Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 54, No. 335, September 1843

by Various

PART IV.

"Have I not in my time hear lions roar?
Have I not heard the sea, puft up with wind,
Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?
Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,
And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?
Have I not in the pitched battle heard
Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?"

SHAKSPEARE.

What that residence and Brighton have since become, is familiar to the world—the one an oriental palace, and the other an English city. But at this time all that men saw in the surrounding landscape was almost as it had been seen by our forefathers the Picts and Saxons. I found the prince standing, with four or five gentlemen of distinguished appearance, under the veranda which shaded the front of the cottage from the evening sun. The day had been one of that sultry atmosphere in which autumn sometimes takes its leave of us, and the air from the sea was now delightfully refreshing. The flowers, clustered in thick knots over the little lawn, were raising their languid heads, and breathing their renewed fragrance. All was sweetness and calmness. The sunlight, falling on the amphitheatre of hills, and touching them with diversities of colour as it fell on their various heights and hollows, gave the whole a glittering and fantastic aspect; while the total silence, and absence of all look of life, except an occasional curl of smoke from some of the scattered cottages along the beach; with the magnificent expanse of the ocean bounding all, smooth and blue as a floor of lapis-lazuli, completed the character of a scene which might have been in fairyland.

The prince, whose politeness was undeviating to all, came forward to meet me at once, introduced me to his circle, and entered into conversation; the topic was his beautiful little dwelling.

"You see, Mr Marston," said he, "we live here like hermits, and in not much more space. I give myself credit for having made the discovery of this spot. I dare say, the name of Brighthelmstone may have been in the journal of some voyager to unknown lands, but I believe I have the honour of being the first who ever made it known in London."

I fully acknowledged the taste of his discovery.

"Why," said he, "it certainly is not the taste of Kew, whose chief prospect is the ugliest town on the face of the earth, and whose chief zephyrs are the breath of its brew houses and lime-kilns. Hampton Court has always reminded me of a monastery, which I should never dream of inhabiting unless I put on the gown of a monk. St James's still looks the hospital that it once was. Windsor is certainly a noble structure—Edward's mile of palaces—but that residence is better tenanted than by a subject. While, here I have found a desert, it is true; but as the poet says or sings—

'I am monarch of all I survey.'"

"Yes," I observed. "But still a desert highly picturesque, and capable of cultivation."

"Oh! I hope not," he answered laughingly. "The first appearance of cultivation would put me to flight at once. Fortunately, cultivation is almost impossible. The soil almost totally prohibits tillage, the sea air prohibits trees, the shore prohibits trade, nothing can live here but a fisherman or a shrimp, and thus I am secure against the invasion of all improvers. W——, come here, and assist me to cure Mr Marston of his skepticism on the absolute impossibility of our ever being surrounded by London brick and mortar."

A man of a remarkably graceful air bowed to the call, and came towards us.

"W——," said the prince, "comfort me, by saying that no man can be citizenized in this corner of the world."

"It is certainly highly improbable," was the answer. "And yet, when we know John Bull's variety of tastes, and heroic contempt of money in indulging them, such things may be. I lately found one of my country constituents the inhabitant of a very pretty villa—which he had built, too, for himself—in Sicily; and of all places, in the Val di Noto, the most notorious spot in the island, or perhaps on the earth, for all kinds of desperadoes—the very haunt of Italian smugglers, refugee Catalonians, expert beyond all living knaves in piracy, and African renegades. Yet there sat my honest and fat-cheeked friend, with Aetna roaring above him; declaiming on liberty and property, as comfortably as if he could not be shot for the tenth of a sixpence, or swept off, chattels and all, at the nod of an Algerine. No, sir. If the whim takes the Londoner, you will have him down here without mercy. To the three per cents nothing is impossible."

"Well, well," said the good-humoured prince, "that cannot happen for another hundred years; and in the mean time my prospect will never be shut out. Let them build, or pull down the pyramids, if they will. The tide of city wealth will never roll through this valley; the noise of city life will never fill those quiet fields; the smoke of an insurrection of city hovels will never mingle with the freshness of such an evening as this. Here, at all events, I have spent half a dozen of the pleasantest years of my existence, and here, if I should live so long, I might spend the next fifty, notwithstanding your prophecies, W——, as far from London, except in the mere matter of miles, as if I had fixed myself in a valley of the Crimea."

His royal highness was clever, but he was no prophet, more than other men. Need I say that London found him out within the tenth part of his fifty years; instead of suffering him to escape, compelled him to build: and, after the outlay of a quarter of a million, shut him up within his own walls, like the giant of the Arabian tales in a bottle—His village a huge suburb of the huge metropolis; his lawn surrounded by a circumvallation of taverns and toyshops; the sea invisible; and the landscape scattered over with prettinesses of architecture created by the wealth of Cheapside, and worthy of all the caprices of all the tourists of this much travelled world.

But simple as was the exterior of the cottage, all within was costliness, so far as it can be united with elegance. Later days somewhat impaired the taste of this accomplished man, and he sought in splendour what was only to be found in grace. But here, every decoration, from the ceiling to the floor, exhibited the simplicity of refinement. A few busts of his public friends, a few statues of the patriots of antiquity, and a few pictures of the great political geniuses of Europe—among which the broad forehead and powerful eye of Machiavel were conspicuous—showed at a glance that we were under the roof of a political personage. Even the figures in chased silver on the table were characteristic of this taste. A Timoleon, a Brutus, and a Themistocles, incomparably classic, stood on the plateau; and a rapier which had belonged to Doria, and a sabre which had been worn by Castruccio, hung on either side of the mantelpiece. The whole had a republican tendency, but it was republicanism in gold and silver—mother-of-pearl republicanism—the Whig principle embalmed in Cellini chalices and porcelain of Frederic le Grand. Fortunately the conversation did not turn upon home politics. It wandered lightly through all the pleasanter topics of the day; slight ventilations of public character, dexterous allusions to anecdotes which none but the initiated could understand; and the general easy intercourse of well-bred men who met under the roof of another well-bred man to spend a few hours as agreeably as they could. The prince took his full share in the gaiety of the evening; and I was surprised to find at once so remarkable a familiarity with the classics, whose sound was scarcely out of my college ears; and with those habits of the humbler ranks, which could have so seldom come to his personal knowledge. To his exterior, nature had been singularly favourable. His figure, though full, still retained all the activity and grace of youth; his features, though by no means regular, had a general look of manly beauty, and his smile was cordiality itself. I have often since heard him praised for supreme elegance; but his manner was rather that of a man of great natural good-humour, who yet felt his own place in society, and of that degree of intelligence which qualified him to enjoy the wit and talents of others, without suffering a sense of inferiority. Among those at table were C—— and H——, names well known in the circles of Devonshire House; Sir P—— F——, who struck me at first sight by his penetrating physiognomy, and who was even then suspected of being the author of that most brilliant of all libels, Junius; W——, then in the flower of life, and whose subtilty and whim might be seen in his fine forehead and volatile eyes; some others, whose names I did not know, and among them one of low stature, but of singularly animated features. He was evidently a military man, and of the Sister Isle, a prime favourite with the prince and every body; and I think a secretary in the prince's household. He had just returned from Paris; and as French news was then the universal topic, he took an ample share in the conversation. The name of La Fayette happening to be mentioned, as then carrying every thing before him in France—

"I doubt his talents," said the prince.

"I more doubt his sincerity," said W——.

"I still more doubt whether this day three months he will have his head on his shoulders," said Sir P——.

"None can doubt his present popularity," said the secretary.

"At all events," said his highness, "I cannot doubt that he has wit, which in France was always something, and now, in the general crash of pedigree, is the only thing. Any man who could furnish the Parsans with a bon-mot a-day, would have a strong chance of succeeding to the throne in the probable vacancy."

"A case has just occurred in point," said the secretary. "Last week La Fayette had a quarrel with a battalion of the National Guard on the subject of drill; they considering the manual exercise as an infringement of the Rights of Man. The general being of the contrary opinion, a deputation of corporals, for any thing higher would have looked too aristocratic, waited on him at the quarters of his staff in the Place Vendôme, to demand—his immediate resignation. On further enquiry, he ascertained that all the battalions, amounting to thirty thousand men, were precisely of the same sentiments. Next morning happened to have been appointed for a general review of the National Guard. La Fayette appeared on the ground as commandant at the head of his staff, and after a gallop along the line, suddenly alighted from his horse, and taking a musket on his shoulder, to the utter astonishment of every body walked direct into the centre of the line, and took post in the ranks. Of course all the field-officers flew up to learn the reason. 'Gentlemen,' said he, 'I am tired of receiving orders as commander-in-chief, and that I may give them, I have become a private, as you see.' The announcement was received with a shout of merriment; and, as in France a pleasantry would privilege a man to set fire to a church, the general was cheered on all sides, was remounted and the citizen army, suspending the 'Rights of Man' for the day, proceeded to march and manoeuvre according to the drill framed by despots and kings."

"Well done, La Fayette," said the prince, "I did not think that there was so much in him. To be sure, to have one's neck in danger—for the next step to deposing would probably be to hang him—might sharpen a man's wits a good deal."

"Yes," said Sir P——, "so many live by their wits in Paris, that even the marquis of the mob might have his chance; but a bon-mot actually saved, within these few days, one even so obnoxious as a bishop from being sus. per coll. In the general system of purifying the church by hanging the priests, the rabble of the Palais Royal seized the Bishop of Autun, and were proceeding to treat him 'à la lanterne' as an aristocrat. It must be owned that the lamps in Paris, swinging by ropes across the streets, offer really a very striking suggestion for giving a final lesson in politics. It was night, and the lamp was trimmed. They were already letting it down for the bishop to be its successor; when he observed, with the coolness of a spectator—'Gentlemen, if I am to take the place of that lamp, it does not strike me that the street will be better lighted.' The whimsicality of the idea caught them at once; a bishop for a reverbère was a new idea; they roared with laughter at the conception, and bid him go home for a 'bon enfant!'"

"I cannot equal the La Fayette story," said C——, "but I remember one not unlike it, when the Duke of Rutland was Irish viceroy. Charlemont was reviewing a brigade of his volunteers when he found a sudden stop in one of the movements, a troop of cavalry on a flank: choosing to exhibit a will of their own in an extraordinary way. If the brigade advanced, they halted; if it halted, they advanced. The captain bawled in vain. Aide-de-camp after aide-de-camp was sent to enquire the cause; they all came back roaring with laughter. At length Charlemont, rather irritated by the ridicule of the display, rode down the line and desired the captain to order them to move; not a man stirred; they were as immovable as a wall of brass. He then took the affair upon himself; and angrily asked, 'if they meant to insult him.' 'Not a bit of it, my lord,' cried out all the Paddies together. 'But we are not on speaking terms with the captain.'"

"How perfectly I can see Charlemont's countenance at that capital answer: his fastidious look turning into a laugh, and the real dignity of the man forced to give way to his national sense of ridicule. Is there any hope of his coming over this season, C——?" asked the prince.

"Not much. He talks in his letters of England, as a man married to a termagant might talk of his first love—hopeless regrets, inevitable destiny, and so forth. He is bound to Ireland, and she treats him as Catharine treated Petruchio before marriage. But he has not the whip of Petruchio, nor perhaps the will, since the knot has been tied. He is only one of the many elegant and accomplished Irishmen who have done just the same—who find some strange spell in the confusions of a country full of calamities; prefer clouds to sunshine, and complain of their choice all their lives."

"Yes," said W——. "It is like the attempt to put a coat and trousers on the American Indian. The hero flings them off on the first opportunity, takes to his plumes and painted skin, and prefers being tomahawked in a swamp to dying in a feather-bed like a gentleman!"

"Or," said the prince, "as Goldsmith so charmingly expresses it of the Swiss—to whom, however, it is much less applicable than his own countrymen—

'For as the babe, whom rising storms molest,
Clings but the closer to his mother's breast,
So the rude whirlwind and the tempest's roar
But bind him to his native mountains more.'"

My story next came upon the tapis; and the sketch of my capture by the free-traders was listened to with polite interest.

"Very possibly I may have some irregular neighbours," was the prince's remark. "But, it must be confessed, that I am the intruder on their domain, not they on mine; and, if I were plundered, perhaps I should have not much more right to complain, than a whale-catcher has of being swamped by a blow of the tail, or a man fond of law being forced to pay a bill of costs."

"On the contrary," said the secretary, "I give them no slight credit for their forbearance; for the sacking of this cottage would, probably, be an easier exploit than beating off a revenue cruiser, and the value of their prize would be worth many a successful run. I make it a point never to go to war with the multitude. I had a little lesson on the subject myself, within the week, in Paris"—

An attendant here brought in a letter for the prince, which stopped the narrative. The prince honoured the letter with a smile.

"It is from Devonshire House," said he—"a very charming woman the Duchess; just enough of the woman to reconcile us to the wit, and just enough of the wit to give poignancy to the woman. She laughingly says she is growing 'heartless, harmless, and old.' What a pity that so fine a creature should grow any of the three!"

"There is no great fear of that," observed Sir P——, "if it is to be left to her Grace's own decision. There is no question in the world on which a fine woman is more deliberate in coming to a conclusion."

"Well, well," said the prince; "she, at least, is privileged. Diamonds never grow old."

"They may require a little resetting now and then, however," said I.

"Yes, perhaps; but it is only once in a hundred years. If they sparkle during one generation, what can we ask more? Her Grace tells me an excellent hit—the last flash of my old friend Selwyn. It happens that Lady ——"—another fine woman was mentioned—"has looked rather distantly upon her former associates since her husband was created a marquis. 'I enquired the other day,' says the duchess, 'for a particular friend of hers, the wife of an earl.' 'I have not seen her for a long time,' was the answer. Selwyn whispered at the moment, I dare say, long enough—she has not seen her since the creation.'"

"If Selwyn," said Sir P——, "had not made such a trade of wit; if he had not been such a palpable machine for grinding every thing into bons-mots; if his distillation of the dross of common talk into the spirit of pleasantry were less tardy and less palpable; I should have allowed him to be"—

"What?" asked some one from the end of the table.

"Less a bore than he was," was the succinct answer.

"For my part," said the prince, "I think that old George was amusing to the last. He had great observation of oddity, and, you will admit, that he had no slight opportunities; for he was a member of, I believe, every club for five miles round St James's. But he was slow. Wit should be like a pistol-shot; a flash and a hit, and both best when they come closest together. Still, he was a fragment of an age gone by, and I prize him as I should a piece of pottery from Herculaneum; its use past away, but its colours not extinguished, and, though altogether valueless at the time, curious as the beau reste of a pipkin of antiquity."

"Sheridan," observed C——, "amounts, in my idea, to a perfect wit, at once keen and polished; nothing of either violence or virulence—nothing of the sabre or the saw; his weapon is the stiletto, fine as a needle, yet it strikes home."

"Apropos," said the prince, "does any one know whether there is to be a debate this evening? He was to have dined here. What can have happened to him?"

"What always happens to him," said one of the party; "he has postponed it. Ask Sheridan for Monday at seven, and you will have him next week on Tuesday at eight. 'Procrastination is the thief of time,' to him more than, I suppose, any other man living."

"At all events," said H——, "it is the only thief that Sheridan has to fear. His present condition defies all the skill of larceny. He is completely in the position of Horace's traveller—he might sing in a forest of felons."

At this moment the sound of a post-chaise was heard rushing up the avenue, and Sheridan soon made his appearance. He was received by the prince with evident gladness, and by all the table with congratulations on his having arrived at all. He was abundant in apologies; among the rest "his carriage had broken down halfway—he had been compelled to spend the morning with Charles Fox—he had been subpoenaed on the trial of one of the Scottish conspirators—he had been summoned on a committee of a contested election." The prince smiled sceptically enough at this succession of causes to produce the single effect of being an hour behind-hand.

"The prince bows at every new excuse," said H—— at my side, "as Boileau took off his hat at every plagiarism in his friend's comedy—on the score of old acquaintance. If one word of all this is true, it may be the breaking down of his post-chaise, and even that he probably broke down for the sake of the excuse. Sheridan could not walk from the door to the dinner-table without a stratagem."

I had now, for the first time, an opportunity of seeing this remarkable man. He was then in the prime of life, his fame, and of his powers. His countenance struck me at a glance, as the most characteristic that I had ever seen. Fancy may do much, but I thought that I could discover in his physiognomy every quality for which he was distinguished: the pleasantry of the man of the world, the keen observation of the great dramatist, and the vividness and daring of the first-rate orator. His features were fine, but their combination was so powerfully intellectual, that, at the moment when he turned his face to you, you felt that you were looking on a man of the highest order of faculties. None of the leading men of his day had a physiognomy so palpably mental. Burke's spectacled eyes told but little; Fox, with the grand outlines of a Greek sage, had no mobility of feature; Pitt was evidently no favourite of whatever goddess presides over beauty at our birth. But Sheridan's countenance was the actual mirror of one of the most glowing, versatile, and vivid minds in the world. His eyes alone would have given expression to a face of clay. I never saw in human head orbs so large, of so intense a black, and of such sparkling lustre. His manners, too, were then admirable; easy without negligence, and respectful, as the guest at a royal table, without a shadow of servility. He also was wholly free from that affectation of epigram, which tempts a man who cannot help knowing that his good things are recorded. He laughed, and listened, and rambled through the common topics of the day, with all the evidence of one enjoying the moment, and glad to contribute to its enjoyment; and yet, in all this ease, I could see that remoter thoughts, from time to time, passed through his mind. In the midst of our gaiety, the contraction of his deep and noble brows showed that he was wandering far away from the slight topics of the table; and I could imagine what he might be, when struggling against the gigantic strength of Pitt, or thundering against Indian tyranny before the Peerage in Westminster Hall.

I saw him long afterwards, when the promise of his day was overcast; when the flashes of his genius were like guns of distress; and his character, talents, and frame were alike sinking. But, ruined as he was, and humiliated by folly as much as by misfortune, I have never been able to regard Sheridan but as a fallen star—a star, too, of the first magnitude; without a superior in the whole galaxy from which he fell, and with an original brilliancy perhaps more lustrous than them all.

"Well, Sheridan, what news have you brought with you?" asked the prince.

The answer was a laugh. "Nothing, but that Downing Street has turned into Parnassus. The astounding fact is, that Grenville has teemed, and, as the fruits of the long vacation, has produced a Latin epigram.

'Veris risit Amor roses caducas:
Cui Ver—"Vane puer, tuine flores,
Quaeso, perpetuum manent in aevum?'"

The prince laughed. "He writes on the principle, of course, that in one's dotage we are privileged to return to the triflings of our infancy, and that Downing Street cannot be better employed in these days than as a chapel of ease to Eton."

"Yet, even there, he is but a translator," said Sir P——.

"'The tenth transmitter of an idler's line,'

It is merely a rechauffé of the old Italian.

'Amor volea schernir la primavera
Sulla breve durata e passegiera
Dei vaghi fiori suoi.
Ma la belle stagione a lui rispose
Forse i piacere tuoi
Vita piu lunga avran delle mie rose.'"

The prince, who, under Cyril Jackson, had acquired no trivial scholarship, now alluded to a singular poetic production, printed in 1618, which seemed distinctly to announce the French Revolution.

'Festinat propere cursu jam temporis ordo,
Quo locus, et Franci majestas prisca, senatus,
Papa, sacerdotes, missae, simulacra, Deique
Fictitii, atque omnis superos exosa potestas,
Judicio Domini justo sublata peribunt.[A]

[Footnote A:

The time is rushing on
When France shall be undone;
And like a dream shall pass,
Pope, monarch, priest, and mass;
And vengeance shall be just,
And all her shrines be dust,
And thunder dig the grave
Of sovereign and of slave.]

"The production is certainly curious," remarked W——; "but poets always had something of the fortune-teller; and it is striking, that in many of the modern Italian Latinists you will find more instances of strong declamation against Rome, and against France as its chief supporter, than perhaps in any other authorship of Europe. Audacity was the result of terror. All Italy reminds one of the papal palace at Avignon—the banqueting-rooms above, the dungeons of the Inquisition below; popes and princes feasting within sound of the rack and the scourge. The Revolution is but the ripening of the disease; the hydrophobia which has been lurking in the system for centuries."

"Why, then," said Sheridan, "shall we all wonder at what all expected? France may be running mad without waiting for the moon; mad in broad day; absolutely stripping off, not merely the royal livery, which she wore for the last five hundred years with so much the look of a well-bred footman; but tearing away the last coverture of the national nakedness. Well; in a week or two of this process, she will have got rid not only of church and king, but of laws, property, and personal freedom. But, I ask, what business have we to interfere? If she is madder than the maddest of March hares, she is only the less dangerous; she will probably dash out her brains against the first wall that she cannot spring over."

"But, at least, we know that mischief is already done among ourselves.
Those French affairs are dividing our strength in the House," remarked
C——.

"What then?" quickly demanded Sheridan. "What is it to me if others have the nightmare, while I feel my eyes open? Burke, in his dreams, may dread the example of France; but I as little dread it as I should a fire at the Pole. He thinks that Englishmen have such a passion for foreign importations, that if the pestilence were raging on the other side of the Channel, we should send for specimens. My proposition is, that the example of France is more likely to make slaves of us than republicans."

"Is it," asked W——, "to make us

'Fly from minor tyrants to the throne?'"

"I laugh at the whole," replied Sheridan, "as a bugbear. I have no fear of France as either a schoolmaster, or a seducer, of England. France is lunatic, and who dreads a lunatic after his first paroxysm? Exhaustion, disgust, decay, perhaps death, are the natural results. If there is any peril to us, it is only from our meddling. The lunatic never revenges himself but on his keeper. I should leave the patient to the native doctors, or to those best of all doctors for mad nations, suffering, shame, and time. Chain, taunt, or torment the lunatic, and he rewards you by knocking out your brains."

"Those are not exactly the opinions of our friend Charles," observed the prince with peculiar emphasis.

"No," was the reply. "I think for myself. Some would take the madman by the hand, and treat him as if in possession of his senses. Burke would gather all the dignitaries of Church and State, and treat him as a demoniac; attempt to exorcise the evil spirit, and if it continued intractable, solemnly excommunicate the possessed by bell, book, and candle. But, as I do not like throwing away my trouble, I should let him alone."

"The doctrine of confiscation is startling to all property," remarked the prince. "I wish Charles would remember, that his strength lies in the aristocracy."

"No man knows it better," observed W——. "But I strongly doubt whether his consciousness of his own extraordinary talents is not at this moment tempting him to try a new source of hazard. The people, nay, the populace, are a new element to him, and to all. I can conceive a man of pre-eminent ability, as much delighted with difficulty as inferior men are delighted with ease. Fox has managed the aristocracy so long, and has bridled them with so much the hand of a master, that what he might have once considered as an achievement, he now regards as child's play. If Alexander's taming Bucephalus was a triumph for a noble boy, I scarcely think that, after passing the Granicus, he would have been proud of his fame as a horse-breaker. Fox sees, as all men see, that great changes, for either good or ill, are coming on the world. Next to that of a great king, perhaps the most tempting rank to ambition would be that of a great demagogue."

The glitter of Sheridan's eye, and the glow which passed across his cheek, as he looked at the speaker, showed how fully he agreed with the sentiment; and I expected some bold burst of eloquence. But, with that sudden change of tone and temper which was among the most curious characteristics of the man, he laughingly said, "At all events, whatever the Revolution may do to our neighbours, it will do a vast deal of good to ourselves. The clubs were growing so dull, that I began to think of withdrawing my name from them all. Their principal supporters were daily yawning themselves to death. The wiser part were flying into the country, where, at least, their yawning would not be visible; and the rest remained enveloped in dry and dreary newspapers, like the herbs of a 'Hortus siccus.' White's was an hospital of the deaf and dumb; and Brookes's strongly resembled Westminster Hall in the long vacation. It was in the midst of this general doze that the news from Paris came. I assure you the effects were miraculous—the universal spasm of lock-jaw was no more. Men no longer regarded each other with a despairing glance in St James's Street, and passed on. All was sudden sociability. Even in the city people grew communicative, and puns were committed that would have struck their forefathers with amazement. As Burke said, in one of his sybilline speeches the other night: 'The tempest had come, at once bending down the summits of the forest and stirring up the depths of the pool.' One of the aldermen, on being told that the French were preparing to pass the Waal, said, that if the Dutch would take his advice, and if iron spikes were not enough, they should glass their wall."

The newspapers now arrived, and France for a while engrossed the conversation. The famous Mirabeau had just made an oration with which all France was ringing.

"That man's character," said the prince, after reading some vehement portions of his speech, "perplexes me more and more. An aristocrat by birth, he is a democrat by passion; but he has palpably come into the world too early, or too late, for power. Under Louis XIV., he would have made a magnificent minister; under his successor, a splendid courtier; but under the present unfortunate king, he must be either the brawler or the buffoon, the incendiary, or the sport, of the people. Yet he is evidently a man of singular ability, and if he knows how to manage his popularity, he may yet do great things."

"I always," said Sheridan, "am inclined to predict well of the man who takes advantage of his time. That is the true faculty for public life; the true test of commanding capacity. There are thousands who have ability, for one who knows how to make use of it; as we are told that there are monsters in the depths of the ocean which never come up to the light. But I prefer your leviathan, which, whether he slumbers in the calm or rushes through the storm, shows all his magnitude to the eye."

"And gets himself harpooned for his pains," observed W——.

"Well, then, at least he dies the death of a hero," was the reply—"tempesting the brine, and perhaps even sinking the harpooner." He uttered this sentiment with such sudden ardour, that all listened while he declaimed—"I can imagine no worse fate for a man of true talent than to linger down into the grave; to find the world disappearing from him while he remains in it; his political vision growing indistinct, his political ear losing the voice of man, his passions growing stagnant, all his sensibilities palpably paralyzing, while the world is as loud, busy, and brilliant round him as ever—with but one sense remaining, the unhappy consciousness that, though not yet dead, he is buried; a figure, if not of scorn, of pity, entombed under the compassionate gaze of mankind, and forgotten before he has mouldered. Who that could die in the vigour of his life, would wish to drag on existence like Somers, coming to the Council day after day without comprehending a word? or Marlborough, babbling out his own imbecility? If I am to die, let me die in hot blood, let me die like the lion biting the spear that has entered his heart, or springing upon the hunter who has struck him—not like the crushed snake, miserable and mutilated, hiding itself in its hole, and torpid before it is turned into clay!"

"Will Mirabeau redeem France?" asked the prince; "or will he overwhelm the throne?"

"I never heard of any one but Saint Christopher," said Sheridan, sportively, "who could walk through the ocean, and yet keep his head above water. Mirabeau is out of soundings already."

"Burke," said F——, "predicts that he must perish; that the Revolution will go on, increasing in terrors; and that it would be as easy to stop a planet launched through space, as the progress of France to ruin."

"So be it," said Sheridan with sudden animation. "There have been revolutions in every age of the world, but the world has outlived them all. Like tempests, they may wreck a royal fleet now and then, but they prevent the ocean from being a pond, and the air from being a pestilence. I am content if the world is the better for all this, though France may be the worse. I am a political optimist, in spite of Voltaire; or, I agree with a better man and a greater poet—'All's well that ends well.'"

The prince looked grave; and significantly asked, "Whether too high a present price might not be paid for prospective good?"

Sheridan turned off the question with a smile. "The man who has as little to pay as I have," said he, "seldom thinks of price one way or the other. Possibly, if I were his Grace of Bedford, or my Lord Fitzwilliam, I might begin to balance my rent-roll against my raptures. Or, if I were higher still, I might be only more prudent. But," said he, with a bow, "if what was fit for Parmenio was not fit for Alexander, neither would what was fit for Alexander be fit for Parmenio."

The prince soon after rose from table, and led the way into the library, where we spent some time in looking over an exquisite collection of drawings of Greece and Albania, a present from the French king to his royal highness. The windows were thrown open, and the fresh scents of the flower garden were delicious; the night was calm, and the moon gleamed far over the quiet ocean.

At this moment a soft sound of music arose at a distance. I looked in vain for the musicians—none were visible. The strain, incomparably managed, now approached, now receded, now seemed to ascend from the sea, now to stoop from the sky. All crowded to the casement—to me, a stranger and unexpecting, all was surprise and spell. I, almost unconsciously, repeated the fine lines in the Tempest:—

"Where should this music be? I' the air, or the earth?
It sounds no more: and sure, it waits upon
Some god of the island—
This music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury and my passion
With its sweet air—But 'tis gone!
No, it begins again."

The prince returned my quotation with a gracious smile, and the words of the great poet,

"This is no mortal business, nor no sound
This the earth owns."

The private band, stationed in one of the thickets, had been the magicians. Supper was laid in this handsome apartment, not precisely

"The spare Sabine feast,
A radish and an egg,"

but perfectly simple, and perfectly elegant. The service was Sevre, and I observed on it the arms of the Duke of Orleans, combined with those of the Prince. It had been a present from the most luxurious, and most unfortunate, man on earth. And thus closed my first day in the exclusive world.

On the next evening, I had exchanged fresh breezes and bright skies for the sullen atmosphere and perpetual smoke of the great city; stars for lamps, and the gentle murmurs of the tide, for the turbid rush and heavy roar of the million of London. During the day, I had been abandoned sufficiently to my own meditations. For though we did not leave Brighton till noon, Marianne remained steadily, and I feared angrily, invisible. Mordecai, during the journey, consulted nothing but his tablets, and was evidently plunged in some huge financial speculation; and when he dropped me at a hotel in St James's, and hurried towards his den in the depths of the city, like a bat to its cave, I felt as solitary as if I had dropped from the moon.

But an English hotel is a cure for most of the sorrows of English life. The well-served table—the excellent sherry—a blazing fire, not at all unrequired in the first sharp evenings of our autumn—and the newspaper "just come in," are capital "medicines for the mind diseased." And like old Maréchal Louvois, who recommended roast pigeons as a cure for grief—observing that, "whenever he heard of the loss of any of his friends, he ordered a pair, and found himself always much comforted after eating them"—I was beginning to sink into that easy oblivion of the rules of life, which, without actual sleep, has all the placid enjoyment of slumber; when a voice pronounced my name, and I was startled and half suffocated by the embrace of a figure who rushed from an opposite box, and in a torrent of French poured out a torrent of raptures on my arriving in London.

When I contrived at last to disengage myself, I saw Lafontaine; but so hollow-cheeked and pale-visaged, that I could scarcely recognize my showy friend in the skeleton knight who stood gesticulating his ultra-happiness before me.

At length he drew, with a trembling touch and a glistening eye, from his bosom a letter, which he placed in my hand with a squeeze of eternal friendship. "Read," said he, "read, and then wonder, if you can, at my misery and my gratitude." The letter was from Mariamne, and certainly a very pretty one—gay and tender at once; gracefully alluding to some little fretfulness on her part, or his, I could scarcely tell which; but assuring him that all this was at an end—that she foreswore the world henceforth, and was quite his own. All this was expressed with an elegance which I was not quite prepared to find in the fair one, and with a tone of sincerity for which I was still less prepared; yet with the coquette in every line.

I should have been glad to see him at any time, but now I received him as a resource from solitude, or rather from those restless thoughts which made solitude so painful to me. Another bottle, perhaps, made me more sensitive, and him more willing to communicate; and before it was finished, he had opened his whole heart and emptied his letter-case, and I had consulted him on the _im_probabilities of my ever being able to succeed in the object which had so strangely, yet so totally, occupied all my feelings.

It was clear, from her correspondence, that his pretty Jewess had played him much as the angler plays the trout which he has secured on his hook. She evidently enjoyed the display of her skill in tormenting: every second letter was almost a declaration of breaking off the correspondence altogether; or, what was even worse, mingled with those menaces, there were from time to time allusions to my opinions, and quotations of my chance remarks, which, rather to my surprise, showed me that the proverb, "Les absens ont toujours tort," was true in more senses than one, and that the Frenchman occasionally lost ground by being fifty miles off. Once or twice it seemed to me that the little "betrothed" was evidently thinking of the error of precipitate vows, and was beginning to change her mind. But her last letter was a complete extinguisher of all my vanity, if it had ever been awakened. It was a curious mingling of poignancy and penitence; an acknowledgment of the pain which she felt in ever having given pain, and almost an entreaty that he would hasten his affairs in London, and return to Brighton, to "guard her against herself, once and for ever."

All this was quite as it should be; but the envelope contained an enormous postscript, of which I happened to be the theme. It was evidently written in another mood of mind; and except that passion is blind, and even refuses to see, when it might, I should probably have had another rencontre with the best swordsman in the Chevaux Legers. After speaking of me and my prospects in life, with an interest which reached at least to the full amount of friendship, the subject of my reveries came on the tapis. "My father and Mr Marston are on the point of going to town," said the postscript; "the latter to dream of Mademoiselle De Tourville, without the smallest hope of ever obtaining her hand. But I scarcely know what to think of him and his feelings—if feelings they can be called—which change like the fashions of the day, and at the mercy of all the triflers of the day; or like the butterfly fluttering round the garden, as if merely to show that it can flutter. This habit must make him for ever incapable of the generous devotedness of heart and truth of affection which I so much value in my 'friend.'" But here Lafontaine interfered, obviously through fear of my plunging into some discovery of my own demerits, which had not struck him on his first perusal; and I surrendered the letter, postscript and all, having first ascertained by a glance, that the former was dated at the very hour of the discovery of my unlucky stanzas to Clotilde, and the latter probably after the "fair penitent" had time to reflect on the matter, and let compassion make its way. Woman is a brilliant problem—but a problem after all.

A sudden trampling of cavalry and loud rush of carriages prevented my attempting the solution—at least for that sitting. All the guests crowded to the door. "His Majesty was going to Drury-Lane!" It was a performance "by command." The never-failing pulse in the foreign heart was touched. Lafontaine crushed his correspondence into his bosom, sprang on his feet, wiped his eyes of all their sorrows, and proposed that we should see the display. I was rejoiced to escape a topic too delicate for my handling. A carriage was called, and by a double fee we contrived, through many a hazard, in the narrowest and most dangerous defiles of any Christian city, to reach the stately entrance, just as the troopers were brushing away the mob from the steps, and the trumpets were outringing the cries of the orangewomen.

By another bribe we contrived to make our way into a box, whose doors were more unrelenting than brass or marble to the crowd in the lobby, less acquainted with the mode of getting through the English world; and I had my first view of national loyalty, in the handsomest theatre which I have ever seen. How often it has been burnt down and built since, is beyond my calculation. It was then perfection.

We had galloped to some purpose; for we had distanced the monarch and his eight carriages. The royal party had not yet entered the house; and I enjoyed, for a few minutes, one of the most striking displays that the opulence and animation of a great country can possibly produce—the coup-d'oeil of a well-dressed audience in a fine and spacious theatre. Multitudes spread over hill and dale may be picturesque; the aspect of great public meetings may be startling, stern, or powerfully impressive; the British House of Lords, on the opening of the session, exhibits a majestic spectacle; but for a concentration of all the effects of art, beauty, and magnificence, I have yet seen nothing like one of the English theatres in their better days. To compare it in point of importance with any other great assemblage, would in general be idle. But at this time, even the assemblage before me, collected as it was for indulgence, had a character of remarkable interest. The times were anxious. The nation was avowedly on the eve of a struggle of which no human foresight could discover the termination. The presence of the king was the presence of the monarchy; the presence of the assemblage was the presence of the nation. The house was only a levee on a large scale, and the crowd, composed as it was of the most distinguished individuals of the country—the ministers, the peerage, the heads of legislature—and the whole completed by an immense mass of the middle order, gave a strong and admirable representation of the power and feelings of the empire.

At length the sound of the trumpets was heard, the door of the royal box was thrown open, and "God save the King" began. Noble as this noblest of national songs is, it had, at that period, a higher meaning. It is impossible to describe the spirit and ardour in which it was received; nay, the almost sacred enthusiasm in which it was joined by all, and in which every sentiment was followed with boundless acclamation. It was more than an honourable and pleased welcome of a popular king. It was a national pledge to the throne—a proud declaration of public principle—a triumphant defiance of the enemy and the Earth to strike the stability of a British throne, or subdue the hearts of a British people.

The king advanced to the front of the box, and bowed in return to the general plaudits. It was the first time that I had seen George the Third, and I was struck at once with the stateliness of his figure and the kindliness of his countenance. Combined, they perfectly realized all that I had conceived of a monarch, to whose steadiness of determination, and sincerity of good-will, the empire had been already indebted in periods of faction and foreign hostility; and to whom it was to be indebted still more in coming periods of still wilder faction, and of hostility which brought the world in arms against his crown.

As I glanced around for a moment, to see the effect on the house, which was then thundering with applause, I observed a slight confusion, like a personal quarrel, in the pit; and in the next instant saw a hand raised above the crowd, and a pistol fired full in the direction of the royal box. The King started back a pace or two, and the general apprehension that he had been struck, produced a loud cry of horror. He evidently understood the public feeling, and instantly came forward, and by a bow, with his hand on his heart, at once assured them of his gratitude and his safety. This was acknowledged by a shout of universal congratulation; and many a bright eye, and many a manly one, too, streamed with tears. In the midst of all, the Queen and the royal family rushed into the box, flung themselves round the king, and all was embracing, fainting, and terror. Cries for the seizure of the assassin now resounded on every side. He was grasped by a hundred hands, and torn out of the house. Then the universal voice demanded "God save the King" once more: the performers came forward and the national chant, now almost elevated to a hymn, was sung by the audience with a solemnity scarcely less than an act of devotion. All the powers of the stage never furnished a more touching, perhaps a more sublime scene, than the simple reality of the whole occurrence before my eyes.

But at length the tumult sank; the order of the theatre was resumed; and the curtain rose, displaying a remarkably fine view of Roman architecture, a vista of temples and palaces, the opening scene of Coriolanus.

The fame of the admirable actor who played the leading character was then at its height; and John Kemble shared with his splendid sister the honour of being the twin leaders of the theatrical galaxy. I am not about to dwell on Shakspeare's conception of the magnificent republican, nor on the scarcely less magnificent representative which it found in the actor of the night. But I speak to a generation which have never seen either Siddons or Kemble, and will probably never see their equals. I may be suffered, too, to indulge my own admiration of forms and faculties which once gave me a higher sense of the beauty and the powers of which our being is capable. Is this a dream? or, if so, is it not a dream that tends to ennoble the spirit of man? The dimness and dulness of the passing world require relief, and I look for it in the world of recollections.

Kemble was, at that time, in the prime of his powers; his features strongly resembling those of Siddons; and his form the perfection of manly grace and heroic beauty. His voice was his failing part; for it was hollow and interrupted; yet its tone was naturally sweet, and it could, at times, swell to the highest storm of passion. In later days he seemed to take a strange pride in feebleness, and, in his voice and his person, affected old age. But when I saw him first, he was all force, one of the handsomest of human beings, and, beyond all comparison, the most accomplished classic actor that ever realized the form and feelings of the classic age. His manners in private life completed his public charm; and, in seeing Kemble on the stage, we saw the grace and refinement acquired by the companionship of princes and nobles, the accomplished, the high-born, and the high-bred of the land.

From the mingled tenderness and loftiness of Kemble's playing, a new idea of Coriolanus struck me. I had hitherto imagined him simply a bold patrician, aristocratically contemptuous of the multitude, indignant at public ingratitude, and taking a ruthless revenge. But the performance of the great actor on this night opened another and a finer view to me. Till now, I had seen the hero, a Roman, merely a gallant chieftain of the most unromantic of all commonwealths, the land of inflexibility, remorseless daring, and fierce devotement to public duty. But, by throwing the softer feelings of the character into light, Kemble made him less a Roman than a Greek—a loftier and purer Alcibiades, or a republican Alexander, or, most and truest of all, a Roman Achilles—the same dazzling valour, the same sudden affections, the same deep conviction of wrong, and the same generous, but unyielding, sense of superiority. Say what we will of the subordination of the actor to the author, the great actor shares his laurels. He, too, is a creator.

But while I followed, with eye and mind, the movements of the stage, Lafontaine was otherwise employed. His opera-glass was roving the boxes; and he continually poured into my most ungrateful ear remarks on the diplomatic body, and recognitions of the merveilleux glittering round the circle. At last, growing petulant at being thus disturbed, I turned to beg of him to be silent, when he simply said—"La Voilà!" and pointed to a group which had just taken their seats in one of the private boxes. From that moment I saw no more of the tragedy. The party consisted of Clotilde, Madame la Maréchal, and a stern but stately-looking man, in a rich uniform, who paid them the most marked attention.

"There is the Marquis," said my companion; "he has never smiled probably, since he was born, or, I suppose, he would smile to-night; for the secretary to the embassy told me, not half an hour ago, that his marriage-contract had just come over, with the king's signature."

My heart sank within me at the sound. Still my gay informant went on, without much concerning himself about feelings which I felt alternately flushing and chilling me. "The match will be a capital one, if matters hold out for us. For Montrecour is one of the largest proprietors in France; but, as he is rather of the new noblesse, the blood of the De Tourvilles will be of considerable service to his pedigree. His new uniform shows me that he has got the colonelcy of my regiment, and, of course, I must attend his levee tomorrow. Will you come?"

My look was a sufficient answer.

"Ah!" said he, "you will not. Ah! there is exactly the national difference. Marriage opens the world to a French belle, as much as it shuts the world to an English one. Mademoiselle is certainly very handsome," said he, pausing, and fixing his opera-glass on her. "The contour of her countenance is positively fine; it reminds me of a picture of Clairon in Medea, in the King's private apartments—her smile charming, her eyes brilliant, and her diamonds perfect."

I listened, without daring to lift my eyes; he rambled on—"Fortunate fellow, the Marquis—fortunate in every thing but that intolerable physiognomy of his—Grand Ecuyer, Gold Key, Cross of Saint Louis, and on the point of being the husband of the finest woman between Calais and Constantinople. Of course, you intend to leave your card on the marriage?"

"No," was my answer. I suppose that there was something in the sound which struck him. He stared with palpable wonder.

"What! are you not an old acquaintance? Have you not known her this month?
Have you not walked, and talked, and waltzed, with her?"

"Never spoke a word to her in my life."

"Well, then, you shall not be left in such a forlorn condition long. I must pay my respects to my colonel. I dare say you may do the same to the fiancée. Mademoiselle will be charmed to have some interruption to his dreary attentions."

I again refused, but the gay Frenchman was not to be repulsed. He made a prodigious bow to the box, which was acknowledged by both the ladies. "There," said he, "the affair is settled. You cannot possibly hesitate now; that bow is a summons to their box. I can tell you also that you are highly honoured; for, if it had been in Paris, you could not have got a sight of the bride except under the surveillance of a pair of chaperons as grey and watchful as cats, or a couple of provincial uncles as stiff as their own forefathers armed cap-a-pie."

I could resist no longer; but with sensations perhaps not unlike those of one ascending the scaffold, I mounted the stairs. As the door opened, and Lafontaine, tripping forward, announced my name, Clotilde's cheek suffused with a burning blush, which in the next instant passed away, and left her pale as marble. The few words of introduction over, she sank into total silence; and though she made an effort, from time to time, to smile at Lafontaine's frivolities, it was but a feeble one, and she sat, with pallid lips and a hectic spot on her statue-like cheek, gazing on the carpet. I attempted to take some share in the conversation; but all my powers of speech were gone, my tongue refused to utter, and I remained the most complete and unfortunate contrast to my lively friend, who was now engaged in detailing the attempt on the royal life to Madame la Maréchal, whose later arrival had prevented their witnessing it in person. My nearer view of the Marquis did not improve the sketch which Lafontaine had given of his commanding-officer. He was a tall, stiff, but soldierly-looking person, with an expression, which, as we are disposed to approve or the reverse, might be called strong sense or sullen temper. But he had some reputation in the service as a bold, if not an able officer. He had saved the French troops in America by his daring, from the effects of some blunders committed by the giddiness of their commander-in-chief; and as his loyalty was not merely known but violent, and his hatred of the new faction in France not merely determined but furious, he was regarded as one of the pillars of the royal cause. The Marquis was evidently in ill-humour, whether with our introduction or with his bride; yet it was too early for a matrimonial quarrel, and too late for a lover's one. Clotilde was evidently unhappy, and after a few common-places we took our leave; the Marquis himself condescending to start from his seat, and shut the door upon our parting bow. The stage had now lost all interest for me, and I prevailed on Lafontaine, much against his will, to leave the house. The lobby was crowded, the rush was tremendous, and after struggling our way, with some hazard of our limbs, we reached the door only just in time to see Montrecour escorting the ladies to their carriage.

All was over for the night; and my companion, who now began to think that he had tormented me too far, was drawing me slowly, and almost unconsciously, through the multitude, when a flourish of trumpets and drums announced that their Majesties were leaving the theatre. The life guards rode up; and the rushing of the crowd, the crash of the carriages, the prancing and restiveness of the startled horses, and the quarrelling of the coachmen and the Bow Street officers, produced a scene of uproar. My first thought was the hazard of Clotilde, and I hastened to the spot where I had seen her last, but she was gone.

"All's safe, you see," said Lafontaine, trying to compose his ruffled costume; "your John Bulls are dangerous, in their loyalty, to coats and carriages." I agreed with him, and we sprang into one of the wretched vehicles that held its ground, with English tenacity, in the midst of a war of coronets. But our adventures were not to close so simply. Our driver had not remained in the rain for hours, without applying to the national remedy against all inclemencies of weather. He had no sooner mounted the box than I found that we were running a race with every carriage which we approached, sometimes tilting against them, and sometimes narrowly escaping from being overturned. At last we met with an antagonist worthy of our prowess. All my efforts to stop our charioteer had been useless, for he was evidently beyond any kind of appeal but that of flinging him from his seat; and Lafontaine, with the genuine fondness of a Gaul for excitement of all kinds, seemed wonderfully amused as we swept along. But our new rival was evidently in the same condition with our own Jehu, and after a smart horsewhipping of each other, they rushed forward at full speed. A sudden scream from within the other carriage showed the terror of its inmates, as it dashed along; an old woman in full dress, however, was all that I could discover; for we were fairly distanced in the race, though it was still kept up, with all the perseverance of a fool thoroughly intoxicated. In a few minutes more we heard a tremendous collision in front, and saw by the blaze of half a hundred flambeaux brandished in all directions, our rival a complete wreck, plunged into the midst of a crowd of equipages, waiting for their lordly owners in front of Devonshire house. It had been one of the weekly balls given by the Duchess, and the fallen vehicle had damaged panels covered with heraldry as old as the Plantagenets.

Arriving with almost equal rapidity, but with better fortune, I had but just time to spring into the street, at the instant when the old lady, writhing herself out of the window, which was now uppermost, was about to trust her portly person to chance. I caught her as she clung to the carriage with her many-braceleted arms, and was almost strangled by the vigour of her involuntary embrace as she rolled down upon me.

There was nothing in the world less romantic than my position in the midst of a circle of sneering footmen; and, as if to put romance for ever out of the question, I was relieved from my plumed and mantled encumbrance only by the assistance of Townshend, then the prince of Bow Street officers; who, knowing every thing and every body, informed me that the lady was a person of prodigious rank, and that he should 'feel it his duty,' before he parted with me, to ascertain whether her ladyship's purse had not suffered defalcation by my volunteering.

I was indignant, as might be supposed; and my indignation was not at all decreased by the coming up of half a dozen Bow Street officers, every one of whom either "believed," or "suspected," or "knew," me to be "an old offender." But I was relieved from the laughter of the liveried mob round me, and probably from figuring in the police histories of the morning, by the extreme terrors of the lady for the fate of her daughter. The carriage had by this time been raised up, but its other inmate was not to be found. She now produced the purse, which had been so impudently the cause of impeaching my honour; "and offered its contents to all who should bring any tidings of her daughter, her lost child, her Clotilde!" The name thrilled on my ear. I flew off to renew the search, followed by the crowd—was unsuccessful, and returned, only to see my protégé in strong hysterics. My situation now became embarrassing; when a way was made through the crowd by a highly-powdered personage, the chamberlain of the mansion, who announced himself as sent by "her Grace," to say that the Countess de Tourville was safe, having been taken into the house; and, further, conveying "her Grace's compliments to Madame la Maréchal de Tourville, to entreat that she would do her the honour to join her daughter." This message, delivered with all the pomp of a "gentleman of the bedchamber," produced its immediate effect upon the circle of cocked hats and worsted epaulettes. They grew grave at once; and guided by Townshend, who moved on, hat in hand, and bowing with the obsequiousness of one escorting a prince of the blood, we reached the door of the mansion.

But here a new difficulty arose. The duchess was known to La Maréchal, for to whom in misfortune was not that most generous and kind-hearted duchess known? But I was still a stranger. However, with my old Frenchwoman, ceremony was not then the prevailing point. I had been her "preserver," as she was pleased to term me. I had been "introduced," which was quite sufficient for knowledge; above all other merits, "I spoke French like a Parisian;" in short, it was wholly impossible for her to ascend the crowded staircase, with her numberless dislocations, by the help of any other arm on earth. The slightest hope of seeing Clotilde would have made me confront all the etiquette of Spain; and I bore the contrast of my undress costume with the feathered and silken multitude which filled the stairs, in the spirit of a philosopher, until, by "many a step and slow," we reached the private wing of the mansion.

There, in an apartment fitted up with all the luxury of a boudoir, yet looking melancholy from the dim lights and the silent attendants, lay Clotilde on a sofa. But how changed from the being whom I had just seen at the theatre! She had been in imminent danger, and was literally dragged from under the horses' feet. A slight wound in her temple was still bleeding, and her livid lips and half-closed eyes gave me the image of death. As for Madame, she was in distraction; the volubility of her sorrows made the well-trained domestics shrink, as from a display at which they ought not to be present; and at length the only recipients of her woes were myself and the physician, who, with ominous visage, and drops in hand, was administering his aid to the passive patient. As Madame's despair rendered her wholly useless, the doctor called on me to assist him in raising her from the floor, on which she had flung herself like a heroine in a tragedy.

While I was engaged in this most reluctant performance, the accents of a sweet voice, and the rustling of silk, made me raise my eyes, and a vision floated across the apartment; it was the duchess herself, glittering in gold and jewels, turbaned and embroidered, as a Semiramis or a queen of Sheba; she was brilliant enough for either. She had just left the fancy ball behind, and was come "to make her personal enquiries for the health of her young friend."

My office was rather startling, even to the habitual presence of mind of the leader of fashion. I might have figured in her eyes, as the husband, or the lover, or the doctor's apprentice; she almost uttered a scream. But the sound, slight as it was, recalled the Maréchal to her senses. The explanation was given with promptitude, and received with politeness. My family, in all its branches, came into her Grace's quick recollection; and I was thus indebted to my adventure, not only for an introduction to one of the most elegant women of her time—to the goddess of fashion in her temple, the Circe of high life, at the "witching hour," but of being most "graciously" received; and even hearing a panegyric on my chivalry, from the Maréchal, smilingly echoed by lips which seemed made only for smiles.

A summons from the ball-room soon withdrew the captivating mistress of the mansion, who retired with the step and glance of the very queen of courtesy; and I was about to take my leave, when a ceremonial of still higher interest awaited me. Clotilde, feebly rising from her sofa, and sustaining herself on the neck of her kneeling mother, murmured her thanks to me "for the preservation of her dear parent." The sound of her voice, feeble as it was, fell on my ear like music. I advanced towards her. The Maréchal stood with her handkerchief to her eyes, and venting her sensibilities in sobs. The fairer object before me shed no tears, but, with her eyes half-closed, and looking the marble model of paleness and beauty, she held out her hand. She was, perhaps, unconscious of offering more than a simple testimony of her gratitude for the services which her mother had described with such needless eloquence. But in that delicious, yet unaccountable feeling—that superstition of the heart, which makes every thing eventful—even that simple pressure of her hand created a long and living future in my mind.

Yet let me do myself justice; whether wise or weak in the presence of the only being who had ever mastered my mind, I was determined not "to point a moral and adorn a tale." I had other duties and other purposes before me than to degenerate into a slave of sighs. I was to be no Romeo, bathing my soul in the luxuries of Italian palace-chambers, moonlight speeches, and the song of nightingales. I felt that I was an Englishman, and had the rugged steep of fortune to climb, and climb alone. The time, too, in which I was to begin my struggle for distinction, aroused me to shake off the spirit of dreams which threatened to steal over my nature. The spot in which I lived was the metropolis of mankind. I was in the centre of the machinery which moved the living world. The wheels of the globe were rushing, rolling, and resounding in my ears. Every interest, necessity, stimulant, and passion of mankind, came in an incessant current to London, as to the universal heart, and flowed back, refreshed and invigorated, to the extremities of civilization. I saw the hourly operations of that mighty furnace in which the fortunes of all nations were mingled, and poured forth remolded. And London itself was never more alive. Every journal which I took up was filled with the signs of this extraordinary energy; the projects and meetings, the harangues and political experiments, of bold men, some rising from the mire into notoriety, if not into fame; some plunging from the highest rank of public life into the mire, in the hope of rising, if with darkened, yet a freshened wing. The debates in parliament, never more vivid than at this crisis, with the two great parties in full force, and throwing out flashes in every movement, like the collision of two vast thunder clouds, were a perpetual summons to action in every breast which felt itself above the dust it trod. But the French journals were the true excitements to political ardour. They were more than lamps, guiding mankind along the dusky paths of public regeneration—they were torches, dazzling the multitude who attempted to profit by their light; and, while they threw a glare round the head of the march, blinding all who followed. To one born, like myself, in the most aristocratic system of society on earth, yet excluded from its advantages by the mere chance of birth, it was new, and undoubtedly not displeasing, to see the pride of nobility tamed by the new rush of talent and ambition which had started up from obscurity in France; village attorneys and physicians, clerks in offices, journalists, men from the plough and the pen, supplying the places of the noblesse of Clovis and Capet, possessing themselves of the highest power while their predecessors were flying through Europe; conducting negotiations, commanding armies, ruling assemblies, holding the helm of government in the storm which had scattered the great names of France upon the waters. I anticipated all the triumph of the "younger sons."

Even the brief interval of my Brighton visit had curiously changed the aspect of the metropolis. The emigration was in full force, and every spot was crowded with foreign visages. Sallow cheeks and starting eyes, scowling brows and fierce mustaches, were the order of the day; the monks and the military had run off together. The English language was almost overwhelmed by the perpetual jargon of all the loud-tongued provincialities of France. But the most singular portion was the ecclesiastical. The streets and parks were filled with the unlucky sheep of the Gallican church, scattered before the teeth and howl of the republican wolf; and England saw, for the first time, the secrets of the monastery poured out before the light of day. The appearance of some among this sable multitude, though venerable and dignified, could not prevent the infinite grotesque of the others from having its effect on the spectator. The monks and priesthood of France amounted to little less than a hundred and fifty thousand. All were now thrown up from the darkness of centuries before a wondering world. I had Milton's vision of Limbo before my eyes.

"Embryos and idiots, eremites and friars,
A violent cross wind from either coast
Blew them transverse. Then might ye see
Cowls, hoods, and habits, with their wearers, tost,
And flutter'd into rags; their reliques, beads,
Indulgences, dispenses, pardons, bulls,
The sport of winds."

The mire was fully stirred up in which the hierarchy had enjoyed its sleep and sunshine for a thousand years. The weeds and worms had been fairly scraped off, which for a thousand years had grown upon the keel of the national vessel, and of which the true wonder was, that the vessel had been able to make sail with them clinging to her so long. In fact, I was thus present at one of the most remarkable phenomena of the whole Revolution. The flight of a noblesse was nothing to this change. The glittering peerage of France, created by a court, and living in perpetual connexion with the court, as naturally followed its fate as a lapdog follows the fortunes of its mistress; but here was a digging up of the moles, an extermination of the bats, a general extrusion of the subversive principle, to a race of existence which, whether above or below ground, seemed almost to form a part of the soil. Monkery was broken up, like a ship dashed against the shores of the bay of Biscay. The ship was not only wrecked, but all its fragments continued to be tossed on the ceaseless surge. The Gallican church was flung loose over Europe, at a time when all Europe itself was in commotion. I own, to the discredit of my political foresight, that I thought its forms and follies extinguished for ever. The snake was more tenacious of life than I had dreamed. But if I erred, I did not err alone.

Mordecai, whom I found immersed deeper and deeper in continental politics, and who scarcely denied his being the accredited agent of the emigrant princes, gave his opinion of this strange portion of French society with much more promptitude than he probably would of the probable fall or rise of stocks.

"Of all the gamblers at the great gambling-table of France," said he, "the clergy have played their game the worst. By leaving their defence to the throne, they have only dragged down the throne. By relying on the good sense of the National Assembly, they have left themselves without a syllable to say. Like men pleading by counsel, they have been at the mercy of their counsel, and been ruined at once by their weakness and their treachery."

On my observing to him that the church of France was necessarily feebler than either the throne or the nobles, and that, therefore, its natural course was to depend on both—

"Rely upon it," said the keen Jew "that any one great institution of the state which suffers itself, in the day of danger, to depend on any other for existence, will be ruined. When all are pressed, each will be glad to get rid of the pressure, by sacrificing the most dependent. The church should have stood on its own defence. The Gallican hierarchy was, beyond all question, the most powerful in Europe. Rome and her cardinals were tinsel and toys to the solid strength of the great provincial clergy of France. They had numbers, wealth, and station. Those things could give influence among a population of Hottentots. Let other hierarchies take example. They threw them all away, at the first move of a bloody handkerchief on the top of a Parisian pike. They had vast power with the throne; but what had once been energy they turned into encumbrance, and if the throne is pulled down, it will be by their weight. They had a third of the land in actual possession, and they allowed themselves to be stripped of it by a midnight vote of a drunken assembly. If they were caricatured in Paris, they had three-fourths of the population as fast bound to them as bigotry and their daily bread could bind. Three months ago, they might have marched to Paris with their crucifixes in front, and three millions of stout peasantry in their rear, have captured the capital, and fricaseed the foolish legislature. And now, they have archbishops learning to live on a shilling a-day."

From the Horse guards I had yet obtained nothing, but promises of "being remembered on the first vacancy;" Clotilde was still a sufferer, and my time, like that of every man without an object, began to be a deplorable encumbrance. In short, my vision of high life and its happiness was fairly vanishing hour by hour. I occasionally met Lafontaine; but, congenial as our tempers might be, our natures had all the national difference, and I sometimes envied, and as often disdained, his buoyancy. Even he, too, had his fluctuations; and a letter from Mariamne, a little more or less petulant, raised and sank him like the spirits in a thermometer.

But one day he rushed into my apartment with a look of that despair which only foreigners can assume, and which actually gave me the idea that he was about to commit suicide. Flinging himself into a chair, and plunging his hand deep into his bosom, from which I almost expected to see him draw the fatal weapon, he extracted a paper, and held it forth to me. "Read!" he exclaimed, with the most pathetic tones of Talma in tragedy—"read my ruin!" I read, and found that it was a letter from his domineering little Jewess, commanding him to throw up his commission on the spot, and especially not to go to France, on penalty of her eternal displeasure. My looks asked an explanation. "There!" cried the hero of the romance, "there!—see the caprice, the cruelty, the intolerable tyranny of that most uncertain, intractable, and imperious of all human beings!" I had neither consolation nor contradiction to offer.

He then let me into his own secret, with an occasional episode of the secrets of others—the substance of the whole being, that a counter revolution was preparing in France; that, after conducting the correspondence in London for some time, he had been ordered to carry a despatch, of the highest importance, to the secret agency in Paris; and that the question was now between love and honour—Mariamne having, by some unlucky hint dropped from her father, received intimation of the design, and putting her veto on his bearing any part in it in the most peremptory manner. What was to be done? The unfortunate youth was fairly on the horns of the dilemma, and he obviously saw no ray of extrication but the usual Parisian expedient of the pistol.

While he alternately raved and wept, the thought struck me—"Why might I not go in his place?" I was growing weary of the world, however little I knew of it. I had no Mariamne either to prohibit or to weep for me. The only being for whom I wished to live was lost to me already. I offered myself as the carrier of the despatch without delay.

I never saw ecstasy so visible in a human being; his eloquence exhausted the whole vocabulary of national rapture. "I was his friend, his brother, his preserver. I was the best, the ablest, the noblest of men." But when I attempted to escape from this overflow of gratitude, by observing on the very simple nature of the service, his recollection returned, and he generously endeavoured, with equal zeal, to dissuade me from an enterprise of which the perils were certainly neither few nor trifling. He was now in despair at my obstinacy. The emigration of the French princes had not merely weakened their cause in France, but had sharpened the malice of their enemies. Their agents had been arrested in all quarters, and any man who ventured to carry on a correspondence with them, was now alike in danger of assassination and of the law. After debating the matter long, without producing conviction on either side, it was at length agreed to refer the question to Mordecai, whom Lafontaine now formally acknowledged to be master of the secret on both sides of the Channel.

* * * * *