, and investedin the sovereign of the realm. Freedomnow began to make palpableprogress; for although the prerogativewas still unabated, and was oftentyrannical in the reigns of Henry,Mary, and Elizabeth, there was agrowing tendency to its abatement;and its use by Elizabeth was ingeneral so lenient, as to be scarcelyperceptible.

A general change in English societyalso powerfully co-operated with thisprogress. Peace had brought commerce,and commerce wealth to themerchant: the lower orders, of course,shared in the general prosperity, andtheir condition became more importantin the national eyes, and in theirown. The nobles, disdaining commerce,became unable to competewith the new generation of opulence,and dissipated their estates, whichfell into the hands of the citizens.On the other hand, the throne, enrichedby the confiscation of the monasteries,became hourly more independent ofthe barons; and the contest for powerwas evidently to be thenceforth determinedbetween the throne and thepeople.

The glories of Elizabeth, her servicesto religion, and her gentleexercise of the sceptre, had reconciledthe nation to the prerogative. Butthe accession of James awoke thenation: his manners were offensive,his habits were unmanly, he wantedthe dignity of Elizabeth on the throne,and he wanted the spirit of hergovernment among the people. Hisdeath left a legacy of revolution. Hisson had been intended by nature forprivate life, but he was marked bymisfortune to be a king. Bravewithout fortitude, and graceful withoutsincerity, he would have made anincomparable figure in his own court,if he had not been encumbered withthe high duties of a throne. Charleswas destined to be undone, from thetime when he began to revive theobsolete statutes of the forest law,sustain the severities of the StarChamber and High Commission courts,and raise arbitrary taxes in the shapeof tonnage and poundage. The disuseof parliaments alienated from himevery lover of liberty. Hampden, aname deserving of all honour in thehistory of freedom, struck the firstblow at the new fabric of tyranny, byhis resistance to ship-money. TheKing himself hurried on his ruin, byconcessions as precipitate as hisdemands had been unjustifiable; andthis most melancholy of all strugglesended in the most melancholyof all consummations—a militarytyranny.

The restoration of the Stuarts gaveus the Habeas Corpus Act—an illustriousmemorial of national goodsense, and of national security.Magna Charta had gone no furtherthan to forbid imprisonment, contraryto law. The Habeas Corpus gavethe man power to release himself, andpunish his injurers.

The glorious Revolution of 1688gave another impulse to the wholesystem of English liberty. It pronouncedthe authority of law to besupreme. It gave us the Bill ofRights, the Toleration Act, and theAct of Settlement. It justified thedoctrine of necessary resistance; itregulated trials for high treason; itmodelled the Civil List; it made theadministration of the income accountableto parliament; and constitutedthe judges independent of the throne.

The constitution was now complete,or if not, all the improvements stillnecessary to make it such, were preparedin the nature of the noble planwhich was thus laid down by thenation. The changes which have sinceoccurred in the general law have beenscarcely more than attempts to simplifyits proceedings. The changesin parliamentary law have been moreperilous, through the Reform Bill of1831 following the Popish Bill of1829. The change in internationallaw has been marked by a featurewhose peril seems too imminent, yetwhose practical effect is still to be ascertained,—theestablishment of directdiplomatic intercourse with the Popedom.Protestantism is justly alarmedat this sudden abandonment of one ofthe fundamental principles of 1688;at the direct encouragement which itmust give to all the demands ofPopery in England; at the triumphwhich, for the first time in two centuries,it gives to the factious spiritof Popery; at the aid which it maygive to its superstition; and at thenational hazards which may be involvedin the rash attempt to subdueIrish violence by Papal instrumentality,and even at the political perilswhich may result from the authorisedpresence of a Popish Italian at thecourt of a Protestant sovereign. Thepalliatives of the measure are certainlytrifling. The ambassador isnot to be an ecclesiastic, and thePope is not to be called the “sovereignpontiff.” But a Jesuit maybe the same in a plain coat and in ared hat, and the Pope is the master ofthe Papist, call him by what name wewill. Such is statesmanship in thenineteenth century!

The Lord Chancellor Hardwickewas the son of a country attorney,who was probably a respectable man——forhe was needy, though the town-clerk,and seems to have had somefriends, though in the profession ofthe law. The biographer labourshard to prove that he had ancestors—amatter which may be conceded to allmen—and that, if some of them werepoor, some were rich; a point perfectlywithin the possibilities of humanthings. He contends further, that abranch of the name of Yorke had heldthe mayoralty of Calais in the fifteenthcentury. But as he gives us noknowledge of the distance of thatbranch from the trunk, and as allhave had kings as well as beggarsamong their progenitors, being thecommon descendants of Adam, thereis not much use in those discoveries,and not the slightest balm to the hurtpride of the Hardwickes; for the wholedwindles down to the distressful butcommon conclusion, that in the seventeenthcentury the family were onthe decline, and all their honourswere diminished into the humility of aprovincial solicitor.

But we come to wiser information.The first mention of the future chancelloris in the following document inhis personal journal:—

“Philip Yorke, born at Dover the1st day of December 1690, and baptisedon Thursday 9th of December.”

The learned biographer wastes somemore of his paragraphs in proving“that poverty is no disgrace;” butit must be acknowledged that it isneither comfort nor credit, and thatit would have done no harm whateverto the attorney, if he had been in possessionof a clear thousand a-year.

His son Philip was naturally intendedto follow his own profession,and about his sixteenth year was sentto learn it in the office of a solicitorof the name of Salkeld, brother of thecelebrated sergeant. It was a rathercurious circ*mstance, that of the youngmen then in Salkeld’s office, therewere two future Lord Chancellors, aMaster of the Rolls, and a future LordChief Baron: Jocelyn, subsequentlyChancellor of Ireland; Strange, Masterof the Rolls; Parker, Chief of theExchequer; and Yorke, who wasdestined to act as high a part in administrationas in law.

There are some slight suspicionsthat young Yorke had been articledto Salkeld, and a clerk to his brotherthe sergeant. But against these imputationsthe biographer battles witha desperate fidelity. It is a pity tosee so much zeal thrown away;for the Great Chancellor, as he wasdeservedly called, would not havebeen an atom the less great if he hadbeen articled to the one brother andclerk to the other. He might havebeen only the more entitled to praisefor the eminence to which he rose.We respect the aristocracy so far asit ought to be respected; but we arenot at all inclined to look for thepedigree of talents in the dusty recordsof a worn-out genealogy, or feelthat the slightest degree of additionalhonour attaches to learning and integrity,by the best blazonry of theHerald’s Office.

The young student must have soongiven evidence of his capacity; forSalkeld, a man sagacious in his estimateof his pupils, recommended thathe should try the larger branch ofthe profession, and put his name onthe books of the Temple, which wasdone Nov. 29, 1708. We have thena dissertation on the propriety ofkeeping Terms by dining in the hallof the Temple. This, too, is so muchwisdom thrown away. A good dinneris, under all circ*mstances, a goodthing. It requires as little apologyas any conceivable act of human existence.In the hall, the young barristeris at least in the company ofgentlemen, which he perhaps wouldnot be, but for that contingency; ifhe does not learn much law, he atleast learns something of life; and ifhe has a spark of ambition in hisframe, it may be blown into a flameby the sight of so many portly ChiefJustices, and Lord Chief Barons,with an occasional glimpse of a retiredLord Chancellor, reposing on a sinecureof £5000 a-year.

Another weakness of the biographeris an eloquent effort to prove that abarrister, whose talents raise him tothe summit of his profession, is butlittle the worse for the want of auniversity education. It would havebeen quite sufficient to say, thatPhilip Yorke rose to be the firstlawyer of his age, and Lord Chancellor,without having ever set foot withinthe walls of a college.

Yorke, at the commencement ofhis career, was fortunate in an introductionthrough Parker, one of hisfellow-students at Salkeld’s, to LordMacclesfield, Lord Chief Justice, towhose son it is said that he was engagedas law-tutor. The Chief Justicereceived him at his table, took anevident interest in his progress, andpatronised him on every importantoccasion. Yorke’s manners were asgentle as his intellect was acute; andsuch a man would naturally be receivedwith favour at the table of aperson so high in rank as LordMacclesfield. But it has never beensaid that he humiliated himself forthat honour; and through life he hada quiet way of gaining his point, ofwhich a curious instance was given inhis earliest days.

The wife of Salkeld was a thriftypersonage, who, evidently thinkingthat her husband’s pupils might beemployed in other operations thanscribbling parchments, occasionallysent him on her messages, and evento execute some of her commissionsin Covent Garden Market. Yorkeobeyed, but on giving in the accountof his expenditure on those occasions,there appeared frequent entries ofcoach hire, for “celery and turnipsfrom Covent Garden,” a “barrel ofoysters from the fishmonger’s,” &c.&c. Salkeld, perceiving this, remarkedto his wife on the expensivenature of this “saving,” and Yorkewas no longer employed as her conveyancerof celery and turnips.

He had also some pleasantry aswell as point, of which an anecdotewas told by the late Jeremy Bentham.Powis, one of the judges of the King’sBench, one day at a lawyers’ dinnerexpressed to Yorke his “surprise” athis having got into so much businessin so short a period. “I conceive,”said the old fool, “that you musthave published some book, or beabout publishing something; for look,d’ye see? (which seems to have been afavourite phrase of his,) there isscarcely a cause before the court butyou are employed in it.” Yorkeanswered with a smile, “that he hadindeed some thoughts of publishing,but that he had yet made no progressin his book. Powis, priding himselfon his sagacity, begged to know itsnature. He was answered that itwas a “Versification of co*ke uponLittleton.” The judge begged aspecimen, on which Yorke recited—

It may fairly be presumed that alaugh went round the table; butPowis was so fully convinced that hehad hit upon the true reason, that onmeeting Yorke some months after, heinquired gravely about the progressof his volume.

However, Powis seems to havebeen a mark for the wits, as we findby some lines on the Bench, by thememorable Duke of Wharton:—

Yorke was now beginning to feelhis way in his profession; and ifpoverty had been his original stimulus,he had a fair prospect of exchangingit for wealth. The dictum ofThurlow on this subject is proverbial.When asked by some friend to advisehis son as to “the way he should go”to rise at the bar, that rough functionarysaid, “Let him spend all hisfortune—then marry, and spend hiswife’s fortune; and then let him returnto his books, and he may havesome chance of business.”

But Yorke, without spending eitherhis or his wife’s fortune, had alreadytaken the first step to official distinctionby entering Parliament, May2, 1719. He was chosen member forLewes in Sussex. The simplicity ofthis transaction affords a curious contrastto the performances of the presentday. The Duke of Newcastlesent a letter to the “free and independentelectors,” evidently directingthem to elect his friend Mr Yorke.The letter was duly answered by anaddress from one hundred and thirty-twoelectors, in this style:—

“We, whose names are hereuntosubscribed, the constables and inhabitantsof the borough of Lewes, havingheard your Grace’s letter publiclyread, do not only herein return yourGrace our hearty thanks for thehonour you have done us in recommendingso fit a person as Mr Yorke,to serve as one of our representativesin parliament for this town, forthe present vacancy, but also begleave to assure your Grace, that wedo unanimously and entirely approveof him, and shall be ready on all occasionsto show the regard we haveto the favour your Grace has pleasedto lay upon us.

The orthography of those honestpeople differs from modern penmanship,—butthe principle of the affair,even in our polished day of liberalism,probably differs no more than a closeborough of the year 1719 differs froman open borough of 1848. The successfulbarrister, and promising memberof parliament, now made the mostimportant step which any man canmake, and took to himself a wife.It would be unfair to say that in thisinstance he was guided by the calculationswhich are so often chargedupon his profession. But there canbe no doubt, that whatever might bethe pleasure of his new connexion, ithad all the merit of prudence. Thelady was a widow, young and pretty,and with a fortune of £6000, whichat that time was probably equal totwice the sum in our day. But probablya charm of no inferior importancewas her being the niece of SirJoseph Jekyll, Master of the Rolls.The whole transaction was sufficientlyjuridical. Sir Joseph had senta letter with Yorke, to be presentedto Mr Charles Cox, the father of thelady, who had married Mary, theeldest daughter of Lord Somers. Onreading the letter, the old gentlemandesired Yorke to “leave his rentaland writings” with him; and uponYorke’s acknowledging that he hadneither, Cox expressed his astonishmentthat his brother-in-law, SirJoseph, “should have recommendedsuch a person to him.” On writingto Sir Joseph on the subject, he receivedan answer, “not to hesitate amoment in accepting the offer, forthat the gentleman who made it, andwas now content with his daughter’s£6000, would in another year expectthree or four times the sum with a wife!”The letter had its effect, and the marriagetook place.

Yorke then took a house in Lincoln’sInn Fields, and began to gocircuit; there his biographer stoutlyand justly defends him against theimputation of “intriguing for business,”alleged in Lord Campbell’s“Lives of the Chancellors;” an imputationwhich has not been sustainedby any part of his subsequent conduct.For, though charged withsingular anxiety to realise a fortune,there is no evidence of any meannessin its pursuit. And his professionaldistinction, his natural talent,and his rank as a member of parliament,(a matter of high considerationin those days) rendered his possessionof business natural and easy.

But he was soon to have officialdistinction. When going the WesternCircuit, he received a letter from theLord Chancellor, announcing to him“his Majesty’s pleasure to selecthim for Solicitor General;” an officeinto which he was sworn in March1720, at the age of thirty!

Much professional dissatisfactionwas exhibited on this promotion ofso young a member of the bar; andfor some period the attorneys exhibitedan equal reluctance to employhim in important causes. But, as aleader, he soon showed qualities whichhad been partially concealed in his inferiorrank, and reconciled at once thepublic and the profession to his precedency.It has been remarked, thatsome of the most distinguished judgeshave not been successful in the lowerrank of their profession, while it hasnot rarely happened that the mostdistinguished advocates have failed asjudges. The qualifications for thebench, and those for the bar, or evenfor the leadership of the bar, have considerabledifferences, and the managementof the great principles oflaw is evidently a separate task fromthe dexterity of detail.

The father of the Solicitor General,who had the happiness to see hisson’s promotion, died in the followingyear. It appears that Yorke,who was now Sir Philip, kept up aconstant and kind correspondencewith his family, which was, of course,strengthened by his having obtainedthe recordership of Dover, an appointmentwhich he valued very highly,and retained through life.

The volume contains some strikingremarks on the often discussed question—“whylawyers seldom succeedas parliamentary speakers.” Andthe reason assigned, and truly assigned,is, that lawyers have somethingelse to do. The man who isoccupied all day in the courts, has notime for parliamentary subjects. Hecomes into the House fatigued, andunsupplied with the detail which isnecessary to give effect to any addressin so business-like an assembly. Hemerely gives an opinion and sitsdown. If he attempts more, he generallyfails; or his best success is anescape. Thus the two greatest advocateswhom England and Irelandhave ever seen, Erskine and Curran,were ineffective in parliament—theonly distinction being, that Erskinewas laughed at, while Curran waslaughed with. With these extraordinarymen, who had every qualityof the orator, and whose vigour ofargument took the bench by storm,while the flashes of their imaginationthrew brilliancy over the dreariesttopics, there could be no conceivablesource of failure, except in their wantof preparation for the peculiar objectsof debate.

But there is also another, and anobvious consideration. There are butfew orators in the world, and thesefew are not always either lawyers ormembers of parliament. But, whenthe true orator appears, he is felt,and he would be felt in an assemblyof Esquimaux. He requires no complacencyin his audience; he communicateswith their spirit, at once.He touches strings which, howeverunawakened before, are in every livingbosom; he finds echoes in theheart, which a thousand other voicesmight have called on in vain.

At the same time it must be admitted,that the knowledge which lawdemands, is of high importance to anysuccess which hopes to be permanentin the House; that its nature in thequestions constantly coming beforean assembly of lawmakers, is indisputable;and that the perfection of adebater would consist in his possessingthe knowledge of a lawyer, combinedwith the taste, talent, andexpansive views of a statesman. Thelawyers in parliament have alwayspossessed great weight; and thoughthe instances of their arriving at thePremiership are remarkably few, (werecollect but one, the late Mr Perceval,)they have always possessed alarge share of parliamentary power.

A case of some peculiarity occurredat this time—it was the proposal tocommute the sentence of death onsome criminals, on condition of theirsubmitting to inoculation for thesmall-pox. The case was laid beforeRaymond and Yorke, the Attorneyand Solicitor General; whose answerwas in this form;

“The lives of those persons beingin the power of his majesty, he maygrant a pardon to them on such lawfulcondition as he may think fit.And, as to this particular condition,we have no objection in point of law;the rather, because the carrying onthis practice to perfection, may leadto the general benefit of mankind.”

The small-pox was then almost aplague: it assailed all classes; andsome of the royal children, and manyof those of the nobility died of it. Itsextraordinary power of disfiguringthe features of the survivors made itscarcely less dreaded than its mortality.In tropical climates it sweptoff the population by thousands.Mankind, in our age, cannot be toograteful to the good fortune, or ratherto that interposition of providence,which, by giving us the discovery ofVaccination, has at length comparativelyfreed the world from this mostafflicting and most fatal disease.

But Yorke was soon called on toperform other and more difficult dutiesthan those of humanity. The influenceof the exiled Stuarts was stillpowerful. Superstition and self-interesthad sustained a close connexionin Great Britain. The manners ofthe Brunswick line had their share insustaining this influence. They weresingularly unpopular. The firstGeorge was coarse in manners, andvulgar in mind. All about him, evento his follies, was imported fromHanover; and he was never able todiscover the distinction between anempire and an electorate. The secondGeorge was a man of ability; butwhile he was superior to the habitsof his predecessor, he had equallyrepulsive habits of his own. Theking was at once subtle and uncouth,artificial in his designs, yet rude intheir execution; clear-headed in hisviews, yet confused in his government.Germanism clung to him, tothe last. He, too, could not discoverthe distinction between the throne ofthe first country of Europe, and thesovereignty of a German province.The private history of his court, also,was the reverse of flattering to themorals of his country; and the publicfeeling often rebuked them with singularvigour of tone.

On the other hand, the misfortunesof the Stuarts, though most amplydeserved, had thrown a tinge ofromance over their fate; and eventheir insults to its freedom in religionand constitution were partially forgotten.The chivalric character ofthe Prince threw an additionalinterest on his story; and the contrastbetween a gallant young man, determinedto struggle for the throne ofhis forefathers, and the crafty andegoistical character of the king, offeredstrong probabilities for the success ofan enterprise worthy of a competitorfor the crown of England.

On the 12th of May 1722, an announcementappeared in the newspapers,stating that the “Lord Mayorof London had received a letter fromLord Townshend, one of his Majesty’sprincipal Secretaries of State, informinghim, that the king had receivedintelligence of a conspiracy, in concertwith traitors abroad, to raise a rebellionin favour of the Pretender.”

A few days before, a proclamationhad appeared, offering a reward of£500 for the apprehension of oneWeston, formerly clerk to Gray’s InnChapel. Warrants were immediatelyissued for the apprehension of manyother persons, of whom the principalwas Atterbury, the Bishop of Rochester,who was arrested at his deaneryin Westminster, carried before theCouncil, and committed to the Tower.

Shortly after, Lords North andGrey were arrested in the Isle ofWight; and about the same time theprincipal agent, one Layer, a barrister,was also seized. North wascommitted to the Tower, where, onhis lady’s desiring admission to him,and being refused, he exhibited aspecimen of that pleasantry whichseems to have belonged to the name.Opening his window, “Madam,”said he, “this is a convent for men,and not for your sex.”

Layer’s trial soon followed. Theevidence proved that he had beenengaged in a plan for a general insurrection,for the overthrow of the establishedgovernment, and for bringingin the Chevalier. The king, theprince, and the ministers, were to beseized, the Tower was to be taken,and the army was to be bought over.The correspondence on this subjecthad been seized at Layer’s chambers,in Southampton Buildings, and wasin his handwriting.

An instance of what may be regardedas the etiquette of Englishlaw, was given on his trial. Theprisoner had been carried to the courtat Westminster in fetters, of whichhe complained to the Chief Justice asan insult. To this it was replied, thathe had made an attempt to escape;on which the judge said, that theuse of the fetters was justifiable. But,on his being brought into court, hiscounsel applied to have the fetterstaken off; to which the judge replied,“The irons must be taken off: weshall not stir until the irons are takenoff.”

The Solicitor General spoke withgreat effect in reply to the prisoner’scounsel, and Layer was found guilty.He was several times reprieved, inthe hope of obtaining evidence sufficientto implicate persons of higherrank, who were strongly suspected,Layer being evidently but an agent.However, he was at length executed.

A bill of pains and penalties wasthen brought in against the Bishop ofRochester. Among the witnesses inhis favour was the celebrated AlexanderPope, who came forward to deposeto the Bishop’s domestic habits andstudies. But it was remarked, thathis performance on this occasion onlyshowed that his abilities were notformed for exhibition in a court ofjustice. He made but an indifferentfigure as a witness: he had but littleto say, and that little he blundered.

Atterbury himself, however, madea better display. It having beeninsinuated that Sir Robert Walpolehad tampered with the Bishop’s witnesses,for the purpose of involvingother persons of condition, Walpoleappeared in person to disavow thecharge. Atterbury fastened on him,and exerted all his dexterity to makehim contradict himself. “A greatertrial of skill,” observed Speaker Onslow,“than this scarcely ever happenedbetween two such combatants,—theone fighting for his reputation,the other for his acquittal.” The billof pains and penalties was brought inby eighty-seven peers to forty-three.Atterbury was banished; and thefollowing paragraph in one of thejournals gives the account of hisdeparture:—

“June 19, 1723.—Yesterday, betweentwelve and one, the deprivedBishop of Rochester set out from theTower in the navy barge, and wasdelivered up to Captain Laurence,commander of the Aldborough man-of-war,lying in Long Reach. Twofootmen in purple liveries attendedhim, himself being in a lay habit ofgray cloth. Great numbers of peoplewent to see him take water, many ofwhom accompanied him down theriver in barges and boats. We hearthat two messengers went on boardthe man-of-war, to see him set onshore at Ostend, whence, it is said,he will proceed to Aix-la-Chapelle,after staying some time at Brussels.”

The Bishop, however, was set onshore at Calais, from the violence ofthe weather, which made the passageto Ostend dangerous; and on beingtold at landing, that Bolingbroke hadreceived the king’s pardon, and hadarrived at the same place on hisreturn to England, he pleasantly said,“Then I am exchanged.” Pope observedthat “the nation was afraidof being overrun with too muchpoliteness, and could not gain onegreat genius, but at the expense ofanother.”

That Bolingbroke was a man ofremarkable talent, must be believedfrom the evidence of his public career.But the fame of Atterbury seems tohave had no firmer foundations thanhis being the intimate of Pope, anda Jacobite. He had the scholarshipof an academic, but he gave noexhibition of ability in public life.His sermons are extant, and aretrifling. As a Jacobite, he must havebeen incapable of comprehending thevalue of liberty, regardless of Protestantism,and faithless to his king.His mitre alone probably saved himfrom a severer punishment than exile.But the simple fact that a Protestantbishop conspired to bring back adynasty pledged to Popery, and notoriousfor persecution, is enough toconsign his memory to historic shame.

Another curious instance, involvinga bishop, occurred about this period.Wilson, the Bishop of Sodor andMan, in consequence of his refusal ofthe holy sacrament to the wifeof the governor of the island, wasthrown by him into prison, andfined. The bishop appealed to thePrivy Council, by whom he wasreleased, on the opinion of the Attorneyand Solicitor Generals, and thefine was remitted. The Earl of Derby,the “sovereign” of the island, contendedthat it was a “free nation.”But he was not able to show that itsfreedom implied the power of controllingthe spiritual functions of the bishop.

On this subject, however, it must beacknowledged that the right of refusingthe sacrament to individuals who mightbe disapproved of by the clergy, wasobviously dangerous, and, though retainedin words, is justly abandonedin practice by the Establishment.Such a practice would imply that theclergyman could penetrate the secretsof the heart: it would also give amost offensive power of public insult,a strong temptation to private revenge,and might inflict an irreparableinjury on personal character, withoutany public trial, or any means of personaldefence. It is also observable,that no man can ascertain how suddenlyand effectually conversion maychange the whole tenor of the mind;while the mere fact of coming to thecommunion-table naturally implies areturning sense of duty. Some of thehalf Popish disciplinarians of our day,who talk much more of the churchthan they think of Christianity, haveattempted to renew this harsh andhazardous practice. But the man ofsense will avoid the insult; and theChristian will acknowledge that, ifrebuke is to be administered at all, itought to be in the shape of privateexhortation, and not in the arbitraryand exasperating form of publicshame.

The most painful part in the officeof Attorney General is the duty ofprosecuting high criminals. The Earlof Macclesfield now put this duty tothe test. A charge was laid againstthe Chancellor for corruption in thesale of masterships in Chancery, andthe embezzlement of the suitors’money in their hands. He was impeachedby the Commons, and triedby the Lords, was found guilty, andfined £30,000. But on the questionsbeing put that he should be renderedincapable of serving the king, orsitting in parliament, both were negatived;but, for the honour of parliament,the one only by forty-two toforty-two, the Speaker giving, ofcourse, the vote in his favour; andthe latter by forty-five to thirty-nine.The trial lasted twenty days, andnaturally excited great attention.The ground of his escape from officialruin, (for nothing could save himfrom public shame,) was probably hisfavouritism at St James’s—a favouritismwhich, unluckily for the honourof the courtiers, seems to have remainedundiminished.

The conduct of the Attorney Generalhas been censured, as ungratefulto his early patron; but the censureis unfounded. He did all that hecould: he refused to join in the prosecution,and avoided this duty withsome difficulty. The Earl’s guilt wasnotorious; nothing could save him.It was no part of the Attorney General’svirtues to thwart public justice,nor was it in his power. He simplyconsulted the delicacy of old friendship,by refusing to urge its progress.It has been even asked, Why did henot resign? Such is the absurdity ofquerists. His resignation could nothave saved the Chancellor, who, afterall, escaped with the easy sacrifice ofa comparatively small sum from apurse believed to be plethoric withthe public money.

Yorke still continued to advance inreputation and office. The deaths ofthe Chancellor and the Chief Justicewere followed by the appointment ofTalbot to the woolsack, and of Yorketo the Chief Justiceship, with an increaseof the salary from £2000 to£4000 a-year, and the peerage, bythe title of Baron Hardwicke, froman estate which he had purchased inthe county of Gloucester.

He was now on the verge of hishighest promotion. The ChancellorTalbot died in February 1736, afterfive days’ illness, at the age of fifty-three.

An entry in Lord Hardwicke’sprivate journal gives a curious andcharacteristic account of his promotion.“On Monday the 14th ofFebruary, about five in the morning,died Charles Talbot, Lord HighChancellor of Great Britain. Thesame forenoon, being at the sittingsin Westminster Hall, I received aletter from Sir Robert Walpole, desiringto speak with me on the eventof that morning, and wishing that Iwould dine with him that day inprivate. I went accordingly, and afterdinner he proposed the Great Seal tome in the king’s name. Thereupon Itook occasion to state to him, that Iwas now in a quiet situation, which,by practice, was become easy to me;that I had no ambition to go higher;and, though I had the most gratefulsense of his majesty’s goodness, desiredto be left where I was.”

Sir Robert perfectly understoodthis “nolo episcopari” style, andpressed the appointment. We are alittle ashamed for the delicacy of thefuture Chancellor; for he now toldthe minister, that the Chief Clerkshipof the King’s Bench being likely tofall soon into his gift, which he mightgrant for two lives for the benefit ofhis family, he must have an equivalent!After some bargaining, Yorkeoffered to take the reversion of theTellership of the Exchequer for hiseldest son. Walpole objected, thatthe king “disliked reversions.” Andwell he might; for the Tellership ofthe Exchequer was said to haveamounted (in subsequent times) to£40,000 a-year! The bargain wasat length struck—the Tellership wasgiven, and Hardwicke was Chancellor.A note in Horace Walpole’sMemoirs adds point to the transaction:it says that “Walpole, findingit difficult to make Hardwicke giveup the Chief Justiceship, told himthat, if he refused, he would give theSeals to Fazakerly. ‘What!’ exclaimedHardwicke, ‘Fazakerly! heis a Tory, perhaps a Jacobite.’ ‘Allvery true,’ replied Walpole; ‘but ifby one o’clock you do not accept myoffer, Fazakerly, by two, becomesLord Keeper of the Great Seal, andone of the stanchest Whigs in England!’”

The Chancellor, as a scholar and aman of the world, was consulted byhis friends on occasional rules of life;and, in answer to a request of theMarchioness of Annandale to give hisopinion on the course of educationproper for her son, Hardwicke, in givinga detail of the studies proper for anobleman, as classics, mathematics,law, &c., alludes to foreign travel.

He observes “that, in formertimes, the people of Britain wereobserved to return home with theiraffections more strongly engaged towardsthe well-tempered constitutionand liberty of their own country,from having observed the miseryresulting from the military governmentsabroad. But, by an unluckyreverse, it (now) sometimes happensthat, from being taught to like thefashions and manners of foreign countries,people are led to have noaversion to their political institutions,and their methods of exercising civilpower.”

He then adverts to the still moreserious evil which our own generationfeel every day:

“The Protestant religion beingestablished here, is one great security,not only of our religious, but also ofour civil liberty. That ocular demonstrationof the gross superstitionsand absurdities of Popery which travellingfurnishes, was formerly thoughtto fix the mind in a more firm attachmentto the former, and abhorrenceof the latter.” He then adverts to theculpable change frequently wroughtby foreign life on this wise and salutaryfeeling. “I fear the case is nowsomewhat otherwise; with this furtherill consequence, that many of ouryoung men, by a long interruption ofthe exercise of their own religion,become absolutely indifferent to all.”

The truth of the case, however, is,that travelling is not the source of theinjury done to the habits and principlesof the English: it is residenceabroad that does the irreparable mischief.Travelling enlarges the mind;residence abroad narrows, degrades,and vitiates it. No Englishman whohas long resided in a foreign city,(except, perhaps, in a university, forthe pursuit of learning,) is ever fitfor any thing when he returns: heis a practical idler, and pitifullounger round coffee-houses and gaming-tables.He discovers that his“feelings are too refined” for theroughness of English life—that hisframe is “too delicate for anythingbut a southern climate”—boasts ofhis sensibilities, while he is leading alife of the most vulgar and grossvice—until, beggared by debauchery,or worn out with disease, he dropsinto the tomb, without leaving aregret or a manly recollection behindhim. For all the higher purposes oflife he had long been ruined—withoutcountry, without public spirit, withouta sense of duty, he has lived onlyto eat and drink, to retail the gossipof the hour, and yawn through theday. He has abandoned all religion,and professes to think all creeds alike.His morals are of the same qualitywith his religion, and he creepsthrough society as worthless as theworm that shall soon feed on hisbetter half—his body—in the grave.

Lord Hardwicke had now full opportunityfor the display of all histalents; and their combination in oneman was certainly an extraordinaryevidence of the powers of disciplineand nature. He was at once a first-ratelawyer, a first-rate statesman,and a first-rate public speaker. Anyone of those high attainments mightbring sufficient to make the businessof a life—in him they were the easyattributes of a master-mind.

His oratory was not of the schoolwhich afterwards gave such eminenceto Chatham. It had none of thebrilliant impetuosity of that Demosthenesof English orators; but it hada captivation—the captivation of eloquenceand grace—which gave interesteven to the driest details of thetribunal. Lord Camden, himself apowerful public speaker, thus describedHardwicke on the bench:—

“In the Court of Chancery, multitudeswould flock to hear the LordChancellor, as to hear Garrick. Hisclearness, arrangement, and comprehensionof his subject, were masterly.But his address in the turn which hegave to all, whether he was in theright, or was ‘to make the worseappear the better reason,’ was likemagic.”

His high employments now broughtopulence with them; and he purchasedfrom Lord Oxford the fineestate of Wimpole, in Cambridgeshire,which had come into the Oxfordfamily by marriage with the Duke ofNewcastle’s heiress. In 1740, PhilipYorke, the Chancellor’s eldest son,married the daughter of Lord Breadalbane,and grand-daughter of theDuke of Kent. Horace Walpole, inhis correspondence with Conway,thus smartly sums up the good fortuneof this most prosperous family:

“Harry, what luck the Chancellorhas! first, indeed, to be in himselfso great a man. But then, in accidents.He is made Chief Justiceand Peer, when Talbot is madeChancellor and Peer. Talbot diesin a twelvemonth, and leaves himthe Seals, at an age when othersare scarcely made solicitors. Thenhe marries his son into one of thefirst families of Britain, obtains apatent for a marquisate, and eightthousand pounds a-year, after theDuke of Kent’s death. The Dukedies in a fortnight, and leaves themall! People talk of fortune’s wheelthat is always rolling; troth, my LordHardwicke has overtaken her wheel,and rolled along with it.”

The present attempt to give legislativepower to the Jews, an attemptwhose success would inevitably changethe Christian character of the legislature,gives a revived interest to thefollowing decision of the great Chancellor.A legacy of £12,000 havingbeen left by a Jew, “for establishingan assembly for reading and improvingthe Jewish law,” and the casehaving been brought into court, theChancellor decided against the applicationof the legacy. The note ofthis judgment, recorded in his ownnote-book, is as follows:—

“I was of opinion, that this appearedto be a charitable bequest orfund for promoting and propagatingthe Jewish religion, and consequentlycontrary to law. For that the Christianreligion is part of the law of theland, and involved in the constitutionof this kingdom, according to my LordHale in Taylor’s case, 1 Ventr.,and my Lord Raymond in Wolston’scase; and that it differed widely fromthe cases of charitable benefactions tothe meeting-houses or congregationsof Protestant dissenters, which aretolerated, and regulated by the TolerationAct. Therefore, I refused todecree for this charity.”

In March 1745, died the celebratedSir Robert Walpole: of all the ministersof George the Second the mosttrusted, and of all the ministers ofEngland the most unpopular; of allthe statesmen of his day the mostsuccessful, and certainly, of all thepublic men of England, regarded, inhis own time, as the most unscrupulous.If it be doubted that he waspersonally more unprincipled thanother ministers, to him unquestionablywas due the practice of corruptionas an established principle ofgovernment. That any ministercould have dared to adopt such asystem in England, is to be accountedfor only by the rapid changes of partysince the beginning of the century,the changes of the Succession, thetimidity of the press, yet but in itsinfancy, and the unsettled nature ofthe Brunswick throne.

In late years, Burke, inflamed withthe love of splendid paradox, anddelighting in the novelty of imaginingpersonal virtue in the midst of publicvice, amused his genius with throwinga factitious lustre over the memoryof Walpole. But the voice ofcontemporary writers has been sinceamply echoed by the judgment ofhistory. Walpole was a corrupter;and, if the progress of his system hadnot been broken short by his fall, andby the hurried successions of ministersfrom each side of the Housealternately, the government wouldperhaps have perished, or could havepurified itself only by a revolution.

Walpole was a first-rate man ofcraft; his sagacity was vigilant; hisindustry was indefatigable; his speechplausible, and his management of theuncouth and suspicious King dexterousin a remarkable degree. But helowered the whole tone of public life.No act of magnanimous policy everoriginated with Walpole. He madeno attempt, or but of the feeblestorder, to add to the national intelligence.He encouraged none of thehigher provinces of the arts, learning,or science; and, though he gavemitres to Butler, Gibson, and Sherlock,yet the religion of Englandlanguished scarcely less than itsphilosophy. It was what Burke himselfsubsequently termed its succeedingperiod, “burgomaster age,” andparliament was scarcely more than aDutch council, until Chatham cameand startled it again into life. Walpoleobtains credit with posterity forthe moderation of his wealth. But,beginning as the son of a countrygentleman, he purchased a fineestate; he built a magnificent mansion,Houghton; he collected one ofthe finest private picture-galleries inEurope; and he always lived, so faras we can learn, in great affluenceand expenditure.

But the country was suddenly tobe tried by a new and most formidablehazard. News arrived in Londonthat the Prince Charles Edward,the eldest son of the Pretender, hadlanded in Scotland, had raised thestandard of the Stuarts, had beenjoined by some of the clans, and wasdetermined on marching to the metropolis.This part of the Memoir ispeculiarly interesting, from its givingthe private impressions of individualsof rank and importance, on the everydaymovements of the time.

On the 1st of August, Lady Hardwicke,who was, of course, acquaintedwith all the opinions of government,writes to her son Philip Yorke, whowas then out of town:—“My heart isvery heavy. Our folks are very busyat this time, by fresh alarms of thePretender being in Scotland. But Ibelieve the ship Captain Bret foughtwas the ship he was in. If it be so,he is not yet got there; which maygive a little more time to prepare forhim. The French disclaim sendinghim there; but that is nothing. Theyare to take Ostend; while Spain sendstroops thence, to the other end of thekingdom, to distract our measures.This is my opinion, God grant I maybe in the wrong. In the mean time,our king’s abroad, and our troops also.There comes out a proclamation thisday, offering a reward for the Pretender,as I am informed.”

Lord Hardwicke had been appointedone of the Regency, on the King’s absencein Germany. And his views ofthe crisis were gloomy enough. In aletter to Lord Glenorchy (August 15)he says, “On Tuesday last we receivedadvice from the Duke of Argyle andmy Lord Justice Clerk, that the youngPretender was landed in the north-westparts of the Highlands. He issaid to have come in a single ship of16 or 18 guns, attended by about 70persons, among whom are Lord Tullibardineand old Lochiel. When I lookround me, and consider our whole situation,our all appears to be at stake.”

“The yachts sailed this morningfor the King, who has declared he willset out from Hanover, as soon as hehas heard they have arrived on theother side.”

This was desponding language fromso eminent a person, but it was producedby deeper feelings than alarmat the landing of a few people in thenorth, though with a prince at theirhead. The plain truth, and no manwas better aware of it than Hardwicke,was, that the conduct of thelate Cabinet had utterly disgusted thenation. The contempt justly felt forWalpole had spread to higher objects;and the nation looked with an ominousquietude on the coming struggle betweenthe young Chevalier and thepossessor of the throne. As if the factionsof parliament had been preparingfor the success of the Stuarts, all theirefforts for the last ten years had beendirected to dismantle the country; alltheir harangues were turned to extinguishingthe army, which they describedas at once ruinous to thefinances, and dangerous to the libertiesof the country. Probably therewas not a man of all those declaimerswho believed a single syllable whichhe uttered; but “Reduction” was theparty cry. With France in immensemilitary power; with the Stuarts livingunder its protection; with the wholeforce of Popery intriguing throughoutthe country; and with a great numberof weak people, who thought thattheir consciences called for the returnof the exiled dynasty in the person ofthe Pretender, the reduction of thenational defences by the ministry felllittle short of treason. But when theintelligence of the prince’s arrival wasbrought to London, the kingdom seemsto have been left almost without asoldier; every battalion being engagedin the lingering war in Germany. TheKing had not added to the strength ofhis government; his passion for goingto Hanover had occasioned obviouspublic inconvenience, and his absenceat the moment of public peril was feltwith peculiar irritability. The Chancellor,on this subject, after alludingto his recovery from a slight illness,says, “Would to God, the state of ouraffairs were as much mended; but theclouds continue as black as ever; andhow soon the storm may burst on us,we know not.”

On the first news of the Chevalier’slanding, a message had been sent tothe King, to return with all haste,which he did, as is mentioned in aletter of the Chancellor to the Archbishopof York. After speaking of thedifficulties of government, the lettercloses with, “I had writ thus far, whena messenger from Margate brought thegood news that the King landed thereabout half an hour after three thismorning, and would be at Kensingtonwithin two hours. Accordingly, hisMajesty arrived there about twoo’clock, in perfect health. I really thinkI never saw him look better in my life.He appears also to be in very goodhumour, and to value himself upon thehaste he has made to us, when therewas any apprehension of danger affectingthis country.”

In another letter, he sadly lamentsthe absence of all public interest in theevent of the Rebellion. “Can youtell what will make double hearts true?...I have not slept these twonights; but sweat and prayed....The Duke of Argyle is come to town,and done nothing; and Duke Atholis gone to a town in the Highlands,and does nothing neither. He hashad Glengarrie with him, whose clanhas joined the Pretender, and he isgone from him. In short, every thingis in a strange way, and nobody,hardly, is affected as they ought; atleast as I am.... This is the realstate of things, however they may bedisguised, and I fear Sir J. Cope’s notequal to his business. God alone cansave us, to whose merciful judgmentwe trust.”

The late Sydney Smith’s pleasantrieson the novelty of invasionideas in the brains of John Bull, andthe difficulty of convincing him of thepossibilities of such a thing, were fullyexemplified in the cabinet, as well asin the people. The cabinet did littlemore than send for the King, and theKing did little more than send an incompetentofficer with a small detachmentof troops to put down a rebellionwhich might have already enlisted thewhole martial population of Scotland;even the Chancellor could not restrainhimself from running down to one orother of his country houses, for two orthree days at a time, while the governmentwas actually trembling fromhour to hour on the verge of the scaffold.This childish inability of self-controldisparages the conduct of sodistinguished a person. But with allhis “sweating and praying,” he seemsto have been totally incapable of denyinghimself this pitiful indulgence,when a week might see the Stuartson the throne. At length troopswere ordered from Germany, and sixthousand arrived with General Ligonier.Some Dutch regiments followed;five men-of-war returnedfrom the Mediterranean, and theBritish regiments were on their marchthrough Holland. In the mean timecame the startling announcement thatthe Pretender was in Edinburgh, thathe was proclaimed there, and that hewas royally lodged in HolyroodHouse. The Chancellor’s fears ofCope’s inefficiency were soon shownto have been prophetic. Cope hadbeen sent to save Edinburgh,—theclans outmarched him, and Cope hadno resource but to land at Dunbar.At Haddington he suddenly found theclans to the south of his force. Theywere about three thousand, half armed,to his two thousand two hundred disciplinedtroops; the Highlanders rushedupon him and routed him in a moment.The Chevalier returned to Edinburghwith a hundred pipers leading themarch, and playing, “The king shallhave his own again.”

The person who figures mainly atthis period, and who appears to haveshown alike good sense and courage,was Herring, Archbishop of York, anold friend of the Chancellor, who hadrecommended him to the governmentwhen but preacher at Lincoln’s Inn,obtained for him a bishopric, andpushed him forward into the Archbishopricof York. Herring wasafterwards promoted to Canterbury,perhaps as a reward of his loyaltyand manliness in this delicate and difficulttime. Herring was evidentlya sensible and high-minded man, andhis letters to the Chancellor figureconspicuously among the mass of correspondencereceived by Hardwicke.On the battle of Prestonpans, thisvigorous prelate thus wrote:—

“I conceal it, but I own I conceiveterrible apprehensions from the affairat Prestonpans, where the conduct ofour general, &c., was —— I won’tgive it the right name, but that of therebels excellent; and, from what Ican collect, and the judgment which Iform upon the opinion of the soldiershere, they are admirably disciplined,and, our soldiers have felt, well armed.They showed resolution and conduct intaking the little battery, and as they arevigorous and savage, their leaders wellknow how to point their strength properlyand effectually. There is something,too, in their artful taciturnitythat alarms one. They say it is a factthat from their setting out to this hourit is not easy to say who leads them,nor are they seen in a manner till theyare felt, so silent and well conceivedare their motions. I hope all this isknown above much better than it ishere, and that it is now seen that thisrebellion is not to be quashed by smallpelotons of an army, but must be attendedto totis viribus. Who can saywhat will be the consequence of suchan advantage gained in England?” Inanother letter Herring mentions thata meeting of the county was held atYork, at which he presided.

London was of course full of rumours,and a letter from LadyHardwicke gives them in grave yetridiculous detail. After saying thatthe merchants had stopped the runupon the bank, she mentions a reportthat the Chancellor was turned out;that the Duke of Newcastle and hisbrother had run away, some said,to the Pretender; and others, thatLestock, the Admiral, had producedthree letters from him forbidding himto fight; and these reports gained auniversal run. People were told atthe turnpikes as they passed through,that London was in an uproar and hisGrace fled. Nay, the mobs gatheredin crowds about his house, and sawsome of the shutters unopened, whencethey concluded he was gone; andwhen he went out they surrounded hischariot, and looked him in the faceand said, “It is he! he is not gone.What is our condition, when suchmonstrous lies are spread to increasethe terrors of honest minds?”

The Archbishop’s exertions gavegreat satisfaction to the King, whomhe had so worthily and courageouslyserved; and the Chancellor immediatelywrote him an account of aninterview which he had with his Majestyon the occasion. “I own,” saidhe, “I feel a particular pleasure inthe great and noble part which yourGrace has taken on this occasion, andin the gallant, wise, and becomingmanner in which you have exertedyourself. I was so full of it, that I wentimmediately to Kensington, and gavethe King an ample account of it in hiscloset. I found him apprised of it inthe Lord Lieutenant’s letters, whichhe had received from the Duke of Newcastle;but he was so pleased with itthat he was desirous of hearing it overagain. I informed his Majesty of thesubstance of your letter, the sermonyour Grace had preached last Sunday,and with such prodigious expeditionprinted and dispersed; and when Icame to your speech, he desired me toshow it him. His Majesty read it overfrom beginning to end, gave it thejust praise it so highly deserves, andsaid it must be printed. I told him Ibelieved it was printing at York, butit is determined to print it in the Gazette.When I had gone through thispart, I said, your Majesty will giveme leave to acquaint my Lord Archbishopthat you approve his zealand activity in your service—to whichthe King answered quick, My lord,that is not enough; you must also tellthe Archbishop that I heartily thankhim for it. His Majesty also highlyapplauded the affection, zeal, and unanimitywhich had appeared in theseveral lords and gentlemen on thisoccasion.”

The Chancellor also informs himthat ten British regiments had arrivedfrom Flanders, and that eight battalionsmore, and 1500 dragoons wereordered to embark. He then makesa natural and just remark on the factionthat had clamoured against puttingthe country into a state of defence. “Iknow some friends of yours who hadtalked themselves hoarse in contendingfor this measure, and whose advice,if followed some time ago, mighthave prevented, in all human probability,this dismal scene. But the conductof some persons on this occasion hasbeen infamous.” He then marks thetrue conduct to be adopted in all instancesof civil war. “A great bodyof forces will forthwith be sent to theNorth. I contend every where, thatthey must be a great body, for the protectionof the King’s crown and hispeople. The work of the Revolution,which has been building up theseseven-and-fifty years, must not berisked upon an even chance.” Suchis true policy. The defence of an empiremust not be risked upon a chance;the benighted and dishonest theorists,who would enfeeble the defencesof England in our day, for thesake of gaining the clamour of a mob,would be the first to fly in the hour ofdanger; and although the certainty ofa French war from the ambition of themonarchy, is at an end, and thePrince de Joinville is not likely torealise the suggestions of his detestablepamphlet, and have the honourof pouncing on our sea-coast villages;a Republic is a neighbour to which wehave not been accustomed for a longwhile, and which, with the best intentionsfor the present, may very suddenlychange its mind.

Another letter from Herring showsthe gallant spirit which may existunder lawn sleeves. “I purposed,”said he, “to have set out for Londonon Wednesday; but I have had asort of remembrance from the cityhere (York) that it will create someuneasiness. There is a great matter inopinion; and if my attendance atBishopsthorpe serves to support aspirit, or to preserve a union, or thatthe people think so, I will not stir....I have therefore put off my journey,but ordered my affairs so, that at theleast intimation from your Lordship,I can vasa conclamare, and set out inan hour. To talk in the style military,(though my red coat is not made yet,)the first column of my family went offa week ago, the second moves onWednesday, and the third attends mymotions. I purpose to leave my housein a condition to receive the Marshal,if he pleases to make use of it. Andthere is a sort of policy in my civility,too; for while he occupies it, it cannotbe plundered. I know your Lordshiphas ever an anxiety for your friends.But, if I must fly, the General and hishussars have offered to cover my retreat.But enough of this; I hadrather laugh when the battle is won,and could not help putting up anejacul*tion at the pond-side to-night,—Heavengrant I may feed myswans in peace!”

The mention of the red coat wasprobably suggested by a report thatthe Archbishop had been seen in uniform.And the “hussars” were atroop of young gentlemen, whom GeneralOglethorpe had embodied at York.

The prelate was somewhat of ahumorist; and he thus writes on hismilitary reputation:—“I find I mustgo into regimentals, in my own defence,in a double sense; for anengraver has already given me aSaracen’s head, surrounded with achevalier in chains, and all the instrumentsof war, and the hydra of rebellionat my feet. And I see anothercopperplate promised, where I am tobe exhibited in the same martial attitude,with all my clergy with me.By my troth, as I judge from applicationsmade to me every day, I believeI could raise a regiment of my ownorder. And I had a serious offer theother day from a Welch curate, fromthe bottom of Merionethshire, who issix feet and a half high, that, hearingthat I had put on scarlet, he wasready to attend me at an hour’s warning,if the Bishop of Bangor did notcall upon him for the same service.”

The disregard of all preparation hadleft the whole English border defenceless.Hull and Carlisle were the onlytowns which had any means of resistance.York had walls, but theywere in a state of decay, and had nota single piece of artillery. Thus theinvaders were enabled to pursue anyroad which they pleased. But theirentrance into England should havetaught them that their enterprise hadbecome hopeless. The country peopleevery where fled before them—theroads were filled with the carriagesand waggons of the gentry hurryingto places of safety. No gentleman ofrank joined them. One army was ontheir rear, and the main army, underthe Duke of Cumberland, was betweenthem and London.

In the metropolis, the spirit of thepeople, always slow, until the dangeris visible, now awoke. The lawyers,in a procession of two hundred andfifty carriages, carried up an addressto the King, assuring him of theirloyalty. The trained bands weresummoned. Troops were sent to thecoast to watch the French, if theyshould attempt invasion; alarm-postsand signals were appointed in case oftumults in London, and the capitalwas at length in safety against a muchsuperior force to that of the Chevalier.But in December the gratifying newscame, that on the 5th the invadershad retired from Derby, and wererapidly returning to the North.

The disorder and exhaustion ofthose gallant but unfortunate men,must have left them an easy prey tothe superior forces which were nowon their track, when the pursuit wassuddenly stopped by an alarm ofFrench invasion. Twelve thousandmen had suddenly been collected; theDuke of Richelieu, with the Pretender’ssecond son, had come to Dunkirk;transports were gathered along thecoast; and the invasion would probablyhave been attempted, but for astorm which drove many of their shipsashore near Calais. The troops inLondon were but six thousand! The16th of April, at Culloden, closed thismost unhappy struggle, and gave aninternal peace to England which hasnever been broken.

The remarks in the memoir on thisdaring enterprise seem to be imperfect.The first is, that if England was tohave been invaded at all, the effortshould have been made before thearmy could be brought from Flanders.The second is, that the retreat fromDerby should have been exchangedfor a march on London. But theformer would have required a totallydifferent plan of operations. ThePrince should have landed in Kent,if his object was to take London bysurprise. But, as his only troops mustbe the clans, he must look for themin the North; and it would have beenimpossible to march an army from theHighlands to the metropolis in lessthan a fortnight. On the secondpoint, the retreat from Derby wasobviously necessary. The clans werealready diminishing—every step mustbe fought for—they were but halfarmed—and the King’s troops wereincreasing day by day.

In one remark we agree, that theChevalier should never have attemptedmore than the possession of Scotland.He should have remained in HolyroodHouse. There he had a majority ofthe nation in his favour,—the headsof the clans, and the old romantic recollectionsof his ancestral kings, alltending to support his throne. AFrench force might have been easilysummoned to his assistance, and for awhile he might have maintained aseparate sovereignty. It is, on theother hand, not improbable that theScottish nation might have looked onthe sovereignty of a son of James, thepersecutor, with jealousy; Protestantismwould have dreaded a Frenchalliance; and the expulsion of theChevalier would have been effectedin Scotland on the model of the Englishexpulsion of James. Still, theexperiment was feasible for the claimantof a crown; and the success of theadventure might have continued longenough to produce great evil to bothcountries.

We have found these volumes highlyinteresting, not merely from theimportance of their period, but fromtheir containing events so curiouslyparallel to those of our own time.Among the rest was the appointmentto the Archbishopric of Canterbury.A letter from Charles Yorke thussays:—“The Archbishop of Canterburydied suddenly on Saturday.The Bishop of London has declinedthe offer of succeeding. It is nowoffered to the Bishop of Salisbury,who has not yet returned an answer.If he refuses, which some say he will,the Archbishop of York will be theman.”

The reasons for these refusals wereprobably the reluctance to change, atthe advanced age of these bishops,—Sherlock,of Salisbury, being seventy,and Gibson probably about the sameage. The fees for possession are alsoimmense, and we have heard themrated at little short of £20,000.

The Lord Chancellor announced theoffer to the Archbishop of York, whor*turned the following remarkableanswer:—“I am honoured with yourLordship’s of the 13th inst., which Iembrace with all my heart, as a newinstance of that friendship and affectionfor me which for so many yearshave been the support, and credit, andcomfort of my life.

“I have considered the thing, mybest friend and my most honouredLord, with all deliberation and compassof thought that I am master of,and am come to a very firm and mostresolved determination not to quit theSee of York on any account or on anyconsideration.... I am reallypoor; I am not ambitious of beingrich, but have too much pride, with, Ihope, a small mixture of honesty, tobear being in debt. I am now out ofit, and in possession of a clear independencyof that sort. I must not goback, and begin the world again atfifty-five.

“The honour of Canterbury is athing of glare and splendour, and thehopes of it a proper incentive to schoolboysto industry. But I have consideredall its inward parts, and examinedall its duties, and if I shouldquit my present station to take it, Iwill not answer for it that in less thana twelvemonth I did not sink and diewith regret and envy at the man whoshould succeed me here, and quit theplace in my possession, as I ought todo, to one better and wiser than myself.”

This language might have been receivedwith some suspicion in otherinstances; but Herring was a straightforwardas well as a very able man,and there can be no doubt that hespoke what he thought. But he seemsto have mistaken the position of thePrimate as one of splendour, for wecertainly have seen instances in whichit displayed any thing but splendour,and in which the great body of theclergy knew no more of the halls ofLambeth, shared no more of its duehospitality, and enjoyed no more of thenatural and becoming intercourse withtheir metropolitan, than if he had beena hermit. This grievous error, whichhas the necessary effect of repellingand ultimately offending and alienatingthe whole body of the inferiorclergy, a body who constitute theactive strength of the Establishment,we must hope to see henceforth totallychanged. In the higher view of thecase, an Archbishop of Canterburypossesses every advantage for givingan honourable and meritorious popularityto the Church. By his rank,entitled to associate with the highestpersonages of the empire, he maymore powerfully influence them by themanliness and intelligence of his opinions:a peer of parliament, he shouldbe a leader of council, the spokesmanof the prelacy, the guide of the peerson all ecclesiastical questions, and thecourageous protector of the Establishmentcommitted to his charge. Inhis more private course, he ought tocultivate the association of the learned,the vigorous, and the active mindsof the country. He ought especiallyto be kind to his clergy, not merelyby opening his palace and his hospitalitiesto them all, but by personalintercourse, by visiting theirchurches, by preaching from time totime in their pulpits, by making himselfknown to them in the general civilitiesof private friendliness, and by theeasy attentions which, more than allthe formalities of official condescension,sink into the hearts of men. Itis absurd and untrue to say that anarchbishop has no time for all thesethings. These things are of the simplestfacility to any man whose heartis in the right place; and if, instead oflocking himself up with two or threedreary effigies of man, in the shape ofchaplains, and freezing all the soulwithin him by a rigid and repulsiveroutine, he shall “do as he would bedone unto” if he had remained acountry curate, an Archbishop ofCanterbury might be the most beloved,popular, and for all the bestpurposes, the most influential man inthe kingdom.

Old age was now coming on LordHardwicke, and with it the painfulaccompaniment of the loss of his oldand intimate associates through publicand private life; his own publiccareer, too, was come to its close.In 1756 the Newcastle ministry wassucceeded by that of the celebratedWilliam Pitt, (Lord Chatham,) andLord Hardwicke resigned the GreatSeal. The note in his private journalstates, “19th November 1756, resignedthe Great Seal voluntarily intohis Majesty’s hands at St James’s,after I had held it nineteen years,eight months, and ten days.”

All authorities since his day appearto have agreed in giving the highesttribute to this distinguished man.His character in the Annual Registersays, “In judicature, his firmness anddignity were evidently derived fromhis consummate knowledge andtalents; and the mildness and humanitywhich tempered it from the bestheart.... His extraordinarydespatch of the business of the court,increased as it was in his time beyondwhat had been known in any former,on account of his established reputationthere, and the extension of thecommerce and riches of the nation,was an advantage to the suitor, inferioronly to that arising from theacknowledged equity, perspicuity,and precision of his decrees....The manner in which he presided inthe House of Lords added order anddignity to that assembly.” LordCampbell, in his late “Lives of theChancellors,” characterises LordHardwicke as “the man universallyand deservedly considered the mostconsummate judge who ever sat in theCourt of Chancery.”

An instance of his grace of mannereven in rebuke, amply deserves to berecorded. A cause was argued inChancery, in which a grandson ofOliver Cromwell, and bearing thesame name, was a party. The opposingcounsel began to cast somereflections on the memory of hiseminent ancestor; on which theChancellor quietly said, “I observeMr Cromwell standing outside thebar, inconveniently pressed by thecrowd; make way for him, that hemay sit by me on the Bench.” Thishad the effect of silencing the sarcasmsof the advocate. Lord Hardwickeseems to have excited a professionaldeference for his legal conduct andabilities, which at this distance oftime it is difficult even to imagine.But the highest names of the Barseem to have exhausted language inhis panegyric. Lord Mansfield thusspoke of him on being requested by alawyer to give him materials for hisbiography. The answer is worth retainingfor every reason.

“My success in life is not very remarkable.My father was a man ofrank and fashion. Early in life Iwas introduced into the best company,and my circ*mstances enabledme to support the character of a manof fortune. To these advantages Ichiefly owe my success. And thereforemy life cannot be very interesting.But if you wish to employ your abilitiesin writing the life of a truly greatand wonderful man in our profession,take the life of Lord Hardwicke foryour object. He was indeed a wonderfulcharacter. He became ChiefJustice of England and Chancellorfrom his own abilities and virtues; forhe was the son of a peasant!”

Not exactly so, as we have seen;for his father was a respectable man,who gave him a legal education. Butthe great Chancellor certainly owedbut little to birth or fortune.

We have heard much of the eleganceand polish of Mansfield’s style,but, from the imperfect reports of publicspeeches a hundred years ago,have had but few evidences of itscharm. One precious relic, however,these volumes have preserved. Onhis taking leave of the society ofLincolns Inn, (on his being raised tothe Bench,) the usual complimentaryaddress was made by Mr CharlesYorke. The reply, of which we givebut a sentence, was as follows:—

“If I have had in any measuresuccess in my profession, it is owingto the great man who has presided inour highest courts of judicature thewhole time I attended the bar. Itwas impossible to attend him, to situnder him every day, without catchingsome beams from his light. Thedisciples of Socrates, whom I willtake the liberty to call the greatlawyer of antiquity, since the firstprinciples of all law are derived fromhis philosophy, owe their reputationto their having been the repeaters ofthe sayings of their great master. Ifwe can arrogate nothing to ourselves,we can boast of the school we werebrought up in. The scholar mayglory in his master, and we maychallenge past ages to show us hisequal.”

After brief allusions to the threegreat names of Bacon, Clarendon, andSomers, all of whom he regarded asinferior either in moral or naturaldistinctions, he said,—“It is thepeculiar felicity of the great man ofwhom I am speaking, to have presidedfor nearly twenty years, and tohave shone with a splendour that hasrisen superior to faction, and that hassubdued envy.”

The melancholy case of AdmiralByng occurred in this year, (1757)and is well reasoned in this work. Thewriter thinks that the execution wasjust. A death by law is naturallydistressing to the feelings of humanity,and the degradation or banishment ofthe unfortunate admiral might possiblyhave had all the effects of thefinal punishment, without giving somuch pain to the public feelings.Still, the cabinet might justly complainof the clamour raised againsttheir act, by the party who arraignedthem for the death of Byng. Incommand of a great fleet on a mostimportant occasion, he had totallyfailed, and failed in despite of theopinions of his own officers. He hadbeen sent for the express purpose ofrelieving the British garrison of Minorca,and he was scared away bythe chance of encountering the Frenchfleet: the consequence was, the surrenderof the island, and the captureof the garrison. On his return toEngland, he was tried and foundguilty by a court-martial: he wasfound guilty by the general opinion ofthe legislature and the nation; andthough the court-martial recommendedhim to mercy, on the ground thathis offence was not poltroonery, butan “error in judgment;” yet his reluctanceto fight the French had producedsuch ruinous consequences, andhad involved the navy in such Europeandisgrace, that the King determinedon his death, and he diedaccordingly. An error in judgmentwhich consists in not fighting, naturallyseems, to a brave people, awholly different offence from the errorwhich consists in grappling with theenemy. And, though Voltaire’s sarcasm,that Byng was shot pourencourager les autres, had all the pungencyof the Frenchman’s wit, andthough British admirals could requireno stimulant to their courage fromthe fear of a similar fate, there canbe but little doubt that this executionhelped to make up the decisions ofmany a perplexed mind in after times.The man who fights needs have nofear of court-martials in England.This was a most important pointgained. The greatest of living soldiershas said, that the only fault which hehad to find with any of his generals,was their dread of responsibility.The court-martial of Byng taught theBritish captains, in the phrase of theimmortal Nelson, that “the officerwho grapples with his enemy, cannever be wrong.”

On the 25th of October King GeorgeII. died. He had been in good healthpreviously, had risen from bed, takenhis chocolate, and talked of walkingin the gardens of Kensington. Thepage had left the room, and hearing anoise of something falling, hurriedback. He found the King on thefloor, who only said, “Call Amelia,”and expired. He was seventy-sevenyears old, and had reigned thirty-fouryears.

The King left but few recollections,and those negative. He had not connectedhimself with the feelings ofthe country; he had not patronisedthe fine arts, nor protected literature.He was wholly devoted to continentalpolitics, and had adhered tosome continental habits, which increasedhis unpopularity with thegraver portion of the people of England.

In 1763 Lord Hardwicke’s healthbegan visibly to give way. He hadlost his wife, and had lost his oldfriend the Duke of Newcastle. Deathwas every where among the circle ofthose distinguished persons who hadbeen the companions of his active days.He had great comfort, however, inthat highest of comforts to old age,the distinctions and talents of his sons,who had all risen into public rank.But the common fate of all mankindhad now come upon him; and on the6th of March he breathed his last.“Serene and composed, I saw him inhis last moments, and he looked likean innocent child in its nurse’s arms,”is the note of his son. He was seventy-four.His remains were interred inthe parish church of Wimpole.

The peerage and estates still continuein the family, and are nowrepresented by the estimable and intelligentson of the late Admiral SirJoseph Yorke. On the death of theChancellor’s eldest son, who had succeededto the title, the eldest son ofMr Charles Yorke became LordHardwicke. This nobleman, who wasremarkable for scholarship and refinementof taste, had held the anxiousoffice of Lord Lieutenant of Ireland inthe year of the Rebellion 1798. Hisson, Lord Royston, a very accomplishedperson, being lost by shipwreckin the seas, the son of the well-knownadmiral, who had been so unhappilykilled by a flash of lightningin a boat off Portsmouth, becamethe heir.

It is in the history of men like LordHardwicke that England justly pridesherself. Here is an instance of theprizes which lie before the vigour,talents, and principles of her greatmen. The son of a country solicitorrises to the highest rank of a subject,forces his way through all the obstaclesof narrow means, professional prejudice,learned difficulty, and humblebirth; takes his place among the firstranks of the aristocracy, guides thelaw, shares in the first influence of thestate, is the pillar of government, andchief councillor of his king; accumulatesa vast fortune, becomes masterof magnificent estates, and founds afamily holding in succession distinguishedoffices in church and state,and still forming a portion of the nobilityof England. And all this wasdone by the talents of a single individual.Long may the constitutionlive which offers such triumphs tointegrity and learning, and glory beto the country which has such men,and fixes her especial renown on theirfame!

The biography is vigorous, intelligent,and remarkably interesting. Nohistorian can in future write the“Reign of George II.” without it. Itpasses through times of singularimportance: and while the volumesare essential to the student of legalhistory, they offer a high gratificationto the general reader.

CHAPTER I.
HEADS OR TAILS?

I like political ovations. It is avery pleasant thing to perambulateEurope in the guise of a regenerator,sowing the good seed of politicaleconomy in places which have hithertobeen barren, and enlighteningthe heathen upon the texture ofcalico, and the blessings of unreciprocalfree-trade. I rather flatter myselfthat I have excited considerablesensation in certain quarters of Europe,previously plunged in darkness, andunillumined by the argand lamp ofManchester philosophy. Since Septemberlast, I have not been idle, buthave borne the banner of regenerationfrom the Baltic to the shores of theBosphorus.

As the apostle of peace and plenty,I have every where been rapturouslygreeted. Never, I believe, was there asincerer, a more earnest wish prevalentthroughout the nations for the maintenanceof universal tranquillity thannow; never a better security for thatfraternisation which we all so earnestlydesire; never a more peaceful or unrevolutionaryepoch. Such, at least,were my ideas a short time ago, when,after having fulfilled a secret missionof some delicacy in a very distant partof the Continent, I turned my facehomewards, and retraced my stepsin the direction of my own GlaswegianMecca. In passing throughItaly, I found that country deeplyengaged in plans of social organisation,and much cheered by the sympathisingpresence of a member of her BritannicMajesty’s cabinet. It was delightfulto witness the good feeling whichseemed to prevail between the Britishunaccredited minister and the scumof the Ausonian population,—themutual politeness and sympathy exhibitedby each of the high contractingparties,—and the perfect understandingon the part of the Lazzaroni,of the motives which had induced thenorthern peer to absent himself fromfelicity awhile, and devote the wholeof his vast talents and genius to thecause of foreign insurrection. I hadjust time to congratulate Pope Piusupon the charming prospect whichwas before him, and to say a fewhurried words regarding the superiorityof cotton to Christianity as auniversal tranquillising medium, whencertain unpleasant rumours from thefrontier forced their way to theEternal City, and convinced me of thepropriety of continuing my retreattowards the land of my nativity.Not that I fear steel, or have anyabstract repugnance to grape, butmy mission was emphatically oneof peace; I had a great duty todischarge to my country, and thatmight have been lamentably curtailedby the bullet of some blunderingAustrian.

Behold me, then, at Paris—thatAspasian capital of the world. I hadoften visited it before in the characterof a tourist and literateur, but neveruntil now as a politician. True, Iwas not accredited: I enjoyed neitherdiplomatic rank, nor the more soothingsalary which is its accompaniment.But, in these times, suchdistinctions are rapidly fading away.I had seen with my own eyes a gooddeal of spontaneous diplomacy, whichcertainly did not seem to flow in theregular channel; and, furthermore, Icould personally testify to the weightattached abroad to private commercialcrusades. I needed no officialcostume; I was the representative ofa popular movement; I was thechampion of a class; and my nameand my principles were alike familiarto the ears of the illuminati of Europe.Formerly I had been proud of associatingwith Eugène Sue, CharlesNodier, Paul de Kock, and othercharacters of ephemeral literary celebrity;I had wasted my time in orgiesat the Café de Londres, or the Rocherde Cancale, and was but too happyto be admitted to those little partiesof pleasure in which the majorityof the cavaliers are feuilletonists, andthe dames, terrestrial stars from theconstellation of the Théatre des Variétés.Now I looked back on thisformer phase of my existence with aconsciousness of having wasted myenergies. I had shot into anothersphere—was entitled to take rankwith Thiers, Odillon Barrot, Crémieux,and other champions of the people;and I resolved to comport myselfaccordingly. I do not feel at libertyto enter into the exact details of thepublic business which detained mefor some time in Paris. It is enoughto say, that I was warmly and cordiallyreceived, and on the best possibleterms with the members of theextreme gauche.

One afternoon about the middle ofFebruary, I was returning from theChamber of Deputies, meditating veryseriously upon the nature of a debatewhich I had just heard, regarding theopposition of ministers to the holdingof a Reform banquet in Paris, andin which my friend Barrot had bornea very conspicuous share. At thecorner of the Place de la Concorde, Iobserved a tall swarthy man in theuniform of the National Guard, engagedin cheapening a poodle. I thought I recognisedthe face—hesitated, stopped,and in a moment was in the arms ofmy illustrious friend, the Count ofMonte-Christo, and Marquis Davy dela Pailleterie!

“Capdibious!” cried the author ofTrois Mousquetaires—“Who wouldhave thought to see you here?Welcome, my dear Dunshunner, athousand times to Paris. Where haveyou been these hundred years?”

“Voyaging, like yourself, to theEast, my dear Marquis,” replied I.

“Ah, bah! That is an old joke. Inever was nearer Egypt than the Boisde Boulogne; however, I did manageto mystify the good public about thebaths of Alexandria. But how cameyou here just now? Dix mille tonnerres!They told me you had beenmade pair d’Angleterre.”

“Why, no; not exactly. Therewas some talk of it, I believe. Butjealousy—jealousy, you know—”

“Ah, yes,—I comprehend! Ce vilainPalmerston, n’est-ce pas? But that isalways the way; ministers are alwaysthe same. You will hardly credit it,my dear friend, but I—I with my ancienttitle—and the most popularauthor of France, am not even amember of the Chamber of Deputies!”

“You amaze me!”

“Yes—after all, you manage betterin England. There is that little D’Israeli—veryclever man—MoncetonMilles, Bourring, bien mauvais poètes,and Wakeley, all in the legislature;while here the literary interest is altogetherunrepresented.”

“Surely, my dear Marquis, you forget—there’sLamartine.”

“Lamartine! a mere sentimentalist—anobody! No, my dear friend;France must be regenerated. Thedaughter of glory, she cannot livewithout progression.”

“How, Marquis? I thought thatyou and Montpensier”—

“Were friends! True enough. Itwas I who settled the Spanish marriages.There, I rather flatter myself,I had your perfidious Albion on thehip. But, to say the truth, I am tiredof family alliances. We want somethingmore to keep us alive—somethingstartling, in short—somethinglike the Pyramids and Moscow, to giveus an impulse forward into the darkgulf of futurity. The limits of Algeriaare too contracted for the fluttering ofour national banner. We want freedom,less taxation, and a more extendedfrontier.”

“And cannot all these,” saidI, unwilling to lose the opportunityof converting so remarkable man asthe Count of Monte-Christo tothe grand principles of Manchester—“Cannotthese be attained by morepeaceful methods than the subversionof general tranquillity? What is freedom,my dear Marquis, but an unlimitedexportation of cotton abroad,with double task hours of wholesomelabour at home? How will you diminishyour taxation better, than byreducing all duties on imports, untilthe deficit is laid directly upon theshoulders of a single uncomplainingclass? Why seek to extend yourfrontier, whilst we in England, out ofsheer love to the world at large, arerapidly demolishing our colonies? Didyou ever happen,” continued I, pullingfrom my pocket a bundle of the Manchestermanifestos, “to peruse any ofthese glorious epitomes of reason andof political science? Are you familiarwith the soul-stirring tracts of Thompsonand of Bright? Did you ever readthe Socialist’s scheme for universalphilanthropy, which Cobden”—

“Peste!” replied the illustriousnobleman, “what the deuce do we carefor the opinions of Monsieur Tonson,or any of your low manufacturers? Bymy honour, Dunshunner, I am afraidyou are losing your head. Don’t youknow, my dear fellow, that all greatrevolutions spring from us, the menof genius? It is we who are the truerousers of the people; we, the poetsand romancers, who are the source ofall legitimate power. Witness Voltaire,Rousseau, De Beranger, and—I maysay it without any imputation of vanity—theMarquis Davy de la Pailleterie!”

“Yours is a new theory!” said I,musingly.

“New! Pray pardon me—it is asold as literature itself! No revolutioncan be effectual unless it has the finearts for its basis. Simple as I stand here,I demand no more time than a monthto wrap Europe in universal war.”

“You don’t say so seriously?”

“On my honour.”

“Give me leave to doubt it.”

“Should you like a proof?”

“Not on so great a scale, certainly.I am afraid the results would be tooserious to justify the experiment.”

“Ah, bah! You are a philanthropist.What are a few thousand livescompared with the triumph of mind?”

“Not much to you, perhaps, butcertainly something to the owners.But come, my dear friend, you arejesting. You don’t mean to insinuatethat you possess any such power?”

“I do indeed.”

“But the means? Granting thatyou have the power—and all Europeacknowledges the extraordinary facultiesof the author of Monte-Christo—sometime would be required for theirdevelopment. You cannot hope toinoculate the mind of a nation in amoment.”

“I did not say a moment—I saida month.

“And dare I ask your recipe?”

“A very simple one. Two romances,each in ten volumes, and acouple of melodramas.”

“What! of your own?”

“Of mine,” replied the Marquis dela Pailleterie.

“I wish to heaven that I knew howyou set about it. I have heard G. P.R. James backed for a volume a month,but this sinks him into utter insignificance.”

“There is no difficulty in explainingit. He writes,—I never do.

“You never write?”

“Never.”

“Then how the mischief do youmanage?”

“I compose. Since I met you, Ihave composed and dictated a wholechapter of the Memoirs of a Physician.”

“Dictated?”

“To be sure. It is already writtendown, and will be circulated throughoutParis to-morrow.”

“Monsieur le Marquis—have I thehonour to hold an interview withSatan?”

“Mon cher, vous me flattez beaucoup!I have not thought it necessary tointrust my experiences to the sympathisingbosom of M. FrédéricSoulié.”

“Have you a familiar spirit, then?”said I, casting a suspicious glance towardsthe poodle, then vigorouslyengaged in hunting through its woollyfleece.

The Marquis smiled.

“The ingenuity of your supposition,my dear friend, deserves a specificanswer. I have indeed a familiar spirit—thatis, I am possessed of a confidant,ready at all times, though absent, tochronicle my thoughts, and to express,in corresponding words, thespontaneous emotions of my soul.Nay, you need not start. The art isan innocent one, and its practice,though divulged, would not exposeme in any way to the censures of thechurch.”

“You pique my curiosity strangely!”

“Well, then, listen. For someyears I have paid the utmost attentionto the science of animal magnetism,an art which undoubtedly lay atthe foundation of the ancient Chaldeanlore, and which, though now revived,has been debased by the artifices andquackery of knaves. I need not gointo details. After long search, Ihave succeeded in finding a beingwhich, in its dormant or spiritualstate, has an entire affinity with myown. When awake, you would supposeLeontine Deschappelles to be amere ordinary though rather interestingfemale, endowed certainly with amiraculous sensibility for music, butnot otherwise in any way remarkable.But, when asleep, she becomes as itwere the counterpart or reflex of myself.Every thought which passesthrough my bosom simultaneouslyarises in hers. I do not need even toutter the words. By some miraculousprocess, these present themselves asvividly to her as if I had bestowed theutmost labour upon composition. Ihave but to throw her into a magneticsleep, and my literary product for theday is secured. I go forth throughParis, mingle in society, appear idleand insouciant; and yet all the whilethe ideal personages of my tale arepassing over the mirror of my mind,and performing their allotted duty.I have reached such perfection in theart, that I can compose two or eventhree romances at once. I returntowards evening, and then I findLeontine, pale indeed and exhausted,but with a vast pile of manuscriptbefore her, which contains the faithfultranscript of my thoughts. Now, perhaps,you will cease to wonder at anapparent fertility, which, I am aware,has challenged the admiration andastonishment of Europe.”

All this was uttered by Monte-Christowith such exemplary gravity,that I stood perfectly confounded. Iftrue, it was indeed the solution of thegreatest literary problem of the age;but I could hardly suppress the ideathat he was making me the victim of ahoax.

“And whereabouts does she dwell,this Demoiselle Leontine?” said I.

“At my house,” he replied: “sheis my adopted child. Poor Leontine!sometimes when I look at her wastedcheek, I feel a pang of regret to thinkthat she is paying so dear for a celebritywhich must be immortal. Butit is the fate of genius, my friend, andall of us must submit!”

As the Marquis uttered this sentimentwith a pathetic sigh, I could notrefrain from glancing at his manlyand athletic proportions. Certainlythere was no appearance of over-fatigueor lassitude there. He lookedthe very incarnation of good cheer,and had contrived to avert from hisown person all vestige of those calamitieswhich he was pleased so feelinglyto deplore. He might havebeen exhibited at the Frères Provençauxas a splendid result of their nutritiveand culinary system.

“You doubt me still, I see,” saidDe la Pailleterie. “Well, I cannotwonder at it. Such things, I know,sound strange in the apprehension ofyou incredulous islanders. But Iwill even give you a proof, Dunshunner,which is more than I would doto any other man—for I cannot forgetthe service you rendered me long agoat the Isle de Bourbon. You seethis little instrument,—put it to yourear. I shall summon Leontine tospeak, and the sound of her reply willbe conveyed to you through that silvertube, which is in strict rapport withher magnetic constitution.”

So saying, he placed in my hand aminiature silver trumpet, beautifullywrought, which I immediately placedto my ear.

Monte-Christo drew himself up tohis full height, fixed his fine eyesearnestly upon vacuity, made severalpasses upwards with his hand, andthen said,

“My friend, do you hear me? Ifso, answer.”

Immediately, and to my unexpectedsurprise, there thrilled throughthe silver tube a whisper of miraculoussweetness.

“Great master! I listen—I obey!”

“May St Mungo, St Mirren, StRollox, and all the other westernsaints, have me in their keeping!”cried I. “Heard ever mortal manaught like this?”

“Hush—be silent!” said the Marquis,“or you may destroy the spell.Leontine, have you concluded thechapter?”

“I have,” said the voice: “shallI read the last sentences?”

“Do,” replied the adept, whoseemed to hear the response simultaneouslywith myself, by intuition.

The voice went on. “At thismoment the door of the apartmentopened, and Chon rushed into theroom. ‘Well, my little sister, howgoes it?’ said the Countess. ‘Bad.’‘Indeed!’ ‘It is but too true.’ ‘DeNoailles?’ ‘No.’ ‘Ha! D’Aiguillon?’‘You deceive yourself.’ ‘Whothen?’ ‘Philip de Taverney, theChevalier Maison-Rouge!’ ‘Ha!’cried the Countess, ‘then I am lost!’and she sank senseless upon thecushions.”

“Well done, Leontine!” exclaimedDe la Pailleterie; “that is the seventhchapter I have composed sincemorning. Are you fatigued, mychild?”

“Very—very weary,” replied thevoice, in a melancholy cadence.

“You shall have rest soon. Comehither. Do you see me?”

“Ah! you are very cruel!”

“I understand. Cease to be fatigued—Iwill it!”

“Ah! thanks, thanks!”

“Do you see me now?”

“I do. Oh, how handsome!”

The Marquis caressed his whiskers.

“Where am I?”

“At the corner of the Place de laConcorde, near the Tuilleries’ gardens.Ah, you naughty man, you have beensmoking!”

“Who is with me?”

“A poodle-dog,” replied the voice.“What a pretty creature! he is justsnapping at a fly. Come here, poorfellow!”

The poodle gave an unearthly yell,and rushed between the legs of Monte-Christo,thereby nearly capsizing thatextraordinary magician.

“Who else?” asked the Marquis.

“A tall man, with sandy-colouredhair. La, how funny!”

“What now?”

“I am laughing.”

“At what?”

“At his dress.”

“How is he dressed?”

“In a blue coat with gilt buttons,a white hat, and such odd scarlet-and-yellowtrowsers!”

I stood petrified. It was quitetrue. In a moment of abstraction Ihad that morning donned a pair ofinteguments of the M’Tavish tartan,and my legs were of the colour of theflamingo.

“Is he handsome?”

I did not exactly catch the response.

“That will do, my dear Marquis,”said I, returning him the trumpet. “Iam now perfectly convinced of thetruth of your assertions, and can nolonger wonder at the marvellous fertilityof your pen—I beg pardon—ofyour invention. Pray, do not troubleyour fair friend any further upon myaccount. I have heard quite enoughto satisfy me that I am in the presenceof the most remarkable man inEurope.”

“Pooh! this is a mere bagatelle.Any man might do the same, with aslight smattering of the occult sciences.But we were talking, if I recollectright, about moral influence andpower. I maintain that the authorsof romance and melodrama are thetrue masters of the age: you, on thecontrary, believe in free-trade andthe jargon of political economy. Isit not so?”

“True. We started from thatpoint.”

“Well, then, would you like to seea revolution?”

“Not on my account, my dearMarquis. I own the interest of thespectacle, but it demands too great asacrifice.”

“Not at all. In fact, I have madeup my mind for a bouleversem*nt thisspring, as I seriously believe it wouldtend very much to the respectabilityof France. It must come sooner orlater. Louis Philippe is well up inyears, and it cannot make much differenceto him. Besides, I am tiredof Guizot. He gives himself airs asan historian which are absolutely insufferable,and France can submit toit no longer. The only doubt I entertainis, whether this ought to be anew ministry, or an entire dynasticalchange.”

“You are the best judge. For myown part, having no interest in thematter further than curiosity, a changeof ministers would satisfy me.”

“Ay, but there are considerationsbeyond that. Much may be said uponboth sides. There is danger certainlyin organic changes, at the same timewe must work out by all means ourfull and legitimate freedom. Whatwould you do in such a case of perplexity?”

Victor Hugo’s simple and romanticmethod of deciding between hostileopinions, as exemplified in his valuabledrama of Lucrèce Borgia, at onceoccurred to me.

“Are you quite serious,” said I,“in wishing to effect a change ofsome kind?”

“I am,” said the Marquis, “asresolute as Prometheus on the Caucasus.”

“Then, suppose we toss for it; andso leave the question of a new cabinetor dynasty entirely to the arbitrationof fate?”

“A good and a pious idea!” repliedthe Marquis de la Pailleterie.“Here is a five-franc piece. I shalltoss, and you shall call.”

Up went the dollar, big with thefate of France, twirling in the eveningair.

“Heads for a new ministry!”cried I, and the coin fell chinking onthe gravel. We both rushed up.

“It is tails!” said the Marquisdevoutly. “Destiny! thou hast willedit, and I am but thine instrument.Farewell, my friend; in ten days youshall hear more of this. Meantime,I must be busy. Poor Leontine!thou hast a heavy task before thee!”

“If you are going homewards,”said I, “permit me to accompany youso far. Our way lies together.”

“Not so,” replied the Marquisthoughtfully. “I dine to-day atVéfour’s, and in the evening I mustattend the Théatre de la Porte StMartin. I am never so much aloneas in the midst of excitement. OFrance, France! what do I not endurefor thee!”

So saying, Monte-Christo extendedhis hand, which I wrung affectionatelywithin my own. I felt proud of thelink which bound me to so high andelevated a being.

“Ah, my friend!” said I, “ah,my friend! there is yet time topause. Would it not be wiser andbetter to forego this enterprisealtogether?”

“You forget,” replied the othersolemnly. “Destiny has willed it.Go, let us each fulfil our destiny!”

So saying, this remarkable mantucked the poodle under his arm, andin a few moments was lost to myview amidst the avenues of the gardenof the Tuilleries.

CHAPTER II.
THE IDES OF MARCH.

Several days elapsed, during whichParis maintained its customary tranquillity.The eye of a stranger couldhave observed very little alteration inthe demeanour of the populace; andeven in the salons, there was no strongsurmise of any coming event of importance.In the capital of Franceone looks for a revolution as quietlyas the people of England await theadvent of “the coming man.” Theevent is always prophesied—sometimesapparently upon the eve ofbeing fulfilled; but the failures are sonumerous as to prevent inordinatedisappointment. In the Chamberthere were some growlings about theReform banquet, and the usual vaguethreats if any attempt should be madeto coerce the liberties of the people;but these demonstrations had been sooften repeated, that nobody had faithin any serious or critical result.

Little Thiers, to be sure, blustered;and Odillon Barrot assumed pompousairs, and tried to look like a Romancitizen, at our small patriotic cosmopolitanreunions; but I never could believethat either of them was thoroughlyin earnest. We all know the game thatis played in Britain, where the doorsof the ministerial cabinet are constructedon the principle of a Dutchclock. When it is fair weather, theambitious figure of Lord John Russellis seen mounting guard on the outside—whenit threatens to blow, the smallsentry retires, and makes way for theTamworth grenadier. Just so was itin Paris. Guizot, if wheeled from hisperch, was expected to be replacedby the smarter and more enterprisingThiers, and slumbrous Duchatel bythe broad-chested and beetle-browedBarrot.

At the same time, I could notaltogether shut my eyes to the moreactive state of the press. I do notmean to aver that the mere politicalarticles exhibited more than theirusual vigour; but throughout the wholeliterature of the day there ran an under-currentof revolutionary feelingwhich betokened wonderful unanimity.Less than usual was said about Marengo,Austerlitz, or even the threeglorious days of July. The minds ofmen were directed further back, to aperiod when the Republic was all inall, when France stood isolated amongthe nations, great in crime, anddrunken with her new-won freedom.The lapse of half a century is enoughto throw a sort of halo around thememory of the veriest villain and assassin.We have seen Dick Turpinand Jack Sheppard exhumed fromtheir graves to be made the heroes ofmodern romance; and the same alchemywas now applied to the honouredashes of Anacharsis Clootz, and otherpatriots of the Reign of Terror.

All this was done very insidiously,and, I must say, with consummateskill. Six or seven simultaneous romancesreminded the public of itsformer immunity from rule, and aboutas many melodramas denounced utterperdition to tyranny. I liked the fun.Man is by nature a revolutionary animal,especially when he has nothingto lose; and it is needless to remarkthat a very small portion indeed ofmy capital was invested in the foreignfunds.

I saw little of my friend the Marquis,beyond meeting him at the usualpromenades, and bowing to him atthe theatres, where he never failed topresent himself. A casual observerwould have thought that De la Pailleteriehad no other earthly vocationthan to perambulate Paris as a merevotary of pleasure. Once or twice,however, towards evening, I encounteredhim in his uniform of the NationalGuard, with fire in his eye,haste in his step, and a settled deliberationon his forehead; and I couldnot help, as I gazed upon him, feelingtransported backwards to the periodof Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

At length I received the expectedbillet, and on the appointed eveningrendered myself punctually at hishouse. The rooms were already morethan half filled by the company.

“Are the Ides of March come?”said I, pressing the proffered hand ofMonte-Christo.

“Come—but not yet over,” he replied.“You have seen the new playwhich has produced such a markedsensation?”

“I have. Wonderful production!Whose is it?”

A mysterious smile played upon thelip of my friend.

“Come,” said he, “let me introduceyou to a countryman, a sympathiser;one who, like you, is desirousthat our poor country should participatein the blessings of the Britishloom. Mr Hutton Bagsby—Mr Dunshunner.”

Bagsby was a punchy man, with abald head, and a nose which betokenedhis habitual addiction to the fierygrape of Portugal.

“Servant, sir!” said he. “Understandyou’re a free-trader, supporterof Cobden’s principles, and inclined togo the whole hog. Glad to see aman of common understanding here.Damme, sir, when I speak to theseFrench fellows about calico, theybegin to talk about fraternity; which,as I take it, means eating frogs, for Idon’t pretend to understand their outlandishgibberish.”

“Every nation has its hobby, youknow, Mr Bagsby,” I replied. “Weconsider ourselves more practical thanthe French, and stick to the mainchance; they, on the other hand, areoccupied with social grievances, andwhat they call the rights of labour.”

“Rights of labour!” exclaimedBagsby. “Hanged if I think labourhas got any rights at all. Blow allprotection! say I. Look after theinterests of the middle classes, andlet capital have its swing. As forthose confounded working fellows,who cares about them? We don’t,I can answer for it. When I was inthe League, we wanted to bring corndown, in order to get work cheaper;and, now that we’ve got it, do youthink we will stand any rubbishabout rights? These French fellowsare a poor set; they don’t understandsound commercial principles.”

“Ha! Lamoricière!” said our host,accosting a general officer who just thenentered the apartment; “how goesit? Any result from to-day’s demonstrationat the Chamber?”

“Ma foi! I should say there is.The banquets are forbidden. Thereis a talk about impeaching ministers;and, in the meantime, the artillery-waggonsare rumbling through thestreets in scores.”

“Then our old friend Macaire islikely to make a stand?”

“It is quite possible that the respectablegentleman may try it,” saidthe commandant, regaling himselfwith a pinch. “By the way, theNational Guard must turn out to-morrowearly. The rappel will bebeat by daybreak. There is a stiralready in the Boulevards; and, as Idrove here, I saw the people in thousandsreading the evening journals bytorch-light.”

“Such is liberty!” exclaimed alittle gentleman, who had been listeningeagerly to the General. “Suchis liberty! she holds her bivouac atnightfall by the torch of reason; and,on the morrow, the dawn is red withthe brightness of the sun of Austerlitz!”

A loud hum of applause followedthe enunciation of this touching sentiment.

“Our friend is great to-night,”whispered Monte-Christo; “and hemay be greater to-morrow. If LouisPhilippe yields, he may be prime minister—iffiring begins, I have a shrewdnotion he won’t be any where. Ah,Monsieur Albert! welcome fromCannes. We have been expectingyou for some time, and you havearrived not a moment too soon!”

The individual thus accosted wasof middle height, advanced age, andvery plainly dressed. He wore arusty gray surtout, trousers of plaidcheck, and the lower part of his countenancewas buried in the folds of ablack cravat. The features were remarkable;and, somehow or other,I thought that I had seen them before.The small gray eyes rolled restlesslybeneath their shaggy pent-house;the cheek-bones were remarkablyprominent; a deep furrow was cut oneither side of the mouth; and thenose, which was of singular conformation,seemed endowed with spontaneouslife, and performed a seriesof extraordinary mechanical revolutions.Altogether, the appearance ofthe man impressed me with the ideaof strong, ill-regulated energy, andof that restless activity which is emphaticallythe mother of mischief.

Monsieur Albert did not seem verydesirous of courting attention. Herather winked than replied to ourhost, threw a suspicious look at Bagsby,who was staring him in the face,honoured me with a survey, and thenedged away into the crowd. I feltrather curious to know somethingmore about him.

“Pray, my dear Marquis,” said I,“who may this Monsieur Albertbe?”

“Albert! Is it possible that youdo not—but I forget. I can only tellyou, mon cher, that this MonsieurAlbert is a very remarkable man, andwill be heard of hereafter among theranks of the people. You seem tosuspect a mystery? Well, well!There are mysteries in all greatdramas, such as that which is nowgoing on around us; so, for the present,you must be content to knowmy friend as simple Albert, ouvrier.”

“Hanged if I haven’t seen thatfellow in the black choker before!”said Mr Bagsby; “or, at all events,I’ve seen his double. I say, MrDunshunner, who is the chap thatcame in just now?”

“I really cannot tell, Mr Bagsby.Monte-Christo calls him simply MrAlbert, a workman.”

“That’s their fraternity, I suppose!If I thought he was an operative,I’d be off in the twinkling of a billy-roller.But it’s all a hoax. Do youknow, I think he’s very like a certainnoble—”

Here an aide-de-camp, booted andspurred, dashed into the apartment.

“General! you are wanted immediately:the émeute has begun, halfParis is rushing to arms, and theyare singing the Marseillaise throughthe streets!”

“Any thing else?” said theGeneral, who, with inimitable sangfroid, was sipping a tumbler oforgeat.

“Guizot has resigned.”

“Bravo!” cried the little gentlemanabove referred to—and he cut a caperthat might have done credit to Vestris.“Bravo! there is some chance forcapable men now.”

“I was told,” continued the aide-de-camp,“as I came along, thatCount Molé had been sent for.”

“Molé! bah! an imbecile!” mutteredthe diminutive statesman. “Itwas not worth a revolution to producesuch a miserable result.”

“And what say the people?” askedour host.

“Cela ne suffira pas!”

“Ah, les bons citoyens! Ah, lesbraves garçons! Je les connais!” Andhere the candidate for office executeda playful pirouette.

“Nevertheless,” said Lamoricière,“we must do our duty.”

“Which is?” interrupted De laPailleterie.

“To see the play played out, at allevents,” replied the military patriot;“and therefore, messieurs, I have thehonour to wish you all a very goodevening.”

“But stop, General,” cried two orthree voices: “what would you adviseus to do?”

“In the first place, gentlemen,”replied the warrior, and his wordswere listened to with the deepest attention,“I would recommend you,as the streets are in a disturbed state,to see the ladies home. That dutyperformed, you will probably beguided by your own sagacity andtastes. The National Guard will, ofcourse, muster at their quarters.Gentlemen who are of an architecturalgenius will probably be gratified byan opportunity of inspecting severalbarricades in different parts of thecity; and I have always observed,that behind a wall of this description,there is little danger from a passingbullet. Others, who are fond of fireworks,may possibly find an opportunityof improving themselves in thepyrotechnic art. But I detain you,gentlemen, I fear unjustifiably; andas I observe that the firing has begun,I have the honour once more torenew my salutations.”

And in fact a sharp fusillade washeard without, towards the conclusionof the General’s harangue. The wholeparty was thrown into confusion;several ladies showed symptoms offainting, and were incontinently receivedin the arms of their respectivecavaliers.

The aspiring statesman had disappeared.Whether he got under asofa, or up the chimney, I do notknow, but he vanished utterly frommy eyes. Monte-Christo was in aprodigious state of excitement.

“I have kept my word, you see,”he said: “this may be misconstruedin history, but I call upon you to bearwitness that the revolution was a triumphof genius. O France!” continuedhe, filling his pocket withmacaroons, “the hour of thine emancipationhas come!”

Observing a middle-aged lady makingtowards the door without maleescort, I thought it incumbent uponme to tender my services, in compliancewith the suggestions of the gallantLamoricière. I was a good dealobstructed, however, by Mr HuttonBagsby, who, in extreme alarm, wascleaving to the skirts of my garments.

“Can I be of the slightest assistancein offering my escort to madame?”said I with a respectful bow.

The lady looked at me with unfeignedsurprise.

“Monsieur mistakes, I believe,”said she quietly. “Perhaps he thinksI carry a fan. Look here”—and sheexhibited the butt of an enormoushorse-pistol. “The authoress ofLélia knows well how to commandrespect for herself.”

“George Sand!” I exclaimed inamazement.

“The same, monsieur; who willbe happy to meet you this evening atan early hour, behind the barricade ofthe Rue Montmartre.”

“O good Lord!” cried Mr HuttonBagsby, “here is a precious kettle offish! They are firing out yonder likemad; they’ll be breaking into thehouses next, and we’ll all be murderedto a man.”

“Do not be alarmed, Mr Bagsby;this is a mere political revolution. Thepeople have no animosity whatever tostrangers.”

“Haven’t they? I wish you hadseen the way the waiter looked thismorning at my dressing case. They’dtie me up to the lamp-post at once forthe sake of my watch and seals! AndI don’t know a single word of theirbloody language. I wish the leadersof the League had been hanged beforethey sent me here.”

“What! then you are here upon amission?”

“Yes, I’m a delegate, as they callit. O Lord, I wish somebody wouldtake me home!”

“Where do you reside, MrBagsby?”

“I don’t know the name of thestreet, and the man who brought mehere has just gone away with a gun!Oh dear! what shall I do?”

I really felt considerably embarrassed.By this time Monte-Christoand most of his guests had departed,and I knew no one to whom I couldconsign the unfortunate and terrifiedfree-trader. I sincerely pitied poorBagsby, who was eminently unfittedfor this sort of work; and was justabout to offer him an asylum in myown apartments, when I felt myshoulder touched, and, turning round,recognised the intelligent though sarcasticfeatures of Albert the ouvrier.

“You are both English?” he saidin a perfectly pure dialect. “Ehbien, I like the English, and I wishthey understood us better. You arein difficulties. Well, I will assist.Come with me. You may dependupon the honour of a member of theInstitute. Workman as I am, I havesome influence here. Come—is it abargain? Only one caution, gentlemen:remember where you are, andthat the watchwords for the night arefraternité, égalité! You comprehend?Let us lose no time, but follow me.”

So saying, he strode to the door.Bagsby said not a word, butclutched my arm. But as we descendedthe staircase, he muttered inmy ear as well as the chittering of histeeth would allow:—

“It is him—I am perfectly certain!Who on earth would have believedthis! O Lord Harry!”

CHAPTER III.
THE BARRICADES.

The streets were in a state of wildcommotion. Every where we encounteredcrowds of truculent workingfellows, dressed in blouses and armedwith muskets, who were pressing towardsthe Boulevards. Sometimesthey passed us in hurried groups; atother times the way was interceptedby a regular procession bearingtorches, and singing the war-hymn ofMarseilles. Those who judge of thephysical powers of the French peopleby the specimens they usually encounterin the streets of Paris, arecertain to form an erroneous estimate.A more powerful and athletic racethan the workmen is scarcely to befound in Europe; and it was not, Iconfess, without a certain sensationof terror, that I found myself launchedinto the midst of this wild and uncontrollablemob, whose furious gesturestestified to their excitement, andwhose brawny arms were bared, andready for the work of slaughter.

Considering the immense militaryforce which was known to be stationedin and around Paris, it seemed to mequite miraculous that no effective demonstrationhad been made. Possiblythe troops might be drawn upin some of the wider streets or squares,but hitherto we had encountered none.Several bodies of the National Guard,it is true, occasionally went by; butthese did not seem to be consideredas part of the military force, nor didthey take any active steps towards thequelling of the disturbance. At times,however, the sound of distant firingwarned us that the struggle hadbegun.

Poor Bagsby clung to my arm ina perfect paroxysm of fear. I hadcautioned him, as we went out, on noaccount to open his lips, or to makeany remarks which might serve tobetray his origin. The creature wasquite docile, and followed in the footstepsof Monsieur Albert like a lamb.That mysterious personage strodeboldly forward, chuckling to himselfas he went, and certainly exhibiteda profound knowledge of the topographyof Paris. Once or twice wewere stopped and questioned; but afew cabalistic words from our leadersolved all difficulties, and we wereallowed to proceed amidst generaland vociferous applause.

At length, as we approached thetermination of a long and narrowstreet, we heard a tremendous shouting,and the unmistakable sounds ofconflict.

“Here come the Municipal Guards!”cried M. Albert, quickly. “Thesefellows fight like demons, and have noregard for the persons of the people.Follow me, gentlemen, this way, andspeedily, if you do not wish to besliced like blanc-mange!”

With these words the ouvrier divedinto a dark lane, and we lost no timein following his example. I had noidea whatever of our locality, but itseemed evident that we were in oneof the worst quarters of Paris. Everylamp in the lane had been broken, sothat we could form no opinion of itscharacter from vision. It was, however,ankle-deep of mud—a circ*mstanceby no means likely to prolongthe existence of my glazed boots.Altogether, I did not like the situation;and, had it not been for theguarantee as to M. Albert’s respectability,implied from his acquaintancewith Monte-Christo, I think I shouldhave preferred trusting myself to thetender mercies of the MunicipalGuard. As for poor Bagsby, histeeth were going like castanets.

“You seem cold, sir,” said Albert,in a deep and husky voice, as wereached a part of the lane apparentlyfenced in by dead walls. “This is awild night for a Manchester weaverto be wandering in the streets ofParis!”

“O Lord! you know me, then?”groaned Bagsby, with a piteous accent.

“Know you? ha, ha!” replied theother, with the laugh of the third ruffianin a melodrama; “who does notknow citizen Bagsby, the delegate—Bagsby,the great champion of theLeague—Bagsby, the millionnaire!”

“It’s not true, upon my soul!”cried Bagsby; “I am nothing of thekind. I haven’t a hundred pounds inthe world that I can properly call myown.”

“The world wrongs you, then,”said Albert; “and, to say the truth,you keep up the delusion by carryingso much bullion about you. I shouldsay, now, that the chain round yourneck must be worth some fifty louis.”

Bagsby made no reply, but clutchedmy arm with the grasp of a co*ckatoo.

“This is a very dreary place,”continued Albert, in a tone thatmight have emanated from a sepulchre.“Last winter, three men wererobbed and murdered in this verypassage. There is a conduit to theSeine below, and I saw the bodiesnext morning in the Morgue, withtheir throats cut from ear to ear!”

From a slight interjectional sound,I concluded that Bagsby was praying.

“These,” said the ouvrier, “arethe walls of a slaughter-house: onthe other side is the shed where theyordinarily keep the guillotine. Haveyou seen that implement yet, MrBagsby?”

“Mercy on us, no!” groaned thedelegate. “Oh, Mr Albert, whoeveryou are, do take us out of this place,or I am sure I shall lose my reason!If you want my watch, say so atonce, and, upon my word, you areheartily welcome.”

“Harkye, sirrah,” said MonsieurAlbert: “I have more than half amind to leave you here all night foryour consummate impertinence. Iknew you from the very first to be athorough poltroon; but I shall find aproper means of chastising you.Come along, sir; we are past thelane now, and at a place where yourhands may be better employed for theliberties of the people than your headever was in inventing task-work athome.”

We now emerged into an opencourt, lighted by a solitary lamp. Itwas apparently deserted, but, on alow whistle from Monsieur Albert,some twenty or thirty individuals inblouses rushed forth from the doorwaysand surrounded us. I own Idid not feel remarkably comfortableat the moment; for although it wasclear to me that our guide had merelybeen amusing himself at the expense ofBagsby, the apparition of his confederateswas rather sudden and startling.As for Bagsby, he evidently expectedno better fate than an immediate conductto the block.

“You come late, mon capitaine,”said a bloused veteran, armed with amattock. “They have the start ofus already in the Rue des Petit*Champs.”

“Never mind, grognard! we areearly enough for the ball,” said M.Albert. “Have you every thingready as I desired?”

“All ready—spades, levers, pickaxes,and the rest.”

“Arms?”

“Enough to serve our purpose,and we shall soon have more. Butwho are these with you?”

“Fraternisers—two bold Englishmen,who are ready to die for freedom!”

“Vivent les Anglais, et à bas lestyrans!” shouted the blouses.

“This citizen,” continued Albert,indicating the unhappy Bagsby, “isa Cobdenist and a delegate. He hassworn to remain at the barricadesuntil the last shot is fired, and toplant the red banner of the emancipatedpeople upon its summit. Hissoul is thirsting for fraternity. Brothers!open to him your arms.”

Hereupon a regular scramble tookplace for the carcass of Mr HuttonBagsby. Never surely was so muchlove lavished upon any human creature.Patriot after patriot bestowedon him the full-flavoured hug of fraternity,and he emerged from theirgrasp very much in the tattered conditionof a scarecrow.

“Give the citizen delegate a blouseand a pickaxe,” quoth Albert, “andthen for the barricade. You haveyour orders—execute them. Up withthe pavement, down with the trees;fling over every omnibus and cab thatcomes in your way, and fight to thelast drop of your blood for Franceand her freedom. Away!”

With a tremendous shout the patriotsrushed off, hurrying Bagsbyalong with them. The unfortunateman offered no resistance, but theagony depicted on his face mighthave melted the heart of a millstone.

Albert remained silent until thegroup were out of sight, and thenburst into a peal of laughter.

“That little man,” said he, “willgather some useful experiences to-nightthat may last him as long as helives. As for you, Mr Dunshunner,whose name and person are wellknown to me, I presume you haveno ambition to engage in any sucharchitectural constructions?”

I modestly acknowledged my aversionto practical masonry.

“Well, then,” said the ouvrier, “Isuppose you are perfectly competentto take care of yourself. There willbe good fun in the streets, if youchoose to run the risk of seeing it; atthe same time there is safety in stonewalls. ’Gad, I think this will astonishplain John! There’s nothing likeit in his Lives of the Chancellors. Idon’t want, however, to see our friendthe delegate absolutely sacrificed.Will you do me the favour to inquirefor him to-morrow at the barricadedown there? I will answer for it thathe does not make his escape beforethen; and now for Ledru Rollin!”

With these words, and a friendlynod, the eccentric artisan departed,at a pace which showed how little hisactivity had been impaired by years.Filled with painful and conflictingthoughts, I followed the course ofanother street which led me to theRue Rivoli.

Here I had a capital opportunityof witnessing the progress of therevolution. The street was crowdedwith the people shouting, yelling, andhuzzaing; and a large body of theNational Guard, drawn up immediatelyin front of me, seemed to be inhigh favour. Indeed, I was not surprisedat this, on discovering that theofficer in command was no less a personthan my illustrious friend De laPailleterie. He looked as warlike as aLybian lion, though it was impossibleto comprehend what particular sectionof the community were the objects ofhis sublime anger. Indeed, it wasrather difficult to know what the gentlemenin blouses wanted. Somewere shouting for reform, as if thatwere a tangible article which could behanded them from a window; othersdemanded the abdication of ministers—ratherunreasonably I thought,since at that moment there was novestige of a ministry in France;whilst the most practical section ofthe mob was clamorous for the headof Guizot. Presently the shakos andbright bayonets of a large detachmentof infantry were seen approaching,amidst vehement cries of “Vivela Ligne!” They marched up to theNational Guard, who still maintainedtheir ranks. The leading officer lookedpuzzled.

“Who are these?” he said, pointingwith his sword to the Guard.

“I have the honour to informMonsieur,” said Monte-Christo, steppingforward, “that these are thesecond legion of the National Guard!”

“Vive la Garde Nationale!” criedthe officer.

“Vive la Ligne!” reciprocated theMarquis.

Both gentlemen then saluted, andinterchanged snuff-boxes, amidst tremendouscheering from the populace.

“And who are these?” continuedthe officer, pointing to the blouses onthe pavement.

“These are the people,” repliedMonte-Christo.

“They must disperse. My ordersare peremptory,” said the regular.

“The National Guard will protectthem. Monsieur, respect the people!”

“They must disperse,” repeated theofficer.

“They shall not,” replied Monte-Christo.

The moment was critical.

“In that case,” replied the officer,after a pause, “I shall best fulfil myduty by wishing Monsieur a goodevening.”

“You are a brave fellow!” criedthe Marquis, sheathing his sabre;and in a moment the warriors werelocked in a brotherly embrace.

The effect was electric and instantaneous.“Let us all fraternise!”was the cry; and regulars, nationals,and blouses, rushed into each others’arms. The union was complete. Jacoband Esau coalesced without the formalityof an explanation. Ammunitionwas handed over by the troopswithout the slightest scruple, and inreturn many bottles of vin ordinairewere produced for the refreshment ofthe military. No man who witnessedthat scene could have any doubt as tothe final result of the movement.

Presently, however, a smart fusilladewas heard to the right. The cryarose, “They are assassinating thepeople! to the barricades! to thebarricades!” and the whole multitudeswept vehemently forward towardsthe place of contest. Unfortunately,in my anxiety to behold therencontre in which my friend bore sodistinguished a part, I had pressed alittle further forwards than was prudent,and I now found myself in themidst of an infuriated gang of workmen,and urged irresistibly onwardsto the nearest barricade.

“Thou hast no arms, comrade!”cried a gigantic butcher, who strode besideme armed with an enormous axe;“here—take this;” and he thrust asabre into my hand; “take this, andstrike home for la Patrie!”

I muttered my acknowledgmentsfor the gift, and tried to look as likea patriot as possible.

“Tête de Robespierre!” criedanother. “This is better than payingtaxes! A bas la Garde Municipale!à bas tous les tyrans!”

“Tête de Brissot!” exclaimed I, inreturn, thinking it no unwise plan toinvoke the Manes of some of the earlierheroes. This was a slight mistake.

“Quoi? Girondin?” cried thebutcher, with a ferocious scowl.

“Non; corps de Marat!” Ishouted.

“Bon! embrassez-moi donc, camarade!”said the butcher, and so wereached the barricade.

Here the game was going on inearnest. The barricade had beenthrown up hastily and imperfectly,and a considerable body of the MunicipalGuard—who, by the way, behavedthroughout with much intrepidity—wasattempting to dislodge the rioters. Infact, they had almost succeeded. Someten of the insurgents, who were perchedupon the top of the pile, had beenshot down, and no one seemed anxiousto supply their place on that bad eminence.In vain my friend the butcherwaved his axe, and shouted “Enavant!” A considerable number ofvoices, indeed, took up the cry, but aremarkable reluctance was exhibitedin setting the salutary example. Afew minutes more, and the passagewould have been cleared; when all ofa sudden, from the interior of a cabriolet,which formed a sort of parapet tothe embankment, emerged a ghastlyfigure, streaming with gore, andgrasping the drapeau rouge. I neverwas more petrified in my life—therecould be no doubt of the man—it wasHutton Bagsby!

For a moment he stood gazing uponthe tossing multitude beneath. Therewas a brief pause, and even the soldiers,awed by his intrepidity, foreboreto fire. At last, however, theyraised their muskets; when, with ahoarse scream, Bagsby leaped fromthe barricade, and alighted uninjuredon the street. Had Mars descendedin person to lead the insurrection, hecould not have done better.

“Ah, le brave Anglais! Ah, le députéintrépide! A la rescousse!” wasthe cry, and a torrent of human beingsrushed headlong over the barricade.

No power on earth could have resistedthat terrific charge. The MunicipalGuards were scattered like chaffbefore the wind; some were cut down,and others escaped under cover of theranks of the Nationals. Like the rest,I had leaped the embankment; butnot being anxious to distinguish myselfin single combat, I paused at thespot where Bagsby had fallen. ThereI found the illustrious delegate stretchedupon the ground, still grasping theglorious colours. I stooped down andexamined the body, but I could discoverno wound. The blood that stainedhis forehead was evidently not hisown.

I loosened his neckcloth to give himair, but still there were no signs ofanimation. A crowd soon gatheredaround us—the victors were returningfrom the combat.

“He will never fight more!” saidthe author of the Mysteries of Paris,whom I now recognised among thecombatants. “He has led us on forthe last time to victory! Alas for theadopted child of France! Un vraihéros! Il est mort sur le champ de bataille!Messieurs, I propose that wedecree for our departed comrade thehonours of a public funeral!”

CHAPTER IV.
THE TUILLERIES.

“How do you feel yourself to-day,Mr Bagsby?” said I, as I entered theapartment of that heroic individual onthe following morning; “you made avery close shave of it, I can tell you.Eugène Sue wanted to have youstretched upon a shutter, and carriedin procession as a victim through allthe streets of Paris.”

“Victim indeed!” replied Bagsbymanipulating the small of his back,“I’ve been quite enough victimisedalready. Hanged if I don’t get thatvillain Albert impeached when I reachEngland, that’s all! I worked amongthem with the pickaxe till my armswere nearly broken, and the onlythanks I got was to be shot at like apopinjay.”

“Nay, Mr Bagsby, you havecovered yourself with glory. Everyone says that but for you the barricadewould inevitably have been carried.”

“They might have carried it to theinfernal regions for aught that Icared,” replied Bagsby. “Catch mefraternising again with any of them;a disreputable set of scoundrels withnever a shirt to their back.”

“You forget, my dear sir,” said I:“Mr Cobden is of opinion that theyare the most affectionate and domesticatedpeople on the face of theearth.”

“Did Cobden say that?” criedBagsby: “then he’s a greater humbugthan I took him to be, and thatis saying not a little. He’ll neverget another testimonial out of me, Ican tell you. But pray, how did Icome here?”

“Why, you were just about to betreated to a public funeral, when veryfortunately you exhibited some symptomsof resuscitation, and a couple ofhairy patriots carried you to my lodgings.Your exertions had been toomuch for you. I must confess, MrBagsby, I had no idea that you wereso bloodthirsty a personage.”

“Me bloodthirsty!” cried Bagsby,“Lord bless you! I am like to faintwhenever I cut myself in shaving.Guns and swords are my perfect abomination,and I don’t think I couldbring myself to fire at a sparrow.”

“Come, come! you do yourself injustice.I shall never forget the brilliantmanner in which you chargeddown the barricade.”

“All I can tell you is, that I was deucedlyglad to hide myself in one of theempty coaches. But when a bullet camesplash through the pannel within twoinches of my ear, I found the place wasgetting too hot to hold me, and scrambledout. I had covered myself withone of their red rags by way of concealment,and I suppose I brought itout with me. As to jumping down,you will allow it was full time to dothat, when fifty fellows were taking adeliberate aim with their guns.”

“You are too modest, Mr Bagsby;and, notwithstanding all your disclaimers,you have gained a niche inhistory as a hero. But come; this maybe a busy day, and it is already late.Do you think you can manage anybreakfast?”

“I’ll try,” said Bagsby; and, to dohim justice, he did.

Our meal concluded, I proposed aramble, in order to ascertain the progressof events, of which both of uswere thoroughly ignorant. Bagsby,however, was extremely adverse toleaving the house. He had a strongimpression that he would be again kidnapped,and pressed into active service;in which case he positivelyaffirmed that he would incontinentlygive up the ghost.

“Can’t you stay comfortably here,”said he, “and let’s have a little bottledporter? These foreign chaps cansurely fight their own battles withoutyou or me; and that leads me to askif you know the cause of all this disturbance.Hanged if I understandany thing about it!”

“I believe it mainly proceeds fromthe King having forbidden some ofthe deputies to dine together inpublic.”

“You don’t say so!” cried Bagsby:“what an old fool he must be! Blowedif I wouldn’t have taken the chair inperson, and sent them twelve dozenof champagne to drink my health.”

“Kings, Mr Bagsby, are rarelyendowed with a large proportion ofsuch sagacity as yours. But really wemust go forth and look a little aboutus. It is past mid-day, and I cannothear any firing. You may rely uponit that the contest has been settled inone way or another—either the peoplehave been appeased, or, what is morelikely, the troops have sided with them.We must endeavour to obtain someinformation.”

“You may do as you like,” saidBagsby, “but my mind is made up.I’m off for Havre this blessed afternoon.”

“My dear sir, you cannot. No passportscan be obtained just now, andthe mob has taken up the railroads.”

“What an idiot I was ever to comehere!” groaned Bagsby. “Mercy onme! must I continue in this den ofthieves, whether I will or no?”

“I am afraid there is no alternative.But you judge the Parisians toohastily, Mr Bagsby. I perceive theyhave respected your watch.”

“Ay, but you heard what that chapsaid about the slaughter-house lane. Ideclare he almost frightened me intofits. But where are you going?”

“Out, to be sure. If you choose toremain—”

“Not I. Who knows but they maytake a fancy to seek for me here, andcarry me away again! I won’t partwith the only Englishman I know inParis, though I think it would be moresensible to remain quietly where weare.”

We threw ourselves into the streamof people which was rapidly setting intowards the Tuilleries. Great eventsseemed to have happened, or at allevents to be on the eve of completion.The troops were nowhere to be seen.They had vanished from the city likemagic.

“Bon jour, Citoyen Bagsby,” saida harsh voice, immediately behind us.“I hear high accounts of your valouryesterday at the barricades. Allowme to congratulate you on your firstrevolutionary experiment.”

“I turned round, and encounteredthe sarcastic smile of M. Albert theouvrier. He was rather better dressedthan on the previous evening, andhad a tricolored sash bound around hiswaist. With him was a crowd ofpersons evidently in attendance.

“Should you like, Mr Bagsby, toenter the service of the Republic? forsuch, I have the honour to inform you,France is now,” continued theouvrier. “We shall need a few practicalheads—”

“Oh dear! I knew what it wouldall come to!” groaned Bagsby.

“Don’t misapprehend me—I meanheads to assist us in our new commercialarrangements. Now, as free-tradehas succeeded so remarkablywell in Britain, perhaps you wouldnot object to communicate some ofyour experiences to M. Crémieux,who is now my colleague?”

“Your colleague, M. Albert?”said I.

“Exactly so. I have the honourto be one of the members of the ProvisionalGovernment of France.”

“Am I in my senses or not?”muttered Bagsby. “Oh, sir, whoeveryou are, do be a good fellow for once,and let me get home! I promise you, Ishall not say a word about this businesson the other side of the Channel.”

“Far be it from me to lay anyrestraint upon your freedom of speech,Mr Bagsby. So, then, I concludeyou refuse? Well, be it so. Afterall, I daresay Crémieux will get onvery well without you.”

“But pray, M. Albert—one word,”said I. “You mentioned a republic—”

“I did. It has been establishedfor an hour. Louis Philippe has abdicated,and in all probability is bythis time half a league beyond thebarrier. The duch*ess of Orleanscame down with her son to the Chamberof Deputies, and I really believethere would have been a regency; forthe gallantry of France was moved,and Barrot was determined on thepoint. Little Ledru Rollin, however,saved us from half measures. Rollinis a clever fellow, with the soul of aRobespierre; and, seeing how matterswere likely to go, he quietlyslipped to the door, and admitted aselect number of our friends from thebarricades. That put a stop to thetalking. You have no idea how quietgentlemen become in the presence ofa mob with loaded muskets. Theirhearts failed them; the deputies graduallywithdrew, and a republic wasproclaimed by the sovereign will ofthe people. I am just on my way tothe Hotel de Ville, to assist in consolidatingthe government.”

“Bon voyage, M. Albert!”

“Oh, we shall do it, sure enough!But here we are near the Tuilleries.Perhaps, gentlemen, you would liketo enjoy the amusem*nts which aregoing on yonder, and to drink prosperityto the new Republic in a glassof Louis Philippe’s old Clos Vougeot.If so, do not let me detain you.Adieu!” And, with a spasmodictwitch of his nose, the eccentricouvrier departed.

“Well! what things one does seeabroad, to be sure!” said Bagsby: “Irecollect him quite well at the time ofthe Reform Bill—”

“Hush, my dear Bagsby!” said I,“This is not the moment nor theplace for any reminiscences of thekind.”

Certainly the aspect of what wasgoing forward in front of the Tuillerieswas enough to drive all minor memoriesfrom the head of any man. Ahuge bonfire was blazing in the midstof the square opposite the Place duCarrousel, and several thousands ofthe populace were dancing round itlike demons. It was fed by the royalcarriages, the furniture of the staterooms,and every combustible articlewhich could in any way be identifiedwith the fallen dynasty. The windowsof the palace were flung open, andhangings, curtains, and tapestries ofsilk and golden tissue, were pitchedinto the square amidst shouts of gleethat would have broken the heart ofan upholsterer. It was the utter recklessnessof destruction. Yet, with allthis, there was a certain appearanceof honesty preserved. The peoplemight destroy to any amount theypleased, but they were not permittedto appropriate. The man who smasheda mirror or shattered a costly vaseinto flinders was a patriot,—he whohelped himself to an inkstand wasdenounced as an ignominious thief.I saw one poor devil, whose famishedappearance bore miserable testimonyto his poverty, arrested and searched;a pair of paste buckles was foundupon him, and he was immediatelyconducted to the gardens, and shot bya couple of gentlemen who, fiveminutes before, had deliberately slitsome valuable pictures into ribbons!Every moment the crowd was receivingaccession from without, and thebonfire materials from within. Atlast, amidst tremendous acclamations,the throne itself was catapulted intothe square, and the last symbol ofroyalty reduced to a heap of ashes.

The whole scene was so extremelyuninviting that I regretted havingcome so far, and suggested to Bagsbythe propriety of an immediate retreat.This, however, was not so easy.Several of the citizens who were nowdancing democratic polkas round theembers, had been very active partisansat the barricade on the eveningbefore, and, as ill-luck would have it,recognised their revivified champion.

“Trois mille rognons!” exclaimedmy revolutionary friend the butcher,“here’s the brave little Englishmanthat led us on so gallantly against theMunicipal Guard! How is it with thee,my fire-eater, my stout swallower ofbullets? Art thou sad that there isno more work for thee to do? Cheerup, citizen! we shall be at the frontiersbefore long; and then who knowsbut the Republic may reward thee withthe baton of a marshal of France!”

“Plus de maréchaux!” cried atruculent chiffonier, who was truculentlypicking a marrow-bone with hisknife. “Such fellows are worth nothingexcept to betray the people.I waited to have a shot at old Soultyesterday, but the rascal would notshow face!”

“Never mind him, citizen,” said thebutcher, “we all know Père Pomme-de-terre.But thou lookest pale! Artthirsty? Come with me, and I willshow thee where old Macaire keepshis cellar. France will not grudge aflask to so brave a patriot as thyself.”

“Ay, ay! to the cellar—to thecellar!” exclaimed some fifty voices.

“Silence, mes enfans!” cried thebutcher, who evidently had alreadyreconnoitred the interior of the subterraneanvaults. “Let us do allthings in order. As Citizen Lamartineremarked, let virtue go hand in handwith liberty, and let us apply ourselvesseriously to the consummation of thisgreat work. We have now an opportunityof fraternising with the world.We see amongst us an Englishmanwho last night devoted his tremendousenergies to France. We thoughthe had fallen, and were about to givehim public honours. Let us not bemore unmindful of the living than thedead. Here he stands, and I nowpropose that he be carried on theshoulders of the people to the royal—peste!—Imean the republican cellar,and that we there drink to the confusionof all rank, and the union of allnations in the bonds of universalbrotherhood!”

“Agreed! agreed!” shouted themob; and for the second time Bagsbyunderwent the ceremony of entirefraternisation. He was then hoistedupon the shoulders of some half-dozenpatriots, notwithstanding amelancholy howl, by which he intendedto express disapprobation of thewhole proceeding. I was pressed intothe service as interpreter, and tookcare to attribute his disclaimer solelyto an excess of modesty.

“Thou also wert at the barricadelast night,” said the butcher. “Thou,too, hast struck a blow for France.Come along. Let us cement withwine the fraternity that originated inblood!”

So saying, he laid hold of my arm,and we all rushed towards the Tuilleries.I would have given a trifleto have been lodged at that momentin the filthiest tenement of the Cowcaddens;but any thing like resistancewas of course utterly out of the question.In we thronged, a tumultuousrabble of men and women, throughthe portal of the Kings of France,across the halls, and along the galleries,all of them bearing already lamentablemarks of violence, outrage, and desecration.Here was a picture of LouisPhilippe, a masterpiece by HoraceVernet, literally riddled with balls;there a statue of some prince, decapitatedby the blow of a hammer;and in another place the fragments ofa magnificent vase, which had beenthe gift of an emperor. Crowds ofpeople were sitting or lying in thestate apartments, eating, drinking,smoking, and singing obscene ditties,or wantonly but deliberately pursuingthe work of dismemberment. Andbut a few hours before, this had beenthe palace of the King of the Barricades!

Down we went to the cellars, whichby this time were tolerably clear, asmost of the previous visitors had preferredthe plan of enjoying the abstractedfluid in the upper and loftierapartments. But such was not theview of Monsieur Destripes thebutcher, or of his friend Pomme-de-terre.These experienced bacchanalspreferred remaining at headquarters,on the principle that theséance ought to be declared permanent.Bagsby, as the individual leastcompetent to enforce order, wascalled to the chair, and seated upona kilderkin of Bordeaux, with aspigot as the emblem of authority.Then began a scene of brutal andundisguised revelry. Casks weretapped for a single sample, and theircontents allowed to run out in streamsupon the floor. Bottles were smashedin consequence of the exceedingscarcity of cork-screws, and the finestvintage of the Côte d’Or and ofChampagne, were poured like waterdown throats hitherto unconscious ofany such generous beverage.

I need not dwell upon what followed—indeedI could not possiblydo justice to the eloquence of M.Pomme-de-terre, or the accomplishmentsof several poissardes, who hadaccompanied us in our expedition,and now favoured us with sundryerotic ditties, popular in the FaubourgSt Antoine. With these ladies Bagsbyseemed very popular: indeed, theyhad formed themselves into a sort ofbody-guard around his person.

Sick of the whole scene, I availedmyself of the first opportunity toescape from that tainted atmosphere;and, after traversing most of thestate apartments, and several corridors,I found myself in a part of the palacewhich had evidently been occupied bysome of those who were now fleeingas exiles towards a foreign land. Thehand of the spoiler also had been here,but he was gone. It was a miserablething to witness the desolation ofthese apartments. The bed whereona princess had lain the night before,was now tossed and tumbled by somerude ruffian, the curtains were torndown, the gardes-de-robe brokenopen, and a hundred articles offemale apparel and luxury werescattered carelessly upon the floor.The setting sun of February gleamedthrough the broken windows, andrendered the heartless work of spoliationmore distinct and apparent. Ipicked up one handkerchief, still wet,it might be with tears, and on thecorner of it was embroidered a royalcypher.

I, who was not an insurgent, almostfelt that, in penetrating through theserooms, I was doing violence to thesanctity of misfortune. Where, on thecoming night, might rest the head ofher who, a few hours before, had lainupon that pillow of down? For theshelter of what obscure and stiflinghut might she be forced to exchangethe noble ceiling of a palace? Thismuch I had gathered, that all the royalfamily had not succeeded in makingtheir escape. Some of the ladies hadbeen seen, with no protectors by theirside, shrieking in the midst of thecrowd; but the cry of woe was thatday too general to attract attention,and it seemed that the older chivalryof France had passed away. Wherewas the husband at the hour whenthe wife was struggling in that routof terror?

I turned into a side passage, andopened another door. It was a smallroom which apparently had escapedobservation. Every thing here boretoken of the purity of feminine taste.The little bed was untouched: therewere flowers in the window, a breviaryupon the table, and a crucifix suspendedon the wall. The poor younginmate of this place had been alsosummoned from her sanctuary, nevermore to enter it again. As I camein, a little bird in a cage raised a loudtwittering, and began to beat itselfa*gainst the wires. The seed-boxwas empty, and the last drop of waterhad been finished. In a revolutionsuch as this, it is the fate of favouritesto be neglected.

The poor thing was perishing ofhunger. I had no food to give it,but I opened the cage and the window,and set it free. With a shrill note ofjoy, it darted off to the trees, happierthan its mistress, now thrown uponthe mercy of a rude and selfish world.I looked down upon the scene beneath.The river was flowing tranquilly tothe sea; the first breezes of springwere moving through the trees, justbeginning to burgeon and expand;the sun was sinking amidst the goldenclouds tranquilly—no sign in heavenor earth betokened that on that daya mighty monarchy had fallen. Theroar of Paris was hushed; the work ofdesolation was over; and on the morrow,its first day would dawn uponthe infant Republic.

“May Heaven shelter the unfortunate!”I exclaimed; “and may mynative land be long preserved fromthe visitation of a calamity likethis!”

CHAPTER V.
TWO PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENTS.

I awoke upon the morrow impressedwith that strange sensationwhich is so apt to occur after the firstnight’s repose in a new and unfamiliarlocality. I could not for some timeremember where I was. The eventsof the two last days beset me like therecollections of an unhealthy dream,produced by the agency of opiates;and it was with difficulty I could persuademyself that I had passed thenight beneath the roof of the famousTuilleries.

“After all,” thought I, “the eventmay be an interesting, but it is by nomeans an unusual one, in this transitoryworld of ours. Louis XVI.,Napoleon, Charles X., Louis Philippe,and Dunshunner, have by turns occupiedthe palace, and none of themhave had the good fortune to leave itin perpetuity to their issue. Sinceabdication is the order of the day, Ishall even follow the example of myroyal predecessors, and bolt with asmuch expedition as possible; for, tosay the truth, I am getting tired ofthis turmoil, and I think, with Sir Kennethof Scotland, that the waters ofthe Clyde would sound pleasant andgrateful in mine ear.”

A very slight toilet sufficed for theoccasion, and I sallied forth with thefull intention of making my immediateescape. This was not so easy.I encountered no one in the corridors,but as I opened the door of the Salledes Trophées, a din of many voicesburst upon my ears. A number ofpersons occupied the hall, apparentlyengaged in the discussion of an extemporebreakfast. To my infinite disgust,I recognised my quondam acquaintancesof the cellar.

“Aha! thou art still here then,citizen?” cried Monsieur Destripes,who was inflicting huge gashes upona ham, filched, probably, from theroyal buttery. “By my faith wethought thou had’st given us the slip.Never mind—we are not likely topart soon; so sit thee down and partakeof our republican cheer.”

“I am afraid,” said I, “that businessrequires my presence elsewhere.”

“Let it keep till it cool then,” repliedthe other. “Suffice it to say,that no man quits this hall till thewhole of us march out en masse. SayI right, brother Pomme-de-terre?”

“Just so,” replied the chiffonier,tossing off his draught from an ornamentof Venetian glass. “We havebuilt up a second barricade, and havesworn never to surrender.”

“How is this, gentlemen?” said I.

“You must know, sir,” replied ameagre-looking personage, whom Iafterwards ascertained to be a barber,“that the liberty of the people is notyet secure. Last night, when we werein the cellar, a large body of the NationalGuard came, by orders of theProvisional Government, and ejectedthe whole of our compatriots from theupper stories of the Tuilleries. Thiswe hold to be a clear infraction of thecharter, for all public buildings aredeclared to be the property of thepeople. Fortunately we escaped theirnotice, but being determined to reassertthe rights of France, we havebarricaded the staircase which leadsto this hall, and are resolved to maintainour post.”

“Bravely spoken, old Saigne-du-nez!”cried the butcher; “and ajollier company you won’t find anywhere. Here are ladies for society,wine for the drinking, provisions tolast us a week; and what would youwish for more? Cent mille haches!I doubt if Louis Philippe is enjoyinghimself half so much.”

“But really, gentlemen—”

“Sacre, no mutiny!” cried thebutcher; “don’t we know that thesovereign will of the people must berespected? There is thy friend there,as happy as may be; go round andprofit by his example.”

Sure enough I discovered poorBagsby extended in a corner of thehall. The orgies of last evening weresufficient to account for his haggardcountenance and blood-shot eyes, buthardly for the multitudinous oathswhich he ejacul*ted from time totime. Beside him sat a bloatedpoissarde, who was evidently enamouredof his person, and tended himwith all that devotion which is thecharacteristic of the gentler sex. Asit was beyond the power of either tohold any intelligible conversation, thelady contrived to supply its place bya system of endearing pantomime.Sometimes she patted Bagsby on thecheek, then chirupped as a girl mightdo when coaxing a bird to open itsmouth, and occasionally endeavouredto insinuate morsels of garlic andmeat between his lips.

“Oh, Mr Dunshunner! save mefrom this hag!” muttered Bagsby.“I have such a splitting headach,and she will insist on poisoning mewith her confounded trash! Faugh,how she smells of eels! Oh dear! ohdear! is there no way of gettingout? The barricades and the fightingare nothing compared to this!”

“I am afraid, Mr Bagsby,” said I,“there is no remedy but patience.Our friends here seem quite determinedto hold out, and I am afraidthat they would use little ceremony,did we make any show of resistance.”

“I know that well enough!” saidBagsby: “they wanted to hang melast night, because I made a run tothe door: only, the women would notlet them. What do you want, youold harridan? I wish you would takeyour fingers from my neck!”

“Ce cher bourgeois!” murmuredthe poissarde: “c’est un méchant drôle,mais assez joli!”

“Upon my word, Mr Bagsby, Ithink you have reason to congratulateyourself on your conquest. Atall events, don’t make enemies of thewomen; for, heaven knows, we are ina very ticklish situation, and I don’tlike the looks of several of thosefellows.”

“If ever I get home again,” saidBagsby, “I’ll renounce my errors,turn Tory, go regularly to church,and pray for the Queen. I’ve hadenough of liberty to last me the restof my natural lifetime. But, I say,my dear friend, couldn’t you just ridme of this woman for half an hour orso? You will find her a nice chattysort of person; only, I don’t quitecomprehend what she says.”

“Utterly impossible, Mr Bagsby!See, they are about something now.Our friend the barber is rising to speak.”

“Citizens!” said Saigne-du-nez,speaking as from a tribune, over theback of an arm-chair—“Citizens! weare placed by the despotism of ourrulers in an embarrassing position.We, the people, who have won thepalace and driven forth the despot andhis race, are now ordered to evacuatethe field of our glory, by men whohave usurped the charter, and whopretend to interpret the law. I declarethe sublime truth, that, with therevolution, all laws, human and divine,have perished! (Immense applause.)

“Citizens! isolated as we are bythis base decree from the great bodyof the people, it becomes us to constitutea separate government forourselves. Order must be maintained,but such order as shall strike terrorinto the breasts of our enemies.France has been assailed through us,and we must vindicate her freedom.Amongst us are many patriots, ableand willing to sustain the toils ofgovernment; and I now propose thatwe proceed to elect a provisionalministry.”

The motion was carried by acclamation,and the orator proceeded.

“Citizens! amongst our numbersthere is one man who has filled themost lofty situations. I allude toCitizen Jupiter Potard. Actor in ahundred revolutions, he has evermaintained the sublime demeanour ofa patriot of the Reign of Terror.Three generations have regarded himas a model, and I now call upon himto assume the place and dignity ofour President.”

Jupiter Potard, a very fine-lookingold man, with a beard about a yardlong,—who was really a model, inasmuchas he had sat in that capacityfor the last thirty years to the artistsof Paris,—was then conducted, amidstgeneral applause, to a chair at the headof the table. Jupiter, I am compelledto add, seemed rather inebriated; but,as he did not attempt to make anyspeeches, that circ*mstance did notoperate as a disqualification.

The remainder of the administrationwas speedily formed. Destripes becameMinister of the Interior: Pomme-de-terrereceived the Portfolio of Justice.A gentleman, who rejoiced in thesobriquet of Gratte-les-rues, wasmade Minister of War. Saigne-du-nezappointed himself to the FinancialDepartment, and I was unanimouslyvoted the Minister of Foreign Affairs.These were the principal offices ofthe Republic, and to us the functionsof government were confided. Bagsby,at the request of the poissardes, receivedthe honorary title of Ministerof Marine.

A separate table was ordered forour accommodation; and our firstdecree, countersigned by the Ministerof the Interior, was an order for afresh subsidy from the wine-cellar.

Here a sentry, who had been stationedat a window, announced the approachof a detachment of the NationalGuard.

“Citizen Minister of War!” saidSaigne-du-nez, who, without anyscruple, had usurped the functions ofpoor old Jupiter Potard, “this isyour business. It is my opinion thatthe provisional government cannot receivea deputation of this kind. Letthem announce their intentions at thebarricade without.”

Gratte-les-rues, a huge ruffian witha squint, straightway shouldered hismusket, and left the room. In a fewminutes he returned with a paper,which he cast upon the table.

“A decree from the Hotel deVille,” he said.

“Is it your pleasure, citizen colleagues,that this document shouldnow be read?” asked Saigne-du-nez.

All assented, and, as Minister ofForeign Affairs, the following documentwas placed in my hands. It waslistened to with profound attention.

“Unity is the soul of the Frenchnation; it forms its grandeur, itspower, and its glory; through unitywe have triumphed, and the rights ofthe people have been vindicated.

“Impressed with these high andexalted sentiments, and overflowingwith that fraternity which is the life-bloodof our social system, the ProvisionalGovernment decrees:—

“I. That the Tuilleries, now denominatedthe Hôpital des InvalidesCiviles, shall be immediately evacuatedby the citizens who have sobravely wrested it from the tyrant.

“II. That each patriot, on leavingit, shall receive from the public treasurythe sum of five francs, or anequivalent in coupons.

“III. The Minister of the Interioris charged with the execution of thisdecree.

“Liberté—Fraternité—Égalité.

(Signed)

“Sang de Mirabeau!” cried Destripes,when I had finished the perusalof this document, “do they take usfor fools! Five francs indeed! Thisis the value which these aristocratsplace upon the blood of the people!Citizen colleagues, I propose that themessenger be admitted and immediatelyflung out of the window!”

“And I second the motion,” saidPomme-de-terre.

“Nay, citizens!” cried Saigne-du-nez,—“noviolence. I agree that wecannot entertain the offer, but this isa case for negotiation. Let the Ministerof Foreign Affairs draw up aprotocol in reply.”

In consequence of this suggestion Iset to work, and, in a few minutes, producedthe following manifesto, whichmay find a place in some subsequentcollection of treaties.

“France is free. The rights ofevery Frenchman, having been gainedby himself, are sacred and inviolable;the rights of property are abrogated.

“Indivisibility is a fundamentalprinciple of the nation. It appliespeculiarly to public works. Thatwhich the nation gave the nation nowresumes.

“We protest against foreign aggression.Satisfied with our owntriumph, we shall remain tranquil.We do not ask possession of the Hotelde Ville, but we are prepared to maintainour righteous occupation of theTuilleries.

“Impressed with these high andexalted sentiments, the ProvisionalGovernment of the Tuilleries decrees:

“I. That it is inexpedient to lessenthe glory of France, by entrusting thecharge of the Tuilleries to any otherhands, save those of the brave citizenswho have so nobly captured it.

“II. That the Provisional Governmentdo not recognise coupons as anational medium of exchange.

“III. The Minister of Foreign Affairsis charged with the execution ofthis decree.

(Signed)

This document was unanimouslyadopted as the true exponent of oursentiments; and I was highly complimentedby my colleagues on mydiplomatic ability. I took occasion,however, to fold up the following notealong with the despatch.

“If Citizen Albert has any regardfor his English friends, he will immediatelycommunicate their situation tothe citizen Monte-Christo. Here, affairslook very ill. The public tranquillitydepends entirely upon thesupply of liquor.”

This business being settled, we occupiedourselves with more industrialduties. The finance was easily disposedof. There were but four francs,six sous, leviable among the wholecommunity; but Gratte-les-rues, withinstinctive acuteness, had discoveredthe watch and chain of the unfortunateMinister of Marine, and these wereinstantly seized and confiscated aspublic property.

On investigation we found that thelarder was but indifferently supplied.Due allowance being made for the inordinateappetite of the poissardes, ofwhom there were about ten in our company,it was calculated that our stockof food could not last for more thana couple of days. On the other hand,there was a superabundance of wine.

We then proceeded to adjust ascheme for the future regulation oflabour throughout France; but I donot think that I need trouble myreaders with the detail. It did notdiffer materially from that propoundedby M. Louis Blanc, and the substanceof it might shortly be stated as—threedays’ wage for half-a-day’s labour.It was also decreed, that all servantsshould receive, in addition to theirwages, a proportion of their master’sprofits.

After some hours of legislation,not altogether harmonious—for Destripes,being baulked in a propositionto fire the palace, threatened to stringup old Jupiter Potard to the chandelier,and was only prevented fromdoing so by the blunderbuss of Saigne-du-nez—wegrew weary of labour,and the orgies commenced anew. Ihave neither patience nor stomach toenter into a description of the scenethat was there and then enacted. Incharity to the human race, let mehope that such a spectacle may neveragain be witnessed in the heart of aChristian city.

Poor Bagsby suffered fearfully.The affection of the poissarde hadgradually augmented to a species ofinsanity, and she never left him for amoment. The unhappy man was draggedout by her to every dance; shegloated on him like an ogress surveyinga plump and pursy pilgrim; andat the close of each set she demandedthe fraternal salute. He tried toescape from his persecutor by dodginground the furniture; but it was of nouse. She followed him as a ferretfollows a rabbit through all the intricaciesof his warren, and invariablysucceeded in capturing her booty in acorner.

At length night came, and with itsilence. One by one the revellershad fallen asleep, some still clutchingthe bottle, which they had plied withunabated vigour so long as sensibilityremained, and the broad calm moonlooked on reproachfully through thewindows of that desecrated hall.There was peace in heaven, but onearth—oh, what madness and pollution!

I was lying wrapped up in someold tapestry, meditating very seriouslyupon my present precarious situation,when I observed a figure movingamidst the mass of sleepers. Thecompany around was of such a nature,that unpleasant suspicionsnaturally occurred to my mind, and Icontinued to watch the apparitionuntil the moonlight shone upon it,when I recognised Bagsby. Thispoor fellow was a sad incubus uponmy motions; for although I had noearthly tie towards him, I could nothelp feeling that in some measure Ihad been instrumental in placing himin his present dilemma, and I hadresolved not to escape without makinghim the partner of my flight. I wasvery curious to know the object of hispresent movements, for the stealthymanner in which he glided throughthe hall betokened some unusualpurpose. I was not long left indoubt. From behind a large screenhe drew forth a coil of cord, formerlyattached to the curtain, but latterlyindicated by Destripes as the implementfor Potard’s apotheosis; andapproaching a window, he proceededto attach one end of it very deliberatelyto a staple. He then gave acautious glance around, as if to becertain that no one was watchinghim, and began to undo the fasteningsof the window. A new gleam of hopedawned upon me. I was about torise and move to his assistance, whenanother figure glided rapidly throughthe moonshine. In an instant Bagsbywas clutched by the throat, and alow voice hissed out—

“Ah traître! monstre! polisson!vous voulez donc fuir? Vous osez méprisermon amour!”

It was the poissarde. Nothing onearth is so wakeful as a jealous woman.She had suspected the designsof the wretched Minister of Marine,and counterfeited sleep only to detecthim in the act of escaping.

Not a moment was to be lost. Iknew that if this woman gave thealarm, Bagsby would inevitably behanged with his own rope, and I stoletowards the couple, in order to effect,if possible, a reconciliation.

“Ah, citizen, is it thou?” saidthe poissarde more loudly than wasat all convenient. “Here is thyfellow trying to play me a prettytrick! Perfidious monster! was thiswhat thou meant by all thy professionsof love?”

“For heaven’s sake, take thewoman off, or she will strangle me!”muttered Bagsby.

“Pray, hush! my dear madam,hush!” said I, “or you may wakesome of our friends.”

“What care I,” said the poissarde;“let them wake, and I will denouncethe villain who has dared to trifle withmy affections!”

“Nay, but consider the consequences!”said I. “Do, pray, besilent for one moment. Bagsby, thisis a bad business!”

“You need not tell me that,”groaned Bagsby.

“Your life depends upon this woman,and you must appease her somehow.”

“I’ll agree to any thing,” said theterrified Minister of Marine.

“Yes! I will be avenged!” criedthe poissarde; “I will have his heart’sblood, since he has dared to deceiveme. How! is this the way they treata daughter of the people?”

“Citoyenne!” I said, “you arewrong—utterly wrong. Believe me,he loves you passionately. Whatproof do you desire?”

“Let him marry me to-morrow,”said the poissarde, “in this very room,or I shall immediately raise the alarm.”

I tried to mitigate the sentence, butthe poissarde was perfectly obdurate.

“Bagsby, there is no help for it!”said I. “We are in the midst of a revolution,and must go along with it.She insists upon you marrying her to-morrow.The alternative is instantdeath.”

“I’ll do it,” said Bagsby, quietly;“any thing is better than being murderedin cold blood.”

The countenance of the poissardebrightened.

“Aha!” said she, taking the submissiveBagsby by the ear, “so thouart to be my republican husband afterall, coquin? Come along. I shalltake care that thou dost not escapeagain to-night, and to-morrow I shallkeep thee for ever!”

So saying, she conducted her captiveto the other end of the hall.

CHAPTER VI.
A REPUBLICAN WEDDING.

“This is great news!” said Destripes,as we mustered round the revolutionarybreakfast table. “Hastheard, citizen? Our colleague theMinister of Marine is about to contractan alliance with a daughter ofthe people. Corbleu! There is nosuch sport as a regular republicanmarriage!”

“In my early days,” said JupiterPotard, “we had them very frequently.The way was, to tie twoyoung aristocrats together, and throwthem into the Seine. How poor dearCarrier used to laugh at the fun!Oh, my friends! we shall never seesuch merry times again.”

“Come, don’t be down-hearted,old fellow!” cried Destripes. “Wenever can tell what is before us. Idon’t despair of seeing something yetwhich might make the ghost of Collotd’Herbois rub its hands with ecstasy.But to our present work. Let us getover the business of the day, and thencelebrate the wedding with a roaringfestival.”

“But where are we to find apriest?” asked Saigne-du-nez. “Iquestion whether any of our fraternityhas ever taken orders.”

“Priest!” cried Destripes ferociously.“Is this an age of superstition?I tell thee, Saigne-du-nez, thatif any such fellow were here, heshould presently be dangling from theceiling! What better priest would’stthou have than our venerable friendPotard?”

“Ay, ay!” said Pomme-de-terre,“Potard will do the work famously.I’ll warrant me, with that long beardof his, he has sate for a high-priestere now. But look at CitoyenneCorbeille, how fond she seems of herbargain. Ventrebleu! our colleagueis sure to be a happy man!”

Whatever happiness might be instore for Bagsby hereafter, there wasno appearance of it just then. Hesate beside his bride like a criminalon the morning of his execution; andsuch efforts as he did make to respondto her attentions were rueful andludicrous in the extreme.

Breakfast over, we proceeded tocouncil; but as we had no deputationsto receive, and no fresh arrangementsto make, our sitting was rather brief.Bagsby, in order, as I supposed, togain time, entreated me to broach thetopics of free-trade and unrestrictedinternational exchange; but recentevents had driven the doctrines ofManchester from my head, and somewhatshaken my belief in the infallibilityof the prophets of the League.Besides, I doubted very much whetherour Provisional Ministry cared onefarthing for duties upon calico andlinen, neither of these being articlesin which they were wont exorbitantlyto indulge; and I perfectly understoodthe danger of appearing over tediousupon any subject in a society sostrangely constituted. I thereforeturned a deaf ear to the prayers ofBagsby, and refused to enlighten thecouncil at the risk of the integrity ofmy neck. No reply whatever hadbeen made by the authorities without,to our communication of the previousday.

One o’clock was the hour appointedby the Provisional Government for thenuptial ceremony, which was to beperformed with great solemnity.About twelve the bride, accompaniedby three other poissardes, retired, inorder to select from the stores of thepalace a costume befitting the occasion.In the meantime, I had great difficultyin keeping up the courage of Bagsby,—indeed,he was only manageablethrough the medium of doses of brandy.At times he would burst out into aparoxysm of passion, and execratecollectively and individually the wholebody of the Manchester League, whohad sent him upon this unfortunatemission to Paris. This profanity over,he would burst into tears, bewail hiswretched lot, and apostrophise a certainbuxom widow, who seemed todwell somewhere in the neighbourhoodof Macclesfield. As for theFrench, the outpourings from the vialof his wrath upon that devoted nationwere most awful and unchristian.The plagues of Egypt were a joke tothe torments which he invoked upontheir heads; and I felt intenselythankful that not one of our companionsunderstood a syllable of English,else the grave would inevitably havebeen the bridal couch of the Bagsby.

It now became my duty to see thebridegroom properly attired; forwhich purpose, with permission of ourcolleagues, I conducted Bagsby to aneighbouring room, where a full suitof uniform, perhaps the property ofLouis Philippe, had been laid out.

“Come now, Mr Bagsby,” said I,observing that he was about to renewhis lamentations, “we have had quiteenough of this. You have brought itupon yourself. Had you warned meof your design last night, it is quitepossible that both of us might haveescaped; but you chose to essay theadventure single-handed, and, havingfailed, you must stand by the consequences.After all, what is it?Merely marriage, a thing which almostevery man must undergo at least oncein his lifetime.”

“Oh! but such a woman—such ashe-devil rather!” groaned Bagsby.“I shouldn’t be the least surprised ifshe bites as bad as a crocodile.How can I ever take such a monsterhome, and introduce her to myfriends?”

“I see no occasion for that, mygood fellow. Why not stay here andbecome a naturalised Frenchman?”

“Here? I’d as soon think of stayingin a lunatic asylum! Indeed Imay be in one soon enough, for fleshand blood can’t stand this kind of torturelong. But I say,” continued he,a ray of hope flashing across his countenance,“they surely can’t make ita real marriage after all. Hanged ifany one of these blackguards is aclergyman; and even if he was, theyhaven’t got a special license.”

“Don’t deceive yourself, Mr Bagsby,”said I; “marriage in France is amere social contract, and can be establishedby witnesses, of whom therewill be but too many present.”

“Then I say they are an infernalset of incarnate pestiferous heathens!What! marry a man whether hewill or not, and out of church!It’s enough to draw down a judgmentupon the land.”

“You forget, Mr Bagsby. Youneed not marry unless you choose; itis a mere question of selection betweena wedding and an execution,—betweenthe lady and a certain rope,which, I can assure you, Monsieur Destripes,or his friend Gratte-les-rues,will have no hesitation in handling.Indeed, from significant symptoms, Iconclude that their fingers are itchingfor some such practice.”

“They are indeed two horrid-lookingblackguards!” said Bagsbydolefully. “I wish I had pluckenough to be hanged: after all, itcould not be much worse than marriage.And yet I don’t know. Theremay be some means of getting adivorce, or she may drink herself todeath, for, between you and me, sheseems awfully addicted to the use ofardent spirits.”

“Fie! Mr Bagsby; how can youtalk so of your bride upon the wedding-day!Be quick! get into thosetrousers, and never mind the fit.It may be dangerous to keep themwaiting long; and, under presentcirc*mstances, it would be prudentto abstain from trying the temper ofthe lady too severely.”

“I never thought to be married thisway!” sighed Bagsby, putting onthe military coat, which, being stiffwith embroidery, and twice too bigfor him, stuck out like an enormouscuirass. “If my poor old mothercould see me now, getting into thecast-off clothes of some outlandishFrenchman—”

“She would admire you exceedingly,I am sure. Do you know youlook quite warlike with these epaulets!Come now—on with thesash, take another thimble-ful ofbrandy, and then to the altar like aman!”

“I daresay you mean well, MrDunshunner; but I have listened tomore pleasant conversation. I say—whatis to prevent my getting up thechimney?”

“Mere madness! The momentyou are missed they will fire up it.Believe me, you have not a chance ofescape; so the sooner you resignyourself to your inevitable destinythe better.”

Here a loud knocking was heard atthe door.

“Citizen Minister of Marine, artthou ready?” cried the voice ofPomme-de-terre. “Thy bride iswaiting for thee, the altar is decked,and Père Potard in his robes ofoffice!”

“Come, then,” said I, seizingBagsby by the arm. “Take courage,man! In ten minutes it will all beover.”

Our colleagues had not been idle inthe interim. At one end of the hallthey had built up an extempore altarcovered with a carpet, behind whichstood Jupiter Potard, arrayed in aroyal mantle of crimson velvet, whichvery possibly in former days mighthave decorated the shoulders of Napoleon.Indeed the imperial eagle wasworked upon it in gold, and it hadbeen abstracted from one of thenumerous repositories of the palace.Jupiter, with his long beard andfine sloping forehead, looked theperfect image of a pontiff, and mighthave been appropriately drawn as aprincipal figure in a picture of themarriage of Heliogabalus.

Gratte-les-rues and Pomme-de-terre,being of bellicose temperament,had encased themselves in suits ofarmour, and stood, like two championsof antiquity, on each side ofthe venerable prelate. Destripes,who had accepted the office of temporaryfather to Demoiselle Corbeille,appeared as a patriot of the Reignof Terror. His brawny chest wasbare; his shirt-sleeves rolled up tothe shoulder; and in his belt wasstuck the axe, a fitting emblem alikeof his principles and his profession.

At his right hand stood the bride,bedizened with brocade and finery.From what antiquated lumber-chestthey had fished out her apparel, itwould be utterly in vain to inquire.One thing was clear, that the formeroccupant of the robes had been decidedlyinferior in girth to the bloomingpoissarde, since it was now necessaryto fasten them across the bosomby a curious net-work of tape. I amafraid I have done injustice to thislady, for really, on the present occasion,she did not look superlativelyhideous. She was a woman of aboutforty-five, strong-built, with an immensedevelopment of foot and ancle,and arms of masculine proportion. Yetshe had a pair of decidedly fine blackeyes, betokening perhaps little ofmaiden modesty, but flashing withlove and triumph; a nez retroussé,which, but for its perpetual redness,might have given a piquant expressionto her countenance; a largemouth, and a set of prodigious teeth,which, to say the truth, were enoughto justify the apprehensions of thebridegroom.

“Silence!” cried Jupiter Potard aswe entered; “let the present augustsolemnity be conducted as befits thesovereignty of the people! CitizenSaigne-du-nez, advance!”

Saigne-du-nez was clad in a blackfrock, I suppose to represent a notary.He came forward:—

“In the name of the French nation,one and indivisible, I demand thecelebration of the nuptials of CitizenHutton Bagsby, adopted child ofFrance, and Provisional Minister ofher Marine in the department of theTuilleries, and of Citoyenne CéphyseCorbeille, poissarde, and daughter ofthe people.”

“Is there any one here to gainsaythe marriage?” asked Jupiter.

There was no reply.

“Then, in the name of the Frenchnation, I decree that the ceremonyshall proceed. Citizen Minister ofMarine, are you willing to take thiswoman as your lawful wife?”

A cold sweat stood upon the browof Bagsby, his knees knocked together,and he leaned the whole weight of hisbody upon my arm, as I interpretedto him the demand of Jupiter.

“Say any thing you like,” mutteredhe; “it will all come to the samething at last!”

“The citizen consents, most venerablePresident.”

“Then nothing remains but to putthe same question to the citoyenne,”said Potard. “Who appears as thefather of the bride?”

“Chûte de la Bastille! that do I,”cried Destripes.

“Citizen Destripes, do you of yourown free will and accord—”

Here a thundering rap was heard atthe door.

“What is that?” cried Destripesstarting back. “Some one has passedthe barricade!”

“In the name of the ProvisionalGovernment!” cried a loud voice.The door was flung open, and to myinexpressible joy, I beheld the Countof Monte-Christo, backed by a largedetachment of the National Guard.

“Treason! treachery!” shoutedDestripes. “Ah, villain, thou hastneglected thy post!” and he fetched atremendous blow with his axe at thehead of Gratte-les-rues. It was fortunatefor that chief that his helmetwas of excellent temper, otherwise hemust have been cloven to the chin.As it was, he staggered backwards andfell.

The National Guard immediatelypresented their muskets.

“I have the honour to inform thecitizens,” said Monte-Christo, “thatI have imperative orders to fire if theslightest resistance is made. Monsieur,therefore, will have the goodnessimmediately to lay down that axe.”

Destripes glared on him for a moment,as though he meditated a rush,but the steady attitude of the NationalGuard involuntarily subdued him.

“This is freedom!” he exclaimed,flinging away his weapon. “This iswhat we fought for at the barricades!Always deceived—always sold by thearistocrats! But the day may comewhen I shall hold a tight reckoningwith thee, my master, or I am notthe nephew of the citizen Samson!”

“Pray, may I ask the meaning ofthis extraordinary scene?” said Monte-Christo,gazing in astonishment atthe motley group before him. “Is itthe intention of the gentlemen to institutea Crusade, or have we lightedby chance upon an assemblage of thechivalry of Malta?”

“Neither,” I replied. “The factis, that just as you came in we wereengaged in celebrating a republicanmarriage.”

“Far be it from me to interfere withdomestic or connubial arrangements!”replied the polite Monte-Christo.“Let the marriage go on, by allmeans; I shall be delighted to witnessit, and we can proceed to businessthereafter.”

“You will see no marriage here,I can tell you!” cried Bagsby, who atthe first symptom of relief had takenshelter under the shadow of the Marquis.“I put myself under your protection;and, by Jove, if you don’thelp me, I shall immediately complainto Lord Normanby!”

“What is this?” cried Monte-Christo.“Do I see Monsieur Bagsbyin a general’s uniform? Why,my good sir, you have become anaturalised Frenchman indeed! Thenation has a claim upon you.”

“The nation will find it very difficultto get it settled then!” saidBagsby. “But I want to get out.I say, can’t I get away?”

“Certainly. There is nothing toprevent you. But I am rather curiousto hear about this marriage.”

“Why,” said I, “the truth is, mydear Marquis, that the subject israther a delicate one for our friend.He has just been officiating in thecapacity of bridegroom.”

“You amaze me!” said Monte-Christo;“and which, may I ask, isthe fair lady?”

Here Demoiselle Céphyse cameforward.

“Citizen officer,” she said, “Iwant my husband!”

“You hear, Monsieur Bagsby?”said Monte-Christo, in intense enjoymentof the scene. “The lady saysshe has a claim upon you.”

“It’s all a lie!” shouted Bagsby.“I’ve got nothing to say to the woman.I hate and abhor her!”

“Monstre!” shrieked the poissarde,judging of Bagsby’s ungallant repudiationrather from his gestures thanhis words. And she sprang towardshim with the extended talons of atigress. Bagsby, however, was thistime too nimble for her, and tookrefuge behind the ranks of the NationalGuard, who were literally inconvulsions of laughter.

“I will have thee, though, polisson!”cried the exasperated bride. “I willhave thee, though I were to followthee to the end of the world! Thouhast consented to be my husband,little tisserand, and I never will givethee up.”

“Keep her off! good, dear soldiers,”cried Bagsby: “pray, keep her off!I shall be murdered and torn to piecesif she gets hold of me! Oh, MrDunshunner! do tell them to protectme with their bayonets.”

“Be under no alarm, Mr Bagsby,”said Monte-Christo; “you are nowunder the protection of the NationalGuard. But to business. Which of thecitizens assembled is spokesman here?”

“I am the president!” hiccuppedJupiter Potard, who, throughout themorning, had been unremitting in hisattentions to the bottle.

“Then, you will understand that,by orders of the Provisional Government,all must evacuate the palacewithin a quarter of an hour.”

“Louis Philippe had seventeenyears of it,” replied Jupiter Potard.“I won’t abdicate a minute sooner!”

“And I,” said Pomme-de-terre,“expect a handsome pension for mypains.”

“Or at least,” said Saigne-du-nez,“we must have permission to gut theinterior.”

“You have done quite enoughmischief already,” said Monte-Christo;“so prepare to move. My orders arequite peremptory, and I shall executethem to the letter!”

“Come along, then, citizens!”cried Destripes. “I always knewwhat would come of it, if theserascally bourgeoisie got the upper handof the workmen. They areall black aristocrats in their hearts.But, by the head of Robespierre, thoushalt find that thy government is notsettled yet, and there shall be moreblood before we let them trampledown the rights of the people!”

So saying, the democratic butcherstrode from the apartment, followedby the rest of the Provisional Governmentand their adherents, each retainingthe garb which he had chosento wear in honour of the nuptials ofBagsby. The poissarde lingeredfor a moment, eying her faithless betrothedas he stood in the midst ofthe Guard, like a lioness robbed ofher cub: and then, with a cry ofwrath, and a gesture of menace, sherushed after her companions.

“Thank Heaven!” cried Bagsby,dropping on his knees, “the bitteresthour of my whole existence isover!”

CHAPTER VII.
ADIEU, SWEET FRANCE!

“And so you received the messagefrom M. Albert?” said I to Monte-Christo,as we walked together to theHotel de Ville,

“I did; and, to say the truth, Iwas rather apprehensive about you.Revolutions are all very well: but itis a frightful thing when the dregs ofthe population get the upper hand.”

“I am glad to hear you acknowledgeso much. For my part, Marquis,having seen one revolution, Inever wish to witness another.”

“We could not possibly avoid it,”said Monte-Christo. “It was a merequestion of time. No one doubts thata revolutionary spirit may be carriedtoo far.”

“Can’t you contrive to write itdown?” said I.

“Unfortunately, the majority ofgentlemen with whom you have latelybeen associating, are not stronglyaddicted to letters. I question whetherM. Destripes has even read La Tourde Nêsle.”

“If he had,” said I, “it must havetended very greatly to his moral improvement.But how is it with theProvisional Government?”

“Faith, I must own they are ratherin a critical position. Had it not beenfor Lamartine—who, I must confess,is a noble fellow, and a man of undauntedcourage—they would havebeen torn to pieces long ago. Hithertothey have managed tolerably by meansof the National Guard; but the atmosphereis charged with thunder. Herewe are, however, at the Hotel deVille.”

Not the least curious of the revolutionaryscenes of Paris was the aspectof the seat of government. Atthe moment I reached it, manythousands of the lower orders wereassembled in front, and one of theProvisional Government, I believeLouis Blanc, was haranguing themfrom a window. Immense crowdswere likewise gathered round theentrance. These consisted of the deputations,who were doing their verybest to exhaust the physical energies,and distract the mental powers, of themen who had undertaken the periloustask of government.

Under conduct of my friend, I mademy way to the room where the mysteriousouvrier was performing hispart of the onerous duty. He greetedme with a brief nod and a grim smile,but did not pretermit his paternalfunctions.

The body which occupied his attentionat this crisis of the commonwealth,was a musical deputation,which craved sweet counsel regardingsome matter of crochets or of bars.It is not the first time that music hasbeen heard in the midst of stirringevents. Nero took a fancy to fiddlewhen Rome was blazing around him.

I could not but admire the gravitywith which Albert listened to thesomewhat elaborate address, and thedexterity with which he contrived toblend the subjects of pipes and patriotism.

“Citizens!” he said, “the ProvisionalGovernment are deeply impressedwith the importance of theviews which you advocate. Republicaninstitutions cannot hope to existwithout music, for to the sound ofmusic even the spheres themselvesrevolve in the mighty and illimitableexpanse of ether.

“At this crisis your suggestionsbecome doubly valuable. I have listenedto them with emotions whichI would struggle in vain to express.Oh, that we may see the day when,with a glorious nation as an orchestra,the psalm of universal freedom mayrise in a swell of triumphant jubilee!

“And it will come! Rely uponus. Return to your homes. Cherishfraternity and music. Meantime weshall work without intermission foryour sake. Harmony is our soleobject: believe me that, in reconstitutedFrance, there shall be nothingbut perfect harmony!”

The deputation withdrew in tears;and another entered to state certaingrievances touching the manufactureof steel beads. I need not say that inthis, as in several other instances, theouvrier comported himself like an eminentmember of the Society of UniversalKnowledge.

“That’s the last of them, praisebe to Mumbo Jumbo!” said he, asthe representatives of the shoeblacksdeparted. “Faith, this is work hardenough to kill a horse. So, MrDunshunner! you have been gettingup a counter-revolution at the Tuilleries,I see. How are MonsieurPotard and all the rest of your colleagues?”

“I am afraid they are finally expelledfrom paradise,” said I.

“Serve them right! a parcel of democraticscum. And what has becomeof Citizen Bagsby?”

“I have sent him to my hotel.He was in reality very near becomingan actual child of France.” And I toldthe story of the nuptials, at which theouvrier nearly split himself with laughter.

“And now, Mr Dunshunner,” saidhe at length, “may I ask the natureof your plans?”

“These may depend a good dealupon your advice,” said I.

“I never give advice,” replied theouvrier with a nasal twitch. “Sometimesit is rather dangerous. But tellme—what would you think of thestate of the British government, ifEarl Grey at a cabinet-council wereto threaten to call in the mob, and ifLord Johnny Russell prevented himby clapping a pistol to his ear?”

“I should think very badly of itindeed,” said I.

“Or if Incapability Wood shouldthreaten, in the event of the populaceappearing, to produce from the Earl’spocket a surreptitious order on thetreasury for something like twelvethousand pounds?”

“Worse still.”

“Well, then; I don’t think you’llfind that sort of thing going on inLondon, at all events.”

“Have you any commands for theother side of the Channel?”

“Oh, then, you are determined toleave? Well, perhaps upon the wholeit is your wisest plan. And—I say—justtell them that if things lookworse, I may be over one of these finemornings. Good-bye.”

And so, with a cordial pressure ofthe hand, we parted.

“Monte-Christo,” I said, as thatvery evening I bundled Bagsby into afiacre on our way to the railroad station—“Monte-Christo,my good fellow,let me give you a slight piece ofadvice, which it would be well if allof our craft and calling would keep inmemory,—‘Think twice beforeyou write up another revolution.’”

CHAPTER I.

“Sir—sir—it is a boy!”

“A boy,” said my father, lookingup from his book, and evidently muchpuzzled; “what is a boy?”

Now, my father did not mean bythat interrogatory to challenge philosophicalinquiry, nor to demand of thehonest but unenlightened woman whohad just rushed into his study, asolution of that mystery, physiologicaland psychological, which has puzzledso many curious sages, and lies stillinvolved in the question, “What isman?” For, as we need not lookfarther than Dr Johnson’s Dictionaryto know that a boy is “a malechild”—i. e., the male young of man;so he who would go to the depth ofthings, and know scientifically what isa boy, must be able first to ascertain“what is a man?” But, foraught I know, my father may havebeen satisfied with Buffon on thatscore, or he may have sided withMonboddo. He may have agreedwith Bishop Berkeley—he may havecontented himself with ProfessorCombe—he may have regarded thegenus spiritually, like Zeno, or materially,like Epicurus. Grant thatboy is the male young of man, and hewould have had plenty of definitionsto choose from. He might have said,“Man is a stomach—ergo, boy amale young stomach. Man is a brain,—boya male young brain. Man is abundle of habits—boy a male youngbundle of habits. Man is a machine—boya male young machine. Man isa tail-less monkey—boy a male youngtail-less monkey. Man is a combinationof gases—boy a male young combinationof gases. Man is an appearance—boya male young appearance,”&c. &c., and etcetera, ad infinitum!And if none of these definitions hadentirely satisfied my father, I am perfectlypersuaded that he would neverhave come to Mrs Primmins for anew one.

But it so happened that my fatherwas at that moment engaged in theimportant consideration whether theIliad was written by one Homer—orwas rather a collection of sundry ballads,done into Greek by divers hands,and finally selected, compiled, and reducedinto a whole by a Committee ofTaste, under that elegant old tyrantPisistratus; and the sudden affirmation“It is a boy,” did not seemto him pertinent to the threadof the discussion. Therefore heasked, “What is a boy?”—vaguely,and, as it were, taken by surprise.

“Lord, sir!” said Mrs Primmins,“what is a boy? Why, the baby!”

“The baby!” repeated my father,rising. “What, you don’t mean tosay that Mrs Caxton is—eh—?”

“Yes I do,” said Mrs Primmins,dropping a curtsey; “and as fine alittle rogue as ever I set eyes upon.”

“Poor, dear woman!” said myfather with great compassion. “Sosoon too—so rapidly!” he resumed ina tone of musing surprise. “Why,it is but the other day we weremarried!”

“Bless my heart, sir,” said MrsPrimmins, much scandalised, “itis ten months and more.”

“Ten months!” said my father witha sigh. “Ten months! and I havenot finished fifty pages of my refutationof Wolfe’s monstrous theory! Inten months a child!—and I’ll bebound complete—hands, feet, eyes,ears, and nose!—and not like thispoor Infant of Mind (and my fatherpathetically placed his hand on thetreatise)—of which nothing is formedand shaped—not even the first jointof the little finger! Why, my wife isa precious woman! Well, keep herquiet. Heaven preserve her, andsend me strength—to support thisblessing!”

“But your honour will look at thebaby?—come, sir!” and Mrs Primminslaid hold of my father’s sleevecoaxingly.

“Look at it—to be sure,” said myfather kindly; “look at it, certainly,it is but fair to poor Mrs Caxton;after taking so much trouble, dearsoul!”

Therewith my father, drawing hisdressing robe round him in morestately folds, followed Mrs Primminsup stairs, into a room very carefullydarkened.

“How are you, my dear?” said myfather, with compassionate tenderness,as he groped his way to the bed.

A faint voice muttered, “Betternow,—and so happy!” And, at thesame moment, Mrs Primmins pulledmy father away, lifted a coverlid froma small cradle, and, holding a candlewithin an inch of an undeveloped nose,cried emphatically, “There—bless it!”

“Of course, ma’am, I bless it,” saidmy father rather peevishly. “It is myduty to bless it;—Bless it! And this,then, is the way we come into theworld!—red, very red,—blushingfor all the follies we are destined tocommit.”

My father sat down on the nurse’schair, the women grouped round him.He continued to gaze on the contentsof the cradle, and at length said musingly:—“AndHomer was once likethis!”

At this moment—and no wonder,considering the propinquity of thecandle to his visual organs—Homer’sinfant likeness commenced the firstuntutored melodies of nature.

“Homer improved greatly in singingas he grew older,” observed MrSquills, the accoucheur, who was engagedin some mysteries in a cornerof the room.

My father stopped his ears:—“Littlethings can make a greatnoise,” said he, philosophically; “andthe smaller the thing the greater noiseit can make.”

So saying, he crept on tiptoe to thebed, and, clasping the pale hand heldout to him, whispered some wordsthat no doubt charmed and soothedthe ear that heard them, for that palehand was suddenly drawn from hisown, and thrown tenderly round hisneck. The sound of a gentle kiss washeard through the stillness.

“Mr Caxton, sir,” cried Mr Squills,in rebuke, “you agitate my patient—youmust retire.”

My father raised his mild face,looked round apologetically, brushedhis eyes with the back of his hand,stole to the door, and vanished.

“I think,” said a kind gossip seatedat the other side of my mother’s bed,“I think, my dear, that Mr Caxtonmight have shown more joy,—morenatural feeling, I may say,—at thesight of the baby: and such a baby!But all men are just the same, mydear—brutes—all brutes, depend uponit.”

“Poor Austin!” sighed my motherfeebly—“how little you understandhim.”

“And now I shall clear the room,”said Mr Squills.—“Go to sleep, MrsCaxton.”

“Mr Squills,” exclaimed my mother,and the bed-curtains trembled, “praysee that Mr Caxton does not set himselfon fire;—and, Mr Squills, tell himnot to be vexed and miss me.—I shallbe down very soon—shan’t I?”

“If you keep yourself easy you will,ma’am.”

“Pray say so;—and, Primmins,—”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Every one, I fear, is neglectingyour master. Be sure,—(and mymother’s lips approached close to MrsPrimmins’ ear,)—be sure that you—airhis nightcap yourself.”

“Tender creatures those women,”soliloquised Mr Squills, as, after clearingthe room of all present, save MrsPrimmins and the nurse, he took hisway towards my father’s study. Encounteringthe footman in the passage,—“John,”said he, “take supperinto your master’s room—and makeus some punch, will you?—stiffish!”

CHAPTER II.

“Mr Caxton, how on earth didyou ever come to marry?” asked MrSquills, abruptly, with his feet on thehob, while stirring up his punch.

That was a home question, whichmany men might reasonably resent.But my father scarcely knew whatresentment was.

“Squills,” said he, turning roundfrom his books, and laying one fingeron the surgeon’s arm confidentially,—“Squills,”said he, “I should beglad to know myself how I came tobe married.”

Mr Squills was a jovial good-heartedman—stout, fat, and with fine teeth,that made his laugh pleasant to lookat as well as to hear. Mr Squills,moreover, was a bit of a philosopherin his way;—studied human naturein curing its diseases;—and was accustomedto say, that Mr Caxton was abetter book in himself than all he hadin his library. Mr Squills laughed andrubbed his hands.

My father resumed thoughtfully, andin the tone of one who moralises:—

“There are three great events inlife, sir; birth, marriage, and death.None know how they are born, fewknow how they die. But I suspect thatmany can account for the intermediatephenomenon—I cannot.”

“It was not for money,—it musthave been for love,” observed MrSquills; “and your young wife is aspretty as she is good.”

“Ha!” said my father, “I remember.”

“Do you, sir?” exclaimed Squills,highly amused. “How was it?”

My father, as was often the casewith him, protracted his reply, andthen seemed rather to commune withhimself than to answer Mr Squills.

“The kindest, the best of men,”he murmured,—“Abyssus Eruditionis:and to think that he bestowed on methe only fortune he had to leave, insteadof to his own flesh and blood,Jack and Kitty. All at least that Icould grasp deficiente manu, of hisLatin, his Greek, his Orientals. Whatdo I not owe to him!”

“To whom?” asked Squills. “GoodLord, what’s the man talking about?”

“Yes, sir,” said my father rousinghimself, “such was Giles Tibbets,M.A., Sol Scientiarum, tutor to thehumble scholar you address, andfather to poor Kitty. He left me hisElzevirs; he left me also his orphandaughter.”

“Oh! as a wife—”

“No, as a ward. So she came tolive here. I am sure there was noharm in it. But my neighbours saidthere was, and the widow Weltraumtold me the girl’s characterwould suffer. What could I do?—Ohyes, I recollect all now! Imarried her, that my old friend’schild might have a roof to her head,and come to no harm. You see Iwas forced to do her that injury, forafter all, poor young creature, it wasa sad lot for her. A dull book-wormlike me—cochleæ vitam agens, MrSquills—leading the life of a snail.But my shell was all I could offer tomy poor friend’s orphan.”

“Mr Caxton, I honour you,” saidSquills emphatically, jumping up andspilling half a tumbler-full of scaldingpunch over my father’s legs. “Youhave a heart, sir! and I understandwhy your wife loves you. You seema cold man; but you have tears inyour eyes at this moment.”

“I dare say I have,” said myfather, rubbing his shins: “it wasboiling!”

“And your son will be a comfortto you both,” said Mr Squills, reseatinghimself, and, in his friendlyemotion, wholly abstracted from allconsciousness of the suffering he hadinflicted. “He will be a dove of peaceto your ark.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said my fatherruefully, “only those doves, whenthey are small, are a very noisy sortof birds—non talium avium cantussomnum reduc*nt. However, it mighthave been worse. Leda had twins.”

“So had Mrs Barnabas last week,”rejoined the accoucheur. “Whoknows what may be in store for youyet? Here’s a health to Master Caxton,and lots of brothers and sisters tohim!”

“Brothers and sisters! I am sureMrs Caxton will never think of sucha thing, sir,” said my father almostindignantly. “She’s much too good awife to behave so. Once, in a way, it isall very well; but twice—and as itis, not a paper in its place, nor apen mended the last three days: I,too, who can only write ‘cuspideduriusculâ’—and the Baker comingtwice to me for his bill too! TheIlithyiæ are troublesome deities, MrSquills.”

“Who are the Ilithyiæ,” asked theaccoucheur.

“You ought to know,” answered myfather, smiling. “The female dæmonswho presided over the Neogilos orNew-born. They take the namefrom Juno. See Homer, book XI.By the bye, will my Neogilos bebrought up like Hector or Astyanax,—videlicet,nourished by its mother orby a nurse?”

“Which do you prefer, MrCaxton?” asked Mr Squills, breakingthe sugar in his tumbler. “In thisI always deem it my duty to consultthe wishes of the gentleman.”

“A nurse by all means, then,” saidmy father. “And let her carry himupo kolpo, next to her bosom. Iknow all that has been said aboutmothers nursing their own infants,Mr Squills; but poor Kitty is so sensitive,that I think a stout healthypeasant woman will be best for theboy’s future nerves, and his mother’snerves, present and future too.Heigh-ho!—I shall miss the dearwoman very much; when will shebe up, Mr Squills?”

“Oh, in less than a fortnight!”

“And then the Neogilos shall goto school! upo kolpo—the nurse withhim, and all will be right again,”said my father, with a look of slymysterious humour, which was peculiarto him.

“School! when he’s just born?”

“Can’t begin too soon,” said myfather positively; “that’s Helvetius’opinion, and it’s mine too!”

CHAPTER III.

That I was a very wonderful child,I take for granted; but, nevertheless,it was not of my own knowledge thatI came into possession of the circ*mstancesset down in my former chapters.But my father’s conduct on theoccasion of my birth made a notableimpression upon all who witnessed it;and Mr Squills and Mrs Primminshave related the facts to me sufficientlyoften, to make me as wellacquainted with them as those worthywitnesses themselves. I fancy I seemy father before me, in his dark-graydressing-gown, and with hisodd, half sly, half innocent twitch ofthe mouth, and peculiar puzzlinglook, from two quiet, abstracted, indolentlyhandsome eyes, at the momenthe agreed with Helvetius onthe propriety of sending me to schoolas soon as I was born. Nobodyknew exactly what to make of myfather—his wife excepted. Some sethim down as a sage, some as a fool.As Hippocrates, in his well-knownletter to Damagetes, saith of thegreat Democritus, he was contemptuet admiratione habitus—accustomedboth to contempt and admiration. Theneighbouring clergy respected him as ascholar, “breathing libraries;” the ladiesdespised him as an absent pedant,who had no more gallantry than astock or a stone. The poor lovedhim for his charities, but laughed athim as a weak sort of man, easilytaken in. Yet the squires and farmersfound that, in their own mattersof rural business, he had always afund of curious information to impart;and whoever, young or old, gentle orsimple, learned or ignorant, askedhis advice, it was given with notmore humility than wisdom. In thecommon affairs of life, he seemedincapable of acting for himself; heleft all to my mother; or, if takenunawares, was pretty sure to be thedupe. But in those very affairs—ifanother consulted him—his eyebrightened, his brow cleared, the desireof serving made him a new being:cautious, profound, practical. Toolazy or too languid where only hisown interests were at stake—touchhis benevolence, and all the wheelsof the clockwork felt the impetus ofthe master-spring. No wonder that,to others, the nut of such a characterwas hard to crack! But, in theeyes of my poor mother, Augustine(familiarly Austin) Caxton was thebest and the greatest of humanbeings; and certainly she ought tohave known him well, for she studiedhim with her whole heart, knew everytrick of his face, and, nine timesout of ten, divined what he wasgoing to say, before he opened hislips. Yet certainly there were deepsin his nature which the plummetof her tender woman’s wit had neversounded; and, certainly, it sometimeshappened that, even in hismost domestic colloquialisms, mymother was in doubt whether he wasthe simple straightforward person hewas mostly taken for. There was, indeed,a kind of suppressed subtle ironyabout him, too unsubstantial to bepopularly called humour, but dimlyimplying some sort of jest, which hekept all to himself; and this was onlynoticeable when he said somethingthat sounded very grave, or appearedto the grave very silly andirrational.

That I did not go to school—atleast to what Mr Squills understoodby the word school—quite so soon asintended, I need scarcely observe.In fact, my mother managed so well—mynursery, by means of doubledoors, was so placed out of hearing—thatmy father, for the most part, wasprivileged, if he so pleased, to forgetmy existence. He was once dimlyrecalled to it on the occasion of mychristening. Now, my father was ashy man, and he particularly hatedall ceremonies and public spectacles.He became uneasily aware that agreat ceremony, in which he mightbe called upon to play a prominentpart, was at hand. Abstracted ashe was, and conveniently deaf attimes, he had heard significant whispersabout “taking advantage of thebishop’s being in the neighbourhood,”and “twelve new jelly glasses beingabsolutely wanted,” to be sure thatsome deadly festivity was in the wind.And, when the question of godmotherand godfather was fairly put to him,coupled with the remark that this wasa fine opportunity to return thecivilities of the neighbourhood, hefelt that a strong effort at escape wasthe only thing left. Accordingly,having, seemingly without listening,heard the day fixed, and seen,as they thought, without observing,the chintz chairs in the best drawing-roomuncovered, (my dear motherwas the tidiest woman in the world,)my father suddenly discovered thatthere was to be a great book sale,twenty miles off, which would lastfour days, and attend it he must.My mother sighed; but she nevercontradicted my father, even when hewas wrong, as he certainly was inthis case. She only dropped a timidintimation that she feared “It wouldlook odd, and the world might misconstruemy father’s absence—had notshe better put off the christening?”

“My dear,” answered my father,“it will be my duty, by-and-by, tochristen the boy—a duty not done ina day. At present, I have no doubtthat the bishop will do very wellwithout me. Let the day stand, or,if you put it off, upon my word andhonour I believe that the wicked auctioneerwill put off the book sale also.Of one thing I am quite sure, thatthe sale and the christening will takeplace at the same time.”

There was no getting over this;but I am certain my dear mother hadmuch less heart than before in uncoveringthe chintz chairs, in thebest drawing-room. Five years laterthis would not have happened. Mymother would have kissed my fatherand said “Stay,” and he would havestaid. But she was then very youngand timid; and he, wild man, not ofthe woods but the cloisters, nor yetcivilised into the tractabilities of home.In short, the post-chaise was orderedand the carpet-bag packed.

“My love,” said my mother, thenight before this Hegira, looking upfrom her work—“my love, there isone thing you have quite forgot tosettle—I beg pardon for disturbingyou, but it is important!—baby’sname; shan’t we call him Augustine?”

“Augustine,” said my father,dreamily; “why, that name’s mine.”

“And you would like your boy’sto be the same?”

“No,” said my father, rousinghimself. “Nobody would know whichwas which. I should catch myselflearning the Latin accidence or playingat marbles. I should never knowmy own identity, and Mrs Primminswould be giving me pap.”

My mother smiled; and, puttingher hand, which was a very prettyone, on my father’s shoulder, andlooking at him tenderly, she said,“There’s no fear of mistaking youfor any other, even your son, dearest.Still, if you prefer another name,what shall it be?”

“Samuel,” said my father. “DrParr’s name is Samuel.”

“La, my love! Samuel is the ugliestname—”

My father did not hear the exclamation,he was again deep in hisbooks; presently he started up:—“Barnessays Homer is Solomon.Read Omeros backwards, in theHebrew manner—”

“Yes, my love,” interrupted mymother. “But baby’s christianname?”

“Omeros—Soremo—Solemo—Solomo!”

“Solomo! shocking,” said mymother.

“Shocking, indeed,” echoed myfather; “an outrage to commonsense.” Then, after glancing againover his books, he broke out musingly—“But,after all, it is nonsenseto suppose that Homer was not settledtill his time.”

“Whose?” asked my mother, mechanically.

My father lifted up his finger.

My mother continued, after a shortpause, “Arthur is a pretty name. Thenthere’s William—Henry—Charles—Robert.What shall it be, love?”

“Pisistratus?” said my father,(who had hung fire till then,) in a toneof contempt—“Pisistratus indeed!”

“Pisistratus! a very fine name,”said my mother joyfully—“PisistratusCaxton. Thank you, my love:Pisistratus it shall be.”

“Do you contradict me? Do youside with Wolf and Heyne, and thatpragmatical fellow Vico? Do youmean to say that the Rhapsodists?”—

“No, indeed,” interrupted mymother. “My dear, you frighten me.”

My father sighed, and threw himselfback in his chair. My mother tookcourage and resumed.

“Pisistratus is a long name too!Still, one could call him Sisty.”

“Siste, Viator,” muttered my father;“that’s trite!”

“No, Sisty by itself—short. Thankyou, my dear.”

Four days afterwards, on his returnfrom the book sale, to my father’sinexpressible bewilderment, he wasinformed that “Pisistratus was growingquite the image of him.”

When at length the good man wasmade thoroughly aware of the fact,that his son and heir boasted a name somemorable in history as that borne bythe enslaver of Athens, and the disputedarranger of Homer—and it was insistedthat it was a name he himself had suggested—hewas as angry as so milda man could be. “But it is infamous!”he exclaimed. “Pisistratuschristened! Pisistratus! who lived sixhundred years before Christ was born.Good heavens, madam! You havemade me the father of an anachronism.”

My mother burst into tears. But theevil was irremediable. An anachronismI was, and an anachronism I mustcontinue to the end of the chapter.

CHAPTER IV.

“Of course, sir, you will beginsoon to educate your son yourself?”said Mr Squills.

“Of course, sir,” said my father,“you have read Martinus Scriblerus?”

“I don’t understand you, Mr Caxton.”

“Then you have not read MartinusScriblerus, Mr Squills!”

“Consider that I have read it, andwhat then?”

“Why then, Squills,” said myfather familiarly, “you would know,that though a scholar is often a fool,he is never a fool so supreme, sosuperlative, as when he is defacingthe first unsullied page of the humanhistory, by entering into it the commonplacesof his own pedantry. Ascholar, sir, at least one like me, is ofall persons the most unfit to teachyoung children. A mother, sir,a simple, natural, loving mother,is the infant’s true guide to knowledge.”

“Egad, Mr Caxton, in spite ofHelvetius, whom you quoted the nightthe boy was born—egad, I believeyou are right!”

“I am sure of it,” said my father;“at least as sure as a poor mortalcan be of any thing. I agree withHelvetius, the child should be educatedfrom its birth; but how?—there is therub: send him to school forthwith!Certainly he is at school already withthe two great principles, Nature andLove. Observe, that childhood andgenius have the same master organin common—inquisitiveness. Letchildhood have its way, and as itbegan where genius begins, it mayfind what genius finds. A certainGreek writer tells us of some man,who, in order to save his bees atroublesome flight to Hymettus, cuttheir wings, and placed before themthe finest flowers he could select. Thepoor bees made no honey. Now, sir,if I were to teach my boy, I shouldbe cutting his wings and giving himthe flowers he should find himself.Let us leave Nature alone for thepresent, and Nature’s living proxy,the watchful mother.”

Therewith my father pointed to hisheir sprawling on the grass and pluckingdaisies on the lawn; while theyoung mother’s voice rose merrily,laughing at the child’s glee.

“I shall make but a poor bill outof your nursery, I see,” said MrSquills.

Agreeably to these doctrines, strangein so learned a father, I thrived andflourished, and learned to spell, andmake pothooks, under the joint careof my mother and Dame Primmins.This last was one of an old race fastdying away—the race of old faithfulservants—the race of old tale-tellingnurses. She had reared my motherbefore me; but her affection put outnew flowers for the new generation.She was a Devonshire woman—andDevonshire women, especially thosewho have passed their youth near thesea-coast, are generally superstitious.She had a wonderful budget of fables.Before I was six years old, I was eruditein that primitive literature, inwhich the legends of all nations aretraced to a common fountain—puss*n Boots, Tom Thumb, Fortunio, Fortunatus,Jack the Giant-killer—taleslike proverbs, equally familiar, underdifferent versions, to the infant worshipperof Budh and the hardierchildren of Thor. I may say, withoutvanity, that in an examination in suchworks of imagination, I could havetaken honours!

My dear mother had some littlemisgivings as to the solid benefit tobe derived from such fantastic erudition,and timidly consulted my fathertherein.

“My love,” answered my father,in that tone of voice which alwayspuzzled even my mother, to be surewhether he was in jest or earnest—“inall these fables, certain philosopherscould easily discover symbolicalsignifications of the highest morality.I have myself written a treatise toprove that Puss in Boots is an allegoryupon the progress of the humanunderstanding, having its origin inthe mystical schools of the Egyptianpriests, and evidently an illustration ofthe worship rendered at Thebes andMemphis to those feline quadrupeds,of which they made both religioussymbols and elaborate mummies.”

“My dear Austin,” said my motheropening her blue eyes, “you don’tthink that Sisty will discover all thosefine things in Puss in Boots!”

“My dear Kitty,” answered myfather, “you don’t think, when youwere good enough to take up with me,that you found in me all the finethings I have learned from books.You knew me only as a harmlesscreature, who was happy enough toplease your fancy. By-and-by youdiscovered that I was no worse for allthe quartos that have transmigratedinto ideas within me—ideas that aremysteries even to myself. If Sisty,as you call the child, (plague on thatunlucky anachronism! which you dowell to abbreviate into a dissyllable,)if Sisty can’t discover all the wisdomof Egypt in Puss in Boots, what then?Puss in Boots is harmless, and itpleases his fancy. All that wakescuriosity is wisdom, if innocent—allthat pleases the fancy now, turns hereafterto love or to knowledge. Andso, my dear, go back to the nursery.”

But I should wrong thee, O bestof fathers, if I suffered the reader tosuppose, that because thou didst seemso indifferent to my birth, and so carelessas to my early teaching, thereforethou wert, at heart, indifferentto thy troublesome Neogilos. As Igrew older, I became more sensiblyaware that a father’s eye was uponme. I distinctly remember one incident,that seems to me, in lookingback, a crisis in my infant life, asthe first tangible link between myown heart and that calm greatsoul.

My father was seated on the lawnbefore the house, his straw hat overhis eyes (it was summer) and his bookon his lap. Suddenly a beautiful delfblue-and-white flower-pot, which hadbeen set on the window-sill of anupper storey, fell to the ground with acrash, and the fragments splutteredup round my father’s legs. Sublime inhis studies as Archimedes in the siege,he continued to read “Impavidumferiunt ruinæ!”

“Dear, dear!” cried my mother,who was at work in the porch, “mypoor flower-pot that I prized so much!Who could have done this? Primmins,Primmins!”

Mrs Primmins popped her head outof the fatal window, nodded to thesummons, and came down in a trice,pale and breathless.

“Oh!” said my mother, mournfully,“I would rather have lost allthe plants in the greenhouse in thegreat blight last May,—I wouldrather the best tea-set were broken!The poor geranium I reared myself,and the dear, dear flower-pot whichMr Caxton bought for me my lastbirth-day! That naughty child musthave done this!”

Mrs Primmins was dreadfully afraidof my father—why, I know not, exceptthat very talkative social persons areusually afraid of very silent shy ones.She cast a hasty glance at her master,who was beginning to evince signs ofattention, and cried promptly, “No,ma’am, it was not the dear boy, blesshis flesh, it was I!”

“You! how could you be so careless?and you knew how I prized themboth. Oh, Primmins!”

Primmins began to sob.

“Don’t tell fibs, nursey,” said asmall shrill voice; and Master Sisty(coming out of the house as bold asbrass) continued rapidly—“don’t scoldPrimmins, mamma: it was I whopushed out the flower-pot.”

“Hush!” said nurse, more frightenedthan ever, and looking aghasttowards my father, who had verydeliberately taken off his hat, andwas regarding the scene with seriouseyes wide awake.

“Hush! And if he did break it,ma’am, it was quite an accident; hewas standing so, and he never meantit. Did you, Master Sisty? Speak!(this in a whisper) or Pa will be soangry.”

“Well,” said my mother, “I supposeit was an accident; take care infuture, my child. You are sorry, I see,to have grieved me. There’s a kiss,don’t fret.”

“No, mamma, you must not kissme, I don’t deserve it. I pushed outthe flower-pot on purpose.”

“Ha! and why?” said my father,walking up.

Mrs Primmins trembled like a leaf.

“For fun!” said I, hanging myhead—“just to see how you’d look,papa; and that’s the truth of it. Nowbeat me, do beat me!”

My father threw his book fifty yardsoff, stooped down, and caught me tohis breast. “Boy,” he said, “you havedone wrong: you shall repair it byremembering all your life that yourfather blessed God for giving him ason who spoke truth in spite of fear!Oh! Mrs Primmins, the next fable ofthis kind you try to teach him, and wepart for ever!”

From that time I first date the hourwhen I felt that I loved my father,and knew that he loved me; from thattime too, he began to converse withme. He would no longer, if he metme in the garden, pass by with asmile and nod; he would stop, put hisbook in his pocket, and though histalk was often above my comprehension,still somehow I felt happier andbetter, and less of an infant, when Ithought over it, and tried to puzzleout the meaning; for he had a way ofsuggesting, not teaching, puttingthings into my head, and then leavingthem to work out their own problems.I remember a special instance withrespect to that same flower-pot andgeranium. Mr Squills, who was abachelor, and well to do in the world,often made me little presents. Notlong after the event I have narrated,he gave me one far exceeding invalue those usually bestowed on children,—itwas a beautiful large domino-boxin cut ivory, painted and gilt.This domino-box was my delight. Iwas never weary of playing at dominoeswith Mrs Primmins, and I sleptwith the box under my pillow.

“Ah!” said my father one day whenhe found me ranging the ivory squaresin the parlour, “ah! you like thatbetter than all your playthings, eh?”

“Oh yes, papa.”

“You would be very sorry if yourmamma was to throw that box out ofthe window, and break it for fun.” Ilooked beseechingly at my father, andmade no answer.

“But perhaps you would be veryglad,” he resumed, “if suddenly oneof these good fairies you read of couldchange the domino-box into a beautifulgeranium in a beautiful blue-and-whiteflower-pot, and that you couldhave the pleasure of putting it on yourmamma’s window-sill.”

“Indeed I would!” said I, half crying.

“My dear boy, I believe you; butgood wishes don’t mend bad actions,—goodactions mend bad actions.”

So saying, he shut the door andwent out. I cannot tell you howpuzzled I was to make out what myfather meant by his aphorism. ButI know that I played at dominoes nomore that day. The next morningmy father found me seated by myselfunder a tree in the garden; he pausedand looked at me with his grave brighteyes very steadily.

“My boy,” said he, “I am going towalk to —— (a town about two milesoff,) will you come? and, by thebye, fetch your domino-box: I shouldlike to show it to a person there.” Iran in for the box, and, not a littleproud of walking with my father uponthe high-road, we set out.

“Papa,” said I by the way, “thereare no fairies now.”

“What then, my child?”

“Why—how then can my domino-boxbe changed into a geranium and ablue-and-white flower-pot?”

“My dear,” said my father, leaninghis hand on my shoulder, “everybody who is in earnest to be good, carriestwo fairies about with him—onehere,” and he touched my heart; “andone here,” and he touched my forehead.

“I don’t understand, papa.”

“I can wait till you do, Pisistratus!What a name!”

My father stopped at a nursery gardener’s,and, after looking over theflowers, paused before a large doublegeranium. “Ah, this is finer thanthat which your mamma was so fondof. What is the cost, sir?”

“Only 7s. 6d.,” said the gardener.

My father buttoned up his pocket.

“I can’t afford it to-day,” said hegently, and we walked out.

On entering the town, we stoppedagain at a china-warehouse. “Haveyou a flower-pot like that I boughtsome months ago? Ah, here is one,marked 3s. 6d. Yes, that is theprice. Well, when your mamma’sbirth-day comes again, we must buyher another. That is some months towait. And we can wait, Master Sisty.For truth, that blooms all the yearround, is better than a poor geranium;and a word that is never broken, isbetter than a piece of delf.”

My head, which had drooped before,rose again; but the rush of joyat my heart almost stifled me.

“I have called to pay your littlebill,” said my father, entering the shopof one of those fancy stationers commonin country towns, and who sellall kinds of pretty toys and nicknacks.“And by the way,” he added,as the smiling shopman looked overhis books for the entry, “I think mylittle boy here can show you a muchhandsomer specimen of French workmanshipthan that work-box whichyou enticed Mrs Caxton into rafflingfor, last winter. Show your domino-box,my dear.”

I produced my treasure, and theshopman was liberal in his commendations.“It is always well, myboy, to know what a thing is worth, incase one wishes to part with it. If myyoung gentleman gets tired of hisplaything, what will you give him forit?”

“Why, sir,” said the shopman, “Ifear we could not afford to give morethan eighteen shillings for it, unlessthe young gentleman took some ofthese pretty things in exchange.”

“Eighteen shillings!” said my father;“you would give that. Well,my boy, whenever you do grow tiredof your box, you have my leave tosell it.”

My father paid his bill, and wentout. I lingered behind a few moments,and joined him at the end ofthe street.

“Papa, papa!” I cried, clappingmy hands, “we can buy the geranium—wecan buy the flower-pot.”And I pulled a handful of silver frommy pockets.

“Did I not say right?” said myfather, passing his handkerchief overhis eyes—“You have found the twofairies!”

Oh! how proud, how overjoyed Iwas, when, after placing vase andflower on the window-sill, I pluckedmy mother by the gown, and made herfollow me to the spot.

“It is his doing, and his money!”said my father; “good actions havemended the bad.”

“What!” cried my mother, whenshe had learned all; “and yourpoor domino-box that you wereso fond of! We will go back to-morrow,and buy it back, if it costs usdouble.”

“Shall we buy it back, Pisistratus?”asked my father.

“Oh no—no—no! It would spoilall,” I cried, burying my face on myfather’s breast.

“My wife,” said my father solemnly,“this is my first lesson toour child—the sanctity and the happinessof self-sacrifice—undo not whatit should teach to his dying day!”

And that is the history of the brokenflower-pot.

CHAPTER V.

When I was between my seventhand my eighth year, a change cameover me, which may perhaps be familiarto the notice of those parentswho boast the anxious blessing of anonly child. The ordinary vivacity ofchildhood forsook me; I becamequiet, sedate, and thoughtful. Theabsence of playfellows of my ownage, the companionship of matureminds alternated only by completesolitude, gave something precocious,whether to my imagination or myreason. The wild fables muttered tome by the old nurse in the summertwilight, or over the winter’s hearth—theeffort made by my strugglingintellect to comprehend the grave,sweet wisdom of my father’s suggestedlessons—tended to feed apassion for reverie, in which all myfaculties strained and struggled, as inthe dreams that come when sleep isnearest waking. I had learned toread with ease, and to write withsome fluency, and I already began toimitate, to reproduce. Strange tales,akin to those I had gleaned fromfairyland—rude songs, modelled fromsuch verse-books as fell into my hands,began to mar the contents of marble-coveredpages, designed for the lessambitious purposes of round text andmultiplication. My mind was yetmore disturbed by the intensity ofmy home affections. My love forboth my parents had in it somethingmorbid and painful. I often wept tothink how little I could do for those Iloved so well. My fondest fanciesbuilt up imaginary difficulties forthem, which my arm was to smoothe.These feelings, thus cherished, mademy nerves over-susceptible and acute.Nature began to affect me powerfully;and from that affection rose a restlesscuriosity to analyse the charms thatso mysteriously moved me to joy orawe, to smiles or tears. I got myfather to explain to me the elementsof astronomy; I extracted fromSquills, who was an ardent botanist,some of the mysteries in the life offlowers. But music became my darlingpassion. My mother (thoughthe daughter of a great scholar—ascholar at whose name my fatherraised his hat, if it happened to be onhis head) possessed, I must own itfairly, less book-learning than manya humble tradesman’s daughter canboast in this more enlightened generation;but she had some naturalgifts which had ripened, Heavenknows how! into womanly accomplishments.She drew with someelegance, and painted flowers to exquisiteperfection. She played onmore than one instrument with morethan boarding-school skill; and thoughshe sang in no language but her own,few could hear her sweet voice withoutbeing deeply touched. Her music,her songs, had a wondrous effect onme. Thus, altogether, a kind ofdreamy yet delightful melancholyseized upon my whole being; andthis was the more remarkable, becausecontrary to my earlier temperament,which was bold, active, andhilarious. The change in my characterbegan to act upon my form. Froma robust and vigorous infant, I grewinto a pale and slender boy. I beganto ail and mope. Mr Squills wascalled in.

“Tonics!” said Mr Squills; “anddon’t let him sit over his book. Sendhim out in the air—make him play.Come here, my boy—these organsare growing too large;” and MrSquills, who was a phrenologist,placed his hand on my forehead.“Gad, sir, here’s an ideality for you;and, bless my soul, what a constructiveness!”

My father pushed aside his papers,and walked to and fro the room withhis hands behind him; but he didnot say a word till Mr Squills wasgone.

“My dear,” then said he to mymother, on whose breast I was leaningmy aching ideality—“my dear, Pisistratusmust go to school in goodearnest.”

“Bless me, Austin!—at his age?”

“He is nearly eight years old.”

“But he is so forward.”

“It is for that reason he must goto school.”

“I don’t quite understand you, mylove. I know he is getting past me;but you who are so clever—”

My father took my mother’s hand—“Wecan teach him nothing now,Kitty. We send him to school to betaught—”

“By some schoolmaster who knowsmuch less than you do—”

“By little schoolboys, who willmake him a boy again,” said myfather, almost sadly. “My dear,you remember that, when our Kentishgardener planted those filbert-trees,and when they were in theirthird year, and you began to calculateon what they would bring in,you went out one morning, and foundhe had cut them down to the ground.You were vexed, and asked why.What did the gardener say? ‘Toprevent their bearing too soon.’ Thereis no want of fruitfulness here—putback the hour of produce, that theplant may last.”

“Let me go to school,” said I,lifting my languid head, and smilingon my father. I understood him atonce, and it was as if the voice of mylife itself answered to him.

CHAPTER VI.

A year after the resolution thuscome to, I was at home for the holidays.

“I hope,” said my mother, “thatthey are doing Sisty justice. I dothink he is not nearly so quick achild as he was before he went toschool. I wish you would examinehim, Austin.”

“I have examined him, my dear.It is just as I expected; and I am quitesatisfied.”

“What! you really think he hascome on?” said my mother joyfully.

“He does not care a button forbotany now,” said Mr Squills.

“And he used to be so fond of music,dear boy!” observed my motherwith a sigh. “Good gracious! whatnoise is that?”

“Your son’s pop-gun against thewindow,” said my father. “It islucky it is only the window; it wouldhave made a less deafening noise,though, if it had been Mr Squills’head, as it was yesterday morning.”

“The left ear,” observed Squills;“and a very sharp blow it was, too.Yet you are satisfied, Mr Caxton?”

“Yes; I think the boy is now asgreat a blockhead as most boys of hisage are,” observed my father withgreat complacency.

“Dear me, Austin—a great blockhead!”

“What else did he go to schoolfor?” asked my father; and observinga certain dismay in the face of hisfemale audience, and a certain surprisein that of his male, he rose and stoodon the hearth, with one hand in hiswaistcoat, as was his wont whenabout to philosophise in more detailthan was usual to him.

“Mr Squills,” said he, “you havehad great experience in families.”

“As good a practice as any in thecounty,” said Mr Squills proudly:“more than I can manage. I shalladvertise for a partner.”

“And,” resumed my father, “youmust have observed almost invariablythat, in every family, there is whatfather, mother, uncle and aunt, pronounceto be one wonderful child.”

“One at least,” said Mr Squills,smiling.

“It is easy,” continued my father,“to say this is parental partiality,—butit is not so. Examine that childas a stranger, and it will startle yourself.You stand amazed at its eagercuriosity, its quick comprehension,its ready wit, its delicate perception.Often, too, you will find some facultystrikingly developed; the child willhave a turn for mechanics, perhaps,and make you a model of a steamboat,—orit will have an ear tuned toverse, and will write you a poem likethat it has got by heart from ‘TheSpeaker,’—or it will take to botany,(like Pisistratus) with the old maidits aunt,—or it will play a march on524its sister’s pianoforte. In short, evenyou, Squills, will declare that it isreally a wonderful child.”

“Upon my word,” said Mr Squillsthoughtfully, “there’s a great deal oftruth in what you say; little TomDobbs is a wonderful child—so isFrank Steppington—and as forJohnny Styles, I must bring him herefor you to hear him prattle on NaturalHistory, and see how well he handleshis pretty little microscope.”

“Heaven forbid!” said my father.“And now let me proceed. Thesethaumata or wonders last till when,Mr Squills?—last till the boy goes toschool, and then, somehow or other,the thaumata vanish into thin air, likeghosts at the co*ckcrow. A year afterthe prodigy has been at the academy,father and mother, uncle and aunt,plague you no more with his doingsand sayings; the extraordinary infanthas become a very ordinary little boy.Is it not so, Mr Squills?”

“Indeed you are right, sir. Howdid you come to be so observant; younever seem to—”

“Hush!” interrupted my father;and then, looking fondly at my mother’sanxious face, he said, soothingly—“becomforted: this is wiselyordained—and it is for the best.”

“It must be the fault of theschool,” said my mother, shaking herhead.

“It is the necessity of the school,and its virtue, my Kate. Let anyone of these wonderful children—wonderfulas you thought Sisty himself—stayat home, and you willsee its head grow bigger and bigger,and its body thinner and thinner—Eh,Mr Squills?—till the mind takeall nourishment from the frame,and the frame, in turn, stint ormake sickly the mind. You seethat noble oak from the window—ifthe Chinese had brought it up, itwould have been a tree in miniatureat five years old, and at an hundred,you would have set it in a flower-poton your table, no bigger than it wasat five—a curiosity for its maturenessat one age—a show for its diminutivenessat the other. No! theordeal for talent is school; restorethe stunted mannikin to the growingchild, and then let the child if it can,healthily, hardily, naturally, work itsslow way up into greatness. If greatnessbe denied it, it will at least be aman, and that is better than to bea little Johnny Styles all its life—anoak in a pill-box.”

At that moment I rushed into theroom, glowing and panting, healthon my cheek, vigour in my limbs—allchildhood at my heart. “Oh!mamma, I have got up the kite—sohigh!—come and see. Do come,papa.”

“Certainly,” said my father; “only,don’t cry so loud—kites make nonoise in rising—yet, you see howthey soar above the world. Come,Kate, where is my hat? Ah—thankyou, my boy.”

“Kitty,” said my father, lookingat the kite which, attached by itsstring to the peg I had stuck intothe ground, rested calm in the sky,“never fear but what our kite shallfly as high; only, the human soulhas stronger instincts to mount upwardthan a few sheets of paper ona framework of lath. But, observe,that to prevent its being lost in thefreedom of space, we must attach itlightly to earth; and, observe again,my dear, that the higher it soars, themore string we must give it.”

1. “On the French Revolutions,” Nos. I.–V. Jan.–May, 1831.

2. 5,468,000 in 1836, which must be at least 6,000,000 in 1848.—Statistique de laFrance—(Agriculture, 84–89.)

3. Democratie Pacifique, 1st March 1848.

4. Democratie Pacifique, 1st March, 1848, p. 1.

5. Ibid.

6. Democratie Pacifique, March 1, 1848.

7. Democratie Pacifique, March 2, 1848.

9. Lamartine, “Histoire des Girondins,” iii. 244, 245.

10. “La plus grande erreur contre laquelle il faille premunir la population de noscampagnes, c’est que pour être representant il soit nécessaire d’avoir de l’éducationou de la fortune.”—Circulaire du Ministre d’Instruction publique, Mars 9 et 6, 1848.

11. Tacitus.

12. Burke’s Works.

13. “God is patient because eternal.”

14. De Tocqueville, Democratie en Amerique, ii. 268.

15. These lines were composed on the north coast of Scotland, in view of a wildsea-cave, the extent of which has never been ascertained. The Atlantic rolls into itwith such fury during a tempest, that the spray rises like smoke from an orifice in therock resembling a chimney, at some distance from the mouth of the cave. Thissingular and startling effect has no doubt given rise to the popular name of thisremarkable cavern—Hell’s Lum. Scott would have been pleased with it, and itsromantic legends of mermaids, &c.

16. Histoire de la Conquête de Naples par Charles d’Anjou, frère de St Louis. Par leComte Alexis de St Priest, Pair de France. 4 vols. 8vo. Paris, 1848. Vols.i. to iii.

19. In the middle ages remarried queens lost their title. Conradin, in his edicts,never called his mother otherwise than comitissa.

20. The Life of Lord Chancellor Hardwicke; with Selections from his Correspondence,Diaries, Speeches, and Judgments. By George Harris, Esq., Barrister at Law. In3 vols. London: Moxon.

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