The Lichtensteiners had now attained the object of their wishes; they led an existence entirely ideal. They occupied a position unique in Europe, nay, in the whole world; for, instead of paying for government, they actually were paid for submission to it. It would now be supposed that nothing in future could disturb the good understanding existing between prince and people. But alas! that the old saying should here find its application—namely, that he who has got yellow hair, wants it also to be curled.
John II. became Prince of Lichtenstein. One fine morning he said to himself: "Since I have no civil list, nay, since I—contrary to all established usages—pay a tribute to my subjects, I ought at least to have full liberty to live according to my tastes. This small capital is a bore. I have plenty of money; I will set out for Vienna!" No sooner said than done. John II. built a magnificent palace in the capital of Austria, and there he lived in a luxurious style. The government of the principality he intrusted to a minister, with whom he corresponded. But when were those stupid Lichtensteiners to be satisfied? They put their heads together and resolved to send a deputation to their supreme master in Vienna; and one particular morning, just as the prince had got out of bed, a dozen of the most distinguished among his subjects made their appearance. After the customary reverences and ceremonies, the deputation put forth its request with becoming solemnity, expressing itself somewhat to the following effect: "We don't pay your serene highness any civil list; on the contrary, your serene highness pays an annual indemnity to us. But your serene highness is in possession of a large fortune, and spends it in a royal manner, by the which formerly your principality benefited. If, now, your serene highness continues to reside in Vienna, you inflict a serious loss upon your subjects; and it appears therefore to us but just that you should in future inhabit at least six months of the year your own capital." Several demands of a political nature were appended to this petition. John II. granted their request, and issued, moreover, a brand-new constitution, with a parliament of fifteen members, whom he promised to pay out of his own pocket.
But what about the ninety men and the drummer? Well, now the difficulty arises, for they are exactly the cause of the present dispute.
Austria having long furnished this contingent, sent, some time ago, a bill of the resulting expenses to the prince. But the prince thought that, as he had renounced his claims to a civil list, and even paid his subjects a round sum every year, it could be no very heavy burden for the said subjects to pay their own federal contingent. This the Lichtensteiners obstinately refuse to do; the prince, on the other side, tired of so much trouble, has expressed his intention to abdicate, and to cede his dominions to Austria. But against this scheme his people protest most energetically—they would rather belong to Switzerland. Beside, if Austria annexes Lichtenstein, then Prussia will regard the transaction with an envious eye. The prince will neither pay nor govern. Such is the present state of things, of which nobody can predict the end.
From The St. James Magazine.
A NOVEL TICKET-OF-LEAVE; OR, MISTAKEN IDENTITY.
"No two things are alike." Such is the dictum of science. "Nature," say the wise men, "resembles the charms of Cleopatra, which custom cannot stale, so infinite is their variety." Even in so humble a thing as a flock of sheep there is a personal identity, and the shepherd of Salisbury Plain will vow to you that he can discriminate between the countenances of each member of his woolly family, and particularize their features. So with the herdsman and his drove, the trainer and his stud. But why pursue the theme? Why dwell upon these flocks qui passent et ne se resemblent pas? Is it to prove that these resemblances are mere fallacies, and have no real existence; that they ought to be classed with Sir Thomas Browne's "vulgar errors?" No; but to lament that whereas each member of a flock of sheep, of a herd of oxen, or a stud of horses, carries his individuality so markedly, the privilege is not more extended in the genus homo. I solemnly aver that the number of cases of mistaken identity which have lately come to my knowledge is not only astounding, but exceedingly embarrassing; I may add, too, quorum magna pars fui; which, being translated, means, in which I have formed a no inconsiderable portion of the quorum. It is no pleasant sensation to know that your "counterfeit presentment" is walking the earth; in fact, it is monstrously unpleasant. The other day I felt a heavy hand placed rapidly upon my shoulder, in the most unceremonious and familiar of ways, accompanied with an equally unceremonious and familiar exclamation: "Why, Perkins, old boy, how are ye? Haven't seen ye for an age! Glad to see you again in London! How are all the folks at Nottingham?"
How far this familiar stranger would have gone on in this fluent strain of amity I know not. It was time to stop his exuberance of friendship, and acquaint him with the fact that my name was not Perkins; that I had not come from Nottingham; and, I fear, added, in the bitterness and irritation of the moment, that I had never been to Nottingham, and never wished to go there. "Oh, nonsense, Perkins! I'm not going to be knocked off in that style. How are Mrs. Perkins and the chicks?" "I tell you again, sir, you are mistaken in your man; my name [{708}] is not Perkins." "It may not be Perkins now, but it was three months ago; and whatever your new name may be, I am not going to be turned off in this way. Not Perkins! Why, you can't get rid of that mole on your cheek with your new name; and as to your wig, old fellow, there never was but that shade of red I ever saw. Come, where shall we dine?" "I must plainly tell you, sir," I replied to my would-be friend, "you are carrying your pleasantry too far; and if you do not leave me at once, I will give you in charge of the police." The fellow, evidently chagrined, left me to chew the cud of bitter reflection. "Well, well," were his parting words, "it can't be Perkins after all; Perkins was a jolly good fellow, and this chap is———" He had by this time got out of hearing. What an unpleasant rencontre this! I thought to myself. Then again the subject took another aspect. What if the real, the true Perkins, should ever be persecuted by my friends as I have been by one of his?
And this leads me on to another incident in the same category, which occurred still more recently, and might have led to very deplorable results. In fact, I am not sure that the end is yet. I had business out of town for a day or two, and returned punctually at the appointed hour. Whom should I meet on the platform of the terminus but Tom Cridlins! Now Tom is a great gossip, and an immense favorite with the ladies. He frequents the theatres and the operas, conversaziones and balls, and retails all the news and scandal of the day to his fair friends. Well, I met him accidentally at the terminus; in an instant he was full of apologies and excuses. "Hope, Sam, done no mischief; didn't mean it, didn't mean it, 'pon honor; deuced sorry, hope it's all over." "Why, what's the matter?" "Didn't know you'd gone out of town, you sly dog. I understand it all. Called at Mrs. Sam's yesterday; told her—didn't do it intentionally—saw you at the opera Monday night with Countess Tarascona; magnificent woman; saw at once made mistake. Why didn't she tell me you'd gone out of town? wouldn't have breathed a word. 'Pon honor, accidental." "Opera, Tom! I wasn't at the opera; I have been out of town since Monday morning; you're mistaken." "Capital joke, that. Why, Sam, think I'm 'flicted with color-blindness? No, my boy, nothing blinds me but friendship; wouldn't have said a word had known you didn't want it." Need I say what a miserable vista was opened up before me? A jealous wife's jealousy accidentally inflamed in this innocent manner, and even Tom Cridlins incredulous. These men of the world won't believe in—in anything.