The Repealer had his wish. The cable was cut. Ireland was adrift--and

LEFT TO ITSELF. Order, law, justice, peace, trade, industry, money,

prosperity, and--oh terrible truth!--INDEPENDENCE were gone

away--quite away with the SAXON.

* * * * *

And the Milesian Republic endured--we blush to number the hours of its

ephemeral and horrible existence. Every where the fair face of the

beautiful ISLE was hideously seamed with scars of civil war. Every

where mounted upwards the smoke of roof-trees destroyed, and

hearthstones desolated. Every where over the surface of the great

surrounding ocean boomed the discordant wail of the land torn by the

vultures of anarchy.

Again! at the harbours of sea-ports there was an unmistakeable noise.

Over the rugged stones went the continual tramp and tread of armed

men, who, with bursts of brutal insolence, marched from the ships. The

clang of foreign arms again sounded in the cities, along the plains,

and across the hills of Erin. Ireland had become the province of a

foreign power which did not speak the English tongue. Ireland was that

day trampled on by the iron heel of a new master.

Albion, from its white cliffs, saw the scene. But the ties had been

long broken.

THE LAST WALK.

BY B. SIMMONS.

Oh lost Madonna, young and fair!

O'er-leant by broad embracing trees,

A streamlet to the lonely air

Murmurs its meek low melodies;

And there, as if to drink the tune,

And mid the sparkling sands to play,

One constant Sunbeam still at noon

Shoots through the shades its golden way.

My lost Madonna, whose glad life

Was like, that ray of radiant air,

The March-wind's violet scents blew rife

When last we sought that fountain fair.

Blythe as the beam from heaven arriving,

--Thy hair held back by hands whose gleam

Was white as stars with night-clouds striving--

Thy bright lips bent and sipp'd the stream.

Fair fawn-like creature! innocent

In soul as faultless in thy form,--

As o'er the wave thy beauty bent

It blushed thee back each rosy charm.

How soon the senseless wave resign'd

The tints, with thy retiring face,

While glass'd within my mournful mind

Still glows that scene's enchanting grace.

Ah! _every_ scene, or bright or bleak,

Where once thy presence round me shone,

To echoing Memory long shall speak

The Past's sweet legends, Worshipp'd One!

The wild blue hills, the boundless moor,

That, like my lot, stretch'd dark afar,

And o'er its edge, thine emblem pure,

The never-failing evening star.

The lawn on which the Sunset's track

Crimson'd thy home beside the Glen--

The village pathway, leading back

From thee to haunts of hated men--

The walk to watch thy chamber's ray,

'Mid storm and midnight's rushing wings--

These, these were joys, long pass'd away,

To dwell with Grief's eternal things.

My lost Madonna, fair and young!

Before thy slender-sandall'd feet

The dallying wave its silver flung,

Then dash'd far ocean's breast to meet;

And farther, wider, from thy side

Than unreturning streams could rove,

Dark Fate decreed me to divide--

_To me_, my henceforth buried Love!

Yes! far for ever from thy side,

Madonna, now for ever fair,

To death of DISTANCE I have died,

And all has perished, but--Despair.

Whether thy fate with woe be fraught,

Or Joy's gay rainbow gleams o'er thee,

I've died to all, but the mad thought

That WHAT WAS ONCE NO MORE SHALL BE.

'Tis well:--at least I shall not know

How time or tears may change that brow;

Thine eyes shall smile, thy cheek shall glow

To me in distant years as now.

And when in holier worlds, where Blame,

And Blight, and Sorrow, have no birth,

Thou'rt mine at last--I'll clasp the same

Unalter'd Angel, loved on earth.

MAN IS A FEATHERLESS BIPED.

I have heard--I saw yesterday that fact enlarged upon in Mrs Thunder's

_Tales of Passion_--that people's hair may be turned gray by intense

anxiety, intense fear, intensity of any kind, in a single day. My hair

is not exactly gray (far from it, indeed, considering my time of

life)--but, if the above physical phenomenon did ever really occur, it

ought to be silvery-white. For I have passed through a day, the

consequences of which colour, and will colour, my whole existence.

Life's fever came to a crisis, and the crisis turned out unfavourably.

The threads of my destiny got into a tangle, and Fate in a passion cut

the knot with her scissors. My earthly career has been divided into

two distinctly-marked portions, and the point where the two are

united--the bending-stone (as the Greeks say) of the race-course, is

the day on which I was _plucked_.

Reader of Maga, as your experiences are possibly confined to the land

of Maga's nativity, I will explain to you what it is to be plucked. It

is to have your degree refused at one of the English universities. Now

don't suppose that, when I have said this, I have said all. The

mischief does not end with the refusal. It is bad enough, truly, to

have gone through three years of reading and walking, or of port-wine

drinking and tandem-driving, and then to get nothing for your trouble.

But that's not it. A plucking brings with it consequences quite

peculiar to itself--consequences hardly intelligible out of

England--hardly intelligible, indeed, out of the sphere of the upper

classes in England. The English universities are the nurseries of

adolescent English gentlemen--of the whole aristocracy, church, and

bar. And the many thousand persons comprised in these very extensive

denominations, although they may have nothing else in common, agree in

fond and not very discriminating reverence for Oxford and Cambridge. I

really believe that many a man, whose actual reminiscences of these

seats of learning are confined to the pace of the boats and the

badness and dearness of the wine, yet manages to persuade himself that

his being was somehow exalted by his three years' course. And then the

sacredness which attaches to their verdict! A fellow will pass current

any where with the university stamp upon him. I _know_ that Muggleton,

who got a medal, and is the slowest dummy in creation, used to be

invited occasionally to dinner-parties as a substitute for the late S.

S. Besides, university life is common ground to half the world. You

place Tories and Whigs, high churchmen and low churchmen, round the

same table, and there follows a wrangle or a quarrel; but, let the

conversation once veer round to the incidents of "Slogger's year," or

the character of Dr ----, and you will find the talk flowing freely,

and opinions unanimous.

So you see the unpleasantness of there being nothing to be said about

one, under such circumstances, except that one was _plucked_. Of Mr

Pennefeather, of Elmstead Lodge, Surrey, (my present designation,)

little is known in the neighbourhood of the aforesaid Elmstead Lodge,

beyond the fact that he and his charming family live there. But the

name of Pennefeather of St Saviour's, Cambridge, is common property,

and hundreds know it in connexion with certain unfortunate

circumstances, already alluded to.

I was always in my college considered rather a reading man. I attended

chapel and lecture regularly. I went to few parties or none. Grindham

of St John's (the present dean of ----), and Swetter of Trinity (the

new Queen's counsel), backed by their respective colleges for the

senior wranglership, were old school-fellows of mine, and we continued

our acquaintance. By dint of flattering Swetter, and listening to

Grindham's endless holdings forth on mathematical subjects, I grew

into favour with both. I believe the worthy fellows began to think me

one of themselves,--nothing very brilliant, perhaps, but still sure of

a decent place in the honour-list. And, indeed, had fate pleased,

their influence might have brought things to a better issue. I was

induced to keep my outer door scrupulously shut till two o'clock P.M.;

and, though I often fell asleep in my chair, and conic sections

always made my head ache, I nevertheless made some way. But I was

ruined by a flute! I had learned to play in early life--my mother

liked me to accompany my sisters; and now the accomplishment, of which

I had grown most school-boyishly ashamed, was discovered by a lazy,

handsome, perfumed, kid-gloved _flaneur_ of a fellow, Jenkyns of our

college, whose rooms were above mine. He was just then getting up a

musical association, and of all things wanted a second flute. I have

no patience to narrate the steps of the seduction and triumph,--how I

resisted his overtures at first, then gave way conditionally, then

unconditionally,--how we had meetings, and held committees, and gave

concerts,--how the dons first looked suspicious, then indifferent,

then applausible,--and how, finally, far conspicuous with my white

waistcoat and baton, I led the band on the first anniversary of our

foundation, in the presence of the vice-chancellor and a brilliant

assemblage of professors and heads of houses. But the degree

examination was approaching--unappeasable, inevitable.

Grindham, I confess, had begun to look cold on me; but Swetter, who

was a little ambitious of being considered an accomplished gentleman

as well as a great mathematician, rather countenanced my proceedings.

He never joined us himself--he was a great deal too deep for that--but

he largely affected contempt for fellows who maintained that fiddling

and reading were incompatible. And indeed, without being in the least

aware of it, I had been made, as it were, the pattern-man of our

association and the new system. Did any one object to our concerts,

rehearsals, and practisings, as occupying too much time, he was

referred to Pennefeather of St Saviour's, "a regular leading man, by

Jove--pal of Grindham and Swetter--goes home after a concert, and sits

up half the night with a wet cloth round his head." So said

report--lying as usual; and my fall was the greater in consequence.

The examination was over, and the result was to be announced next

morning. I had felt my ideas rather vague on the subject of the

questions asked, and half suspected that my answers partook of their

looseness. Still I had my hopes--I had covered a good deal of paper

with my writing--a wranglership was not so very unlikely. With this

conviction I went to bed, and slept, on the whole, very soundly. In

the morning I dressed, shaved, and breakfasted, with considerable

deliberation; and, just before nine o'clock, walked down to the

senate-house. The scene there, on this and like occasions, is

sufficiently exciting to an uninterested person--something more than

exciting to one in a situation like mine. A crowd of young men, half

mad with expectation, beset the doors of the edifice. The fate of

themselves and their friends, their bets and the honour of their

respective colleges, are at stake. They shout and scream. The doors

are thrown open. All rush in. A pandemoniac confusion ensues. Then

some patriotic individual volunteers to read aloud the expanded list,

and, hoisted on the shoulders of his neighbours, begins,--WRANGLERS,

"Grindham, St John's; Swetter, Trinity; Pump, Trinity, ("Hooray!"

shouts somebody, and runs off to convey the intelligence to Mr Pump,

who is funking in his room)--Mullins, St John's; Shobley, St Saviours;

&c., &c." I listened calmly to the first half of the wrangler-list,

anxiously to the last, tremblingly to the names in the next class,

agonisedly to those in the third and last. _My name was not there at

all!_ In the hope that it might have been omitted by mistake, I waited

until the crowd thinned, and then, with dim eyes, read the paper

myself. There was no mistake at all. I ran, unobserved, to my rooms,

locked myself in, and during the next three hours I won't say what I

did or thought. There _are_ moments--but never mind! I'm a father of a

family now.

The day was verging towards the afternoon when I put on my hat,

determined to go out and brave the mocking looks of the undergraduate

world. I thought I had some notion of what was to be expected, but the

bitterness of the draught surpassed all my anticipations. I had hardly

got outside the gate of my college, when there turned the nearest

corner a walking party of fifteen gentlemen abreast--the centre-piece

was Grindham. The two wings were composed of his admiring, flattering

friends. My appearance caused a singular alteration in the

countenances of the party. Some looked awkwardly; most of them

manifested a strong inclination to laugh; but Grindham himself would

have passed without recognising me, had not his neighbour whispered

something in his ear. He turned and shook hands--I would have given

the world so that he had cut me, for I expected some of that pity

which "d----d goodnatured" friendship proffers on such occasions.

Alas! my friend had forgotten _my_ position in his own: he did not

seem in the least aware that any person except himself and Swetter,

the defeated Swetter, had been interested in the late examination. He

talked incoherently for some minutes, for repressed exultation was

making his eyes dim, and causing his tongue to stutter; and there we

stood, he the victor and I not even worthy to be considered the

vanquished, chattering on the most indifferent matters--even about

that confounded musical association--and neither of us venturing to

touch upon the subject which was filling each of our hearts to

overflowing. Had any one of the fourteen young men who were tittering

together at a little distance, been a cynic or a psychologist, he

might have freely fed his humour, or made a valuable addition to his

stock of observation. Grindham, Pennefeather--pride struggling hard to

be modest; shame striving to gloss itself over with gay

indifference--human nature in either case denying and belying

itself--what lesson, or what a caricature! But, just before we

separated, something seemed to strike my companion. He suddenly became

more confused than ever, and then was clearly striving hard to look

sentimental. "By the bye, my dear fellow--oh! ah! I was very sorry ...

better luck next time, eh!" And so we parted. But I had lost my

friend.

I proceeded. An indistinct object became visible on the other side of

the way, which, as I approached, gradually assumed the form and

proportions of a man. It was a figure, not unfrequently seen in my day

in the streets of Cambridge: a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, which

completely concealed the countenance of the wearer, just permitted to

loom out of its shadow a many-coloured neckhandkerchief, printed with

the flags of all nations. This last cosmopolitan habiliment shone in

advantageous contrast to a dogskin waistcoat, of indescribable hue,

and immensely broad trousers of white flannel. No coat at all was

visible in front, but behind you might perceive that one of bright

olive-coloured cloth came sharply out immediately below the arms,--a

sporting Newmarket coat, exaggerated to intensity. Such was the outer

man of Mr Charles Maxey, of St Saviour's; the inner man was full of

all corruption and wickedness. This gentleman, being rather at a loss

for occupation amid the uncongenial excitements of the day, was

engaged in somewhat roughly schooling a small and horribly ugly

terrier puppy to follow him up and down the street. I had no

acquaintance with him. I knew nothing of him whatever, beyond the fact

that he generally entered the College Hall very much after the proper

time, dressed in a rough pilot coat, and invariably swearing

violently, as he came in, at some unknown person or object outside the

door. But it appeared that, if I had lost one friend, I had gained

another. He, who would never have ventured to speak to me before--for

the credit of our college, let me say that he was completely and

universally cut--now rushed across the street, and shaking me by the

hand, bade me "cheer up, (I had flattered myself I was looking

tolerably cheerful,) and d--n the concern!" The beast then favoured me

with a dissertation on the nature, cause, and consequences of mishaps

like mine; in the course of which he explained that his own two

pluckings had been entirely owing to the remissness of his private

tutor, in not providing cigars at his (the private tutor's) rooms, and

thereby failing to render Mr Maxey's studies sufficiently agreeable.

"B--and T--," censoriously remarked that gentleman, "always do it: so

I shall go to one of them, and cut old Z--, next term." Finally, he

insisted on taking me off to breakfast, (breakfast at two o'clock!) at

the rooms of a friend of his, who had been plucked fifteen times, and

meant going on to the twentieth plucking, to entitle himself

(according to an old Cambridge tradition,) to a gratuitous degree. I

accompanied him in passive helplessness, and found a room some thing

more than filled with about thirty Maxeys, smoking and singing. I

remember it all to this day;--the indescribable songs--the spiced

ale--Maxey's story about trotting the gray mare to Newmarket--the

jocular allusions to myself--all this comes over me now like a dream

of purgatory. The events of that day are indissolubly linked together

in my mind; and I can never recall my misfortune without recalling too

the meeting with Grindham and the party at the rooms of Mr Maxey's

friend. But hard as these things were to endure in our little world at

Cambridge, I have since experienced worse consequences of that

accursed plucking among grown men, and in a manner made more painful

to a sensitive organisation like mine.

I won't say what my father said when he heard of this termination of

my university career. He had been a chancellor's medallist himself,

and, in virtue of his medal, was listened to in parliament before the

war. I believe he thought that all a man's doings in life were

contained in his university exploits, like the chicken in the egg. Me

he sent off to read theology with a clergyman in the country,

previously to taking orders--for a family living awaited me. In this

position I remained two years. I may mention, in passing, that my

worthy instructor, a perfect ninny, though a former fellow of his

college, despised me utterly for my past failure, and was at no pains

to conceal his contempt; and at the end of that time, I set out for

the cathedral city of F----, to go through the bishop's preparatory

examination. Now, there is a prevalent notion in England, or at least

in the English universities, that a bishop's examination is regulated

after a peculiar fashion. It is reported that the prelate, or his

chaplain, examines beforehand the calendars of the two universities,

and adapts his subsequent questions to the information thence derived,

in what may be called reverse order. Thus, a wrangler or

first-classman, being supposed fit for any thing, is asked nothing in

particular. It was even whispered--ay! even in these days of priestly

dignity--that when my friend Grindham's eldest son, himself a second

senior wrangler, went up a few weeks ago to the Bishop of ----, his

lordship merely demanded information respecting the feeling of the

university on the Hampden question, and on being satisfactorily

answered, remarked that he dined at six, and dismissed his examinee.

But, to resume--the questions are said, or rather were said, to

increase in difficulty with the decreasing honours of the applicant. A

second-classman had questions of average difficulty put to him, a man

who took no honours, was stiffly catechised; a plucked man--but how it

fared, and perhaps still fares, with plucked men, you shall judge from

my case. After a night of excessive nervousness at the inn, I

proceeded to the palace at ten o'clock in the morning. A number of

serious-looking, white-cravatted, young men were waiting in the outer

room, into which I was ushered. It was bitterly cold: there was, it is

true, a fire; but it was actually going out, because no one dared to

stir the Episcopal embers. An inner door every now and then opened and

shut, admitting each time some one individual of the shivering crowd

into the dreaded presence. Many old familiar faces were there. I

should perhaps have shrunk from their aspect, had not nervousness, and

perhaps a feeling that every one of them might in a few minutes find

himself in my identical position, placed us all on a level. So I

looked almost boldly about me. After a few minutes, I was on the point

of addressing an old acquaintance, when, above the shoulder of the man

to whom I was about to speak, there appeared a face, often seen but

always loathed in my walking and sleeping visions. It was Maxey's. The

cosmopolitan handkerchief had disappeared, and the debauched eyes

looked brighter and less bloodshot than of old; but it was the same

Maxey who fraternised with me on the day of my fall. He was--I am

sorry to say--attempting to get into orders. He had been rejected, he

told me, once before, but he had now been "coached by so-and-so half a

year, and meant to manage it this time." Whether Mr So-and-So provided

cigars for theological pupils I did not inquire; I was too much

sickened by Maxey's presence,--so much so that it was really a relief

when I was summoned in my turn to the Bishop's apartment. I passed

through a long passage, then through an ante-room; lastly, a door

opened, and displayed his lordship sitting solemnly at a large green

table. The chaplain was leaving the room just as my name was

announced. I saw him put his hand to his mouth, and distinctly heard

him whisper in a loud aside--"_Plucked in_ 18--, my Lord."

The Bishop's face assumed an expression of yet more awful solemnity.

He gravely motioned me to sit down, and then, looking me full in the

eyes, said--"Ah hem! I have no doubt, Mr Pennefather, you have

sufficiently prepared yourself for the--hem--important office you

propose to take on yourself. I am sorry to say that this--ah!--hem--most

important office is often entered upon without sufficient--hem--

preparation."

A pause. Fluency was not his lordship's forte. But if the moral

annihilation of the object addressed is the end and aim of oratory, he

proved himself in this case a Demosthenes.

He then continued--"Nothing is more--hem--essential to a clergyman

than a knowledge of the early history of Christianity. Let me ask you

what you know of the Patripassian heresy?"

I don't know what I might have answered under other circumstances, but

the chaplain's whisper and the Bishop's exordium were too much for me.

I could not utter a word. Other questions followed, to which I

answered nothing or nonsense. In the end I recollect that his lordship

made me a long speech, from which I gathered--it was not difficult to

do this, as it consisted of the same sentence repeated in every

variety of collocation--that he was very sorry that he could not admit

me into orders with such--hem--ah--insufficient preparation.

I bowed and left the room, passed through the ante-chamber and passage

into the apartment where the rest of the candidates were waiting, and

thence made my exit with some words of Mr Maxey's dancing and humming

in my ears,--"_so we're plucked again, old boy!_"

Between this scene and the next passage of my life, which I shall

sketch or the reader's benefit, there was an interval of several

years. I had been abroad most of the time, and had very nearly managed

to forget my university misfortune. There was no occasion to revert to

the bishop, for my elder brother died, and I stepped into his

place--the family living being duly put out to nurse for my brother

Tom. From the proximate parson, I had become the bachelor heir, with

rooms in Piccadilly, a groom, and a brougham.

One day--it was in the course of my first season in town--I was dining

with Jobson in Hamilton Place. Why I went so frequently to Jobson's,

any body who remembers Emily Jobson, and what an angel she looked in

that lilac silk, will easily guess. I had flattered myself I was not

prospering badly with her. But I knew there was a rival in the

field--no other person than my old friend Swetter, then a rising

junior of five-and-thirty at the chancery bar. We were running on a

_tie_, as I fancied--Swetter and I. The dear girl was, I am sure, very

much puzzled to decide between us; and I often thought I could see, by

the expression of her face, that she was balancing Swetter, his

advantages and disadvantages, his possible peerage, and the necessity

entailed on his wife of staying in London through the winter, against

me and my little place in Surrey. And all the time, I had an uneasy

consciousness that my rival could get the start, if he pleased, by

confiding to Emily certain awkward antecedents of mine, known to the

reader. But, to do him justice, he was too much of a gentleman to head

me by such means. This I knew, and though at this very dinner-party he

was sitting opposite Emily and myself, and looking exquisitely

uncomfortable every time I whispered in her ear between the spoonfuls

of _bisque d'écrivisses_, I felt certain that even greater provocation

would not tempt him to peach. So all went smoothly--as smoothly as

things ought to go at one of Jobson's admirable dinners. But towards

the middle of the second course, Jobson's voice, which had been

growing gradually louder since we sat down, became so overpowering as

to beat down and absorb all other conversation. He was talking about

Cambridge and his son Plantagenet. Jobson is a _nouveau riche_ (some

of his friends call him Tyburn Jobson, because he made his money in

hemp), and rather unnecessarily fond of introducing the now well-known

facts that Plantagenet is at the university, and Tudor in the Guards.

So, Jobson giving the cue, Cambridge became the text of the general

conversation. Glauber, who stammers horridly, and, like most

stammering men, takes every opportunity of telling long and

inextricable stories, began to hold forth, in the midst of general

silence, concerning Lady Ligham's son William, whom her ladyship would

persist in believing a genius, and whom she had sent to Cambridge

expressly to be senior wrangler. "But," added Glauber, "only the other

d..d..d..day I heard he was p..p..p..pluck--."

The word was not out of his mouth, when that brute Jones, who was next

him, gave him a tremendous admonitory poke in the side. Glauber first

turned wrathfully on him, and then, beginning to comprehend, looked

straight at me--his red face becoming redder with confusion, and his

great goggle eyes almost starting out of his head.

"I b . . b . . b . . beg your p . . p . ." begun the wretch; but

Swetter and Jones, who had been writhing with suppressed laughter,

here gave vent to such sounds as effectually drowned his miserable

voice. I gulped down a glass of champagne, and made things worse by

choking myself. Meanwhile Emily looked on with a face of the utmost

astonishment.

Well, we concluded dinner, drank Jobson's wine, and ascended to the

drawing-room. No sooner did we enter, than I saw Emily go straight up

to Swetter, and ask a question. He laughed a good deal at first, and

then visibly commenced a long story. I followed it in Emily's face as

clearly as if I had been listening to it. Yes! the temptation was too

much for Swetter; and, to say the truth, he only did what any one else

would have done in like circumstances. He told all. Determined to know

my fate, I walked to Emily's chair, and began conversing in my usual

strain. She was civil--just civil--but in less than five minutes, she

managed to inform me that she hoped her dear brother Plantagenet would

work hard at Cambridge--_for the honour of his family_. It was enough.

Swetter and she were married in two months.

I left London without waiting for the season to conclude, and buried

myself and a fishing-rod in a lonely Welsh cottage. For months I saw

nobody but the old woman whom I brought from Monmouth to cook my

dinners. She, I believe, thought me decidedly mad--principally because

I once swore dreadfully at her, when, _àpropos_ of a chicken on which

I was to dine, she used a word vernacularly employed to signify the

stripping birds of their feathers. I fished, caught nothing, and mused

on Emily. At last, however, on casually extending a ramble to a

greater length than usual, I found that a house, five miles from my

present residence, and quite as solitary, had been taken by an English

family. As a matter of course--though I really cannot precisely

remember in what way--we became acquainted. All I know is, that I

determined the acquaintance should commence as soon as possible,

immediately after meeting a young lady in a pink bonnet, who was

sauntering along the side of the stream in which I was pretending to

fish. This was Caroline Lumley. They were the Lumleys--Captain and Mrs

Lumley, and two daughters. The family had lived the anomalous life

common to English semi-genteel families with small incomes. They had

resided, now in Jersey, now in Dublin, now on the Continent--every

where but in civilised and inhabitable parts of England. At present

they had settled themselves down, for the sake of cheapness, in a spot

where every thing except mutton and house-rent was twice as expensive

as in London, and where they had to walk five miles to meet with a

neighbour.

That neighbour was myself. I was sick with disappointed love, and

Caroline Lumley was dying with ennui. Need I say that in six weeks we

were engaged!

I really believe that she worshipped me as a superior being. There had

been few or no men in the out-of-the-way places where they had lived.

There never are. They are all draughted off to business and

employments of various kinds. So I not only had no equal in her

estimation, but could not, by any possibility, have had one. She

thought me the handsomest man in the world. She used to praise my

talents and accomplishments to my face. Indeed, by the side of old

Captain Lumley, who, prosy by nature, had long ago exhausted all his

topics, I might have appeared a Crichton. Every now and then, however,

when Caroline had called me clever, there used to come over me a

shudder. Could _she_ be ever brought to think of me as Emily Jobson

probably did? The idea was positively maddening. Many a night did I

lie awake, speculating whether, after all, it might not be better to

secure myself against another such cross of destiny by freely

revealing to her my great secret.

At last, reflection, building on the reminiscences of an old Cambridge

tradition, suggested to me a plan which I lost no time in executing.

"My love," said I to Caroline one morning, "did you ever hear of

Cambridge?"

"Oh yes!" she replied, apparently quoting from Pinnock; "it's the

capital of Cambridgeshire."

"Did you never hear any thing else about it?" rejoined I.

"It's famous for its university, isn't it?" said she, seemingly from

the same source.

"On this hint I spake," and told her how that I had been educated at

Cambridge, and how that, after three years of intense study, I had

received the greatest honour the university had to bestow--_a

plucking_.

"Yes," said I, my face radiant with a triumphant expression--"I was

actually plucked."

"I am sure you were, you dear, clever thing!" cried she, throwing her

arms round my neck.

We were married at Monmouth, and I took my bride straight to London. I

own I was a little desirous of showing Emily Jobson, or rather Emily

Swetter, that there was a young lady in the world quite as pretty as

herself, and with better taste. Swetter and his wife called on us as

soon as he heard we were in town; and shortly afterwards we dined with

them at their new house in Torrington Square. Among the guests was

Grindham--_my_ Grindham, but how changed! He had become tutor of his

college, and had expanded into the most perfect specimen of the

university don I ever beheld. He was positively swelling with

importance. So inordinately conspicuous, indeed, was his air of

self-appreciation, that even my little Caroline noticed it; and I

heard her ask Mrs Swetter who and what he was.

"He took the very highest honours at Cambridge," said she in reply.

Caroline smiled, and seemed to think him quite justified in looking as

important as he did.

The cloth was removed. Caroline was sitting by Grindham's side. She

had spoken little during dinner-time; but I had noticed that several

times she had seemed fidgetty, as though she ought to say something to

her neighbour. Now my wife had at that time a bad habit of speaking in

a very loud voice--in consequence of a deaf father, and of the little

society she had seen. The conversation, accordingly, had no sooner

stopped (as is its wont) with a dead pause, than she turned to

Grindham, and said in a tone of appalling distinctness--

"Mr Grindham, _were you ever plucked_?"

Had a trumpet been suddenly blown close to Grindham's ear, he could

not have looked more thoroughly taken aback.

Caroline repeated her words with yet more frightful clearness--

"_I understand that you were plucked at Cambridge._"

Grindham's countenance grew purple; we had a room full of university

men, and the insulting speech was overheard by all. There was a

universal stare and stir; and Mrs Swetter seemed to be saying to

herself, "what wild beast have I got here!"

Caroline, perceiving she had done something very much amiss, got

frightened, and bent over her plate during the rest of dinner.

When the gentlemen came to the drawing-room, Mrs Swetter and she were

sitting together. They had been talking, and Caroline's face was very

red. Our eyes met: her look was full of contempt.

She has been more than my better half ever since. There never passes a

day on which I am not taunted with my plucking.

THE REVOLUTIONS IN EUROPE

When an Eastern sage was desired by his sultan to inscribe on a ring

the sentiment which, amidst the perpetual change of human affairs, was

most descriptive of their real tendency, he engraved on it the

words:--"And this, too, shall pass away." It is impossible to imagine

a thought more truly and universally applicable to human affairs than

that expressed in these memorable words, or more descriptive of that

perpetual oscillation from good to evil, and from evil to good, which

from the beginning of the world has been the invariable characteristic

of the annals of man, and so evidently flows from the strange mixture

of noble and generous with base and selfish inclinations, which is

constantly found in the children of Adam.

"And this, too, shall pass away." The moral whirlwind which has lately

swept over the states of Europe, and shaken all the kingdoms to their

foundations, will subside. Old habits will in the end return--old

affections revive--old desires resume their sway--old necessities

become imperious. Institutions may be modified--dynasties

overturned--forms of government altered--monarchs sent into exile; but

the human heart remains, and will for ever remain, the same. That

foundation being unaltered, the social necessities of men will in the

end compel them to the old establishment of authority, under names

perhaps new. Old power will revive, old rule be established, old

authority be confirmed. The great body of men will still remain hewers

of wood and drawers of water; because Nature never intended them for

any other destination, and she has rendered them incapable of

discharging the duties of any other station. Respectable, useful, and

virtuous, when confined to it, they become pernicious and ridiculous

when for a time withdrawn from it to be placed in another. Mind will

ere long resume its sway over matter, moral over physical strength.

Nations may rise in insurrection; they may destroy the existing

government; they may establish a democratic or republican

institution;--but that will not alter the nature of things; it will

not compensate the incapacity for self-government of the great body of

mankind; it will not relieve them from _the first of human

necessities, that of being directed by a few_. Under one name or

another--that of Decemvirs, a Triumvirate, a Committee of Public

Salvation, a Directory, or a Provisional Government, the old authority

is speedily evolved, only the more powerful that it has been cradled

in violence. It is not the weakness, it is the irresistible strength

of a democratic government which is its greatest evil. It is the iron

grasp it never fails to lay on the property of others which is its

principal danger, the never-failing instrument of its speedy

overthrow. Property is soon swept away by it, but liberty is swept

away still more quickly. A Cæsar, a Cromwell, a Napoleon, arises like

an avatar to stay the wrath of Heaven let loose in the unbridled

passions of men; and ages of servitude succeed one terrible and

unforgotten period of popular license.

It is the more important to refer to these lasting principles in human

affairs at this time that the events which have recently occurred on

the Continent seem at first sight to set all former experience and

history at defiance. Not only has monarchy been again overthrown, and

a republic restored in France by a single urban tumult, but the

contagion of the example has spread to other countries, hitherto

deemed the stronghold of the conservative principle, and farthest

removed from the influence of the revolutionary mania. That Italy,

following in the wake of a reforming Pope, should be speedily

convulsed by popular fervour, was anticipated, and might easily be

understood. That Lombardy and Venice, long impatient of the Tramontane

yoke, should seize the first opportunity to cast it off, was what

every person acquainted with the feelings of the people in those

beautiful provinces has long expected. That Prussia, the most highly

educated state in Europe, and which has long murmured at the delay in

conceding the popular institutions promised during the struggle with

Napoleon in 1813, should make an effort now to obtain them, might be

understood. That the Poles, smarting under their recent dismemberment,

and mourning their lost nationality, should eagerly grasp at the

shadow even of the means of restoring it, was of course to be

expected. But that Austria, the most aristocratic monarchy in

Europe--that Austria, without either seaports, commercial cities, or

manufacturing emporiums, should be seized by the same passions, and

that the monarchy which had defeated Napoleon at Aspern, and all but

destroyed him at Wagram, should be overturned by an urban tumult,

headed by a burgher guard and the beardless students of the

university--this indeed surpassed human comprehension.

It not unnaturally induced in superstitious or highly excited minds

the belief that the end of the world was approaching, or that an

entire new era had opened upon human affairs, to which nothing which

had preceded it could furnish any thing like a parallel. According to

the temper of their minds, men and women either believed that the dark

prophecies of the Revelation were about to be accomplished, and that

the great battle of Armageddon was to precede the advent of the

Millennium, or that the era of commercial organisation and socialist

felicity was approaching, and that all the miseries of mankind were to

expire amidst the universal dominion of the people. In the midst of

these general hopes and fears, more experienced or practical observers

fixed their eyes on the spoliation of Austria by liberalised Piedmont;

of Denmark, by revolutionised Prussia; and of Lithuania, by

regenerated Poland; and drew the conclusion that human selfishness was

the same in all times and ages; that pirates could sail under the red

as well as the black flag, and that the fervour of Louis Blanc and

Lamartine would terminate in a conflict as fierce, and disasters as

wide-spread, as those which followed the visions of Siêyes, and the

philanthropy of Robespierre.

What is in a peculiar manner worthy of consideration in the overthrow,

in so short a time, of so many of the established governments of

Europe, is the facility with which they appear to have been overturned

by sudden urban tumult, and the immediate submission of the whole

provinces and remainder of the empire, the moment the ruling power in

the capital was changed. It was not thus, in former days, either in

France or any of the other European monarchies. Paris was often lost

and won during the English wars, the contests of the League and the

Fronde, but the provinces were not dismayed by the loss of the

capital; and, in their fidelity, Charles VII. and Henry V. found the

means of changing the scales of fortune, and again wresting it from

the arms of rebels or strangers. Charles I. set up his standard at

Northampton; and London, from the very outset of the conflict, was in

the hands of the Long Parliament; but he found, in the fidelity of the

northern and western counties, the means of maintaining for years a

gallant conflict, in which victory more than once was on the verge of

rendering triumphant the royalist cause. Berlin, during the Seven

Years' War, was twice taken by the Russians; but Frederick the Great

emerged victorious out of that terrible strife. Vienna, in the time of

Maria Theresa, was wrested from her arms by the French and Bavarians;

but she threw herself on the fidelity of the Hungarians, and, ere

long, the standards of France were driven with disgrace behind the

Rhine. The double capture of the same city by Napoleon did not

determine the conflict between France and Austria; but a desperate

struggle was subsequently maintained, with almost balanced success, at

Austerlitz, Aspern, and Wagram. But now a single tumult, in which the

loss of life does not equal that of an ordinary skirmish, has

overthrown the greatest monarchies. That of Louis Philippe fell before

fifty men had been killed in the streets of Paris; that of Prussia

sank in a conflict in which one hundred and eighty-seven men fell on

the popular side; and an échauffourée, which scarcely would deserve a

place in military history, overturned the monarchy of Austria, within

sight of the steeples of Aspern, and around the cathedral which had

witnessed the victory of John Sobieski and the triumphant entry of

Maria Theresa!

It is impossible not to conclude that moral and political causes have

here enervated the minds of men, and weakened, to a most ruinous

extent, the strength of nations. The depositaries of power have not,

in general, shown themselves worthy of the trust which they held.

There is no reason to suspect them of personal cowardice; but the

moral courage which carries through a crisis, and so often _averts

danger by venturing to face it_, appears to have been generally

awanting. Men forgot the words of Napoleon, on occasion of Malet's

conspiracy--"The death of a soldier would be the most glorious of all,

if that of a magistrate, slain in the faithful discharge of his civil

duties, were not still more honourable." Of few in these days can it

be said, in the words of the poet,--

"Justum et tenacem propositi virum

Non civium ardor prava jubentium,

Non vultus instantis tyranni,

Mente quatit solidâ;

Si fractus illabatur orbis,

Impavidum ferient ruinæ."

A long peace seems to have enervated the minds of the higher orders on

the Continent; habitual luxury to have disinclined them to sacrifices

by which it might be endangered. To slip through a crisis quietly, and

with as little risk or disturbance as possible, seems to have been the

great object; to avert danger at the moment, by pushing it forward to

future times, the universal system. With how much success it was

practised, the present deplorable state of France, Prussia, Austria,

and Lombardy, sufficiently attests. The army was apparently everywhere

faithful, and fought bravely; it was the want of moral courage and

determination in the government which ruined every thing. They forgot

the words of Mirabeau--"Such is the fate of those who hope, by

concessions dictated by fear, to disarm a revolution."

But farther, the surprising facility with which the governments of

these great military monarchies have been overthrown, in the late

extraordinary revolutions, and the immediate submission of all the

provinces to the new central power in the capital, suggests another,

and a still more important consideration:--that is, the danger

attendant on that system of centralisation, which, adopted by all the

governments of France, monarchical and republican, for two centuries,

from Imperial Rome, and from thence imitated over all Europe, has now

apparently concentrated the whole strength of a state, moral as well

as physical, in the capital. That such a system is very convenient;

that it improves and facilitates administration in many respects, and

greatly augments the national strength, when held together by

unanimous feeling, and ably directed, may readily be conceded. The

great power and extraordinary triumphs of Prussia under Frederick the

Great, and of France under Louis XIV. and Napoleon, sufficiently

demonstrate that. But what is the situation of such a centralised

power when assailed, not in its circumference, but in its centre; not

in the extremities, but the heart? Can any thing be expected of it but

immediate submission to the power, _whatever it be_, which is in

possession of the wonted seat of government, which has the command of

the palace, the bank, the treasury, the post-office, and the

telegraph? These revolutions, of which so much is said, cease to be

national, to become merely urban movements; they are no longer an

effort of plebeians against patricians, but of one set of prætorians

in the capital against another. They are no longer "révolutions

d'état," but "révolutions du palais." It is of no consequence who

inhabits the palace--a king, a tribune, an emperor, or a decemvir. It

is there, under whatever name that despotic power resides, it is

discovered where the vital spring is to be found. Deprived of its

capital, a centralised state, be it republican or monarchical, is

Samson when shorn of his hair; it becomes the victim of any Dalilah

who takes the trouble to lure it to perdition.

That this is the true character of the revolutions which have lately

taken place on the Continent, and struck the world with such

astonishment, from the magnitude of the changes which they involved,

and the facility with which they were accomplished, is apparent on the

very surface of things. They were all urban tumults, not national

movements; the nation was never consulted on them at all. They were

all concluded before the provinces heard of their commencement; they

succeeded so easily, because the nations in which they occurred had

been accustomed to obey the commands of the capital as implicitly as

troops do the orders issuing from headquarters. The national consent

of France, so far as it could be collected, was decidedly in favour of

the Duchess of Orleans and the Count de Paris on the night of the 24th

February; for two-thirds of the Chamber of Deputies were for that

government. But what then? The armed mob, the prætorians of the

capital, rushed in--the refractory deputies were dragged from their

benches as summarily as the Council of Five Hundred were expelled from

their seats by the grenadiers of Napoleon on the 18th Brumaire; a

voice called "_C'est trop tard. A l'Hotel de Ville! Vive la

Republique!_" and the Orleans dynasty was overthrown, and universal

suffrage established. In Prussia the whole affair was a combat in the

capital, between fifteen thousand regular troops and thirty thousand

trained and disciplined citizens, (every man in Prussia is bred a

soldier;) and after one hundred and eighty-seven men on the popular

side had been killed, the King yielded, and the nation rushed

headlong, from absolute despotism to household suffrage, equal

electoral districts, and a single National Assembly. This is just the

Cadiz constitution of 1812, which has ever since been the rallying

point of the democrats throughout the south of Europe, over again. It

was the same at Vienna: the whole affair there was determined in a

single day, before intelligence of the commencement of the revolt had

reached either Lintz or Presburg. It is ridiculous to talk of these as

_national_ movements, or revolutions of the state: they are mere urban

tumults, originating in a struggle for the dictatorship in the

capital, and decided without the sense of the nation being taken

either on the one side or the other.

But, most of all, these Continental revolutions teach a lesson of

inestimable importance to the people of this country, and which recent

events have so well illustrated, as to the incalculable value of a

hereditary order of succession in the government, supported by

hereditary respect, and resting on the _disinterested_ loyalty of the

people. It is in vain to conceal that it was the fact of its being a

_usurping government_ which proved fatal, in the crisis of its fate,

to the monarchy of Louis Philippe. He was the King of the Barricades,

and how could he withstand the force of the Barricades? It was the

same with the government of Robespierre, the Directory, and Napoleon:

they were all usurpations, and fell before the power which had created

them. They had not taken root in the loyal and generous affections of

men. The dynasty of Cromwell perished with himself; Charles II. was

restored amidst the unanimous transports of the whole nation. It was

the same with the government of Great Britain for long after the

Revolution of 1688: it is well known that, during the last years of

the reign of Queen Anne, it was almost an open question in both houses

of parliament, whether the Stuart line should be restored, or the

Hanoverian family, in terms of the Act of Settlement, be called to the

throne. The devastating civil wars and bloody contests of the

Prætorian Guards with the legions, which stained with blood the

annals, and shortened the existence of the Roman empire, may show what

is the fate of a great nation which, having cast away the bonds of

hereditary loyalty, has nothing to be guided by, in the choice of a

ruler, but the blind partiality of armed men, or the corrupted support

of interested hirelings. It will be long before either will produce

the fidelity of the Scottish Highlanders in 1745, or the glories of La

Vendée in 1793. Usurpation of the throne is a sure prelude to endless

dissension, national corruption, and endangered freedom. The expulsion

of the Tarquins brought Rome to the brink of ruin; its effects were

not removed for two centuries. England took nearly a century to

recover the effects of the most just and necessary revolution in

which men were ever engaged--that which chased James II. from the

throne. Our present stability, amidst the fall of so many other

governments, is mainly owing to this, that by the long possession of

the throne by her ancestors, Queen Victoria unites in her person the

two firmest foundations of regal power--a nation's consent, and a

nation's loyalty.

If any doubt could exist as to the importance of the barrier which the

government of Louis Philippe and the administration of M. Guizot

opposed to the torrent of revolutionary anarchy, and the ascendant of

selfish ambition, it would be removed by the dreadful nature of the

events which have since taken place, or are in progress, in every part

of Europe. Never was so clearly demonstrated the incalculable moment

of the restraint which religion, law, and order impose on the

rapacious and selfish passions of men, or the truth of Hobbes'

doctrine that the natural state of man is a state of war. Instantly,

as if by magic, the world has been thrown into confusion; and out of

the chaos have arisen not the virtuous and benevolent, but the vicious

and aggrandising propensities. While "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity"

are in every mouth, "tyranny, rapacity, enmity" are in every heart. A

legion of demons seem to have been suddenly let loose upon the world;

the original devil was expelled, but straightway he returned with

seven other devils, worse than himself, and the last state was worse

than the first. Kings and Kaisars, ministers and generals, demagogues

and aristocrats, seem to have become alike seized with the universal

contagion. In the general scramble, when society seemed to be breaking

up, as in the horrors of a shipwreck or the disasters of a retreat,

all subordination has been lost, all sense of rectitude passed away,

and the prevailing principle appears to have been to make the most of

the crisis to the purpose of separate advantage.

The great parent republic took the lead in this demoniac race. From

the very first, its steps were disgraced by rapine and robbery; by the

most audacious violation of vested rights, and the most shameful

disregard of private interests. The first thing they did was to burn

the railway stations, and expel with savage barbarity several thousand

inoffensive and industrious English and Belgian labourers and

artisans, without their wages or their effects, from the French

territory. The next was, to confiscate the savings' banks throughout

France--virtually destroying thereby nine-tenths of the accumulated

savings of French industry since the peace. The suspension of cash

payments soon after lowered the value of all realised property a

third. A heavy addition (45 per cent) was imposed on direct taxes: the

period of payment anticipated by six months. Fifty millions of francs

(£2,000,000) was next exacted from the Bank of France without

interest; the "Bons du Trésor Royal" (Exchequer Bills) were thrown

overboard; a _progressive_ income-tax is hinted at; and Government

have now openly commenced the work of spoliation by seizing upon the

Paris and Orleans and Orleans and Vierzon railways, and directing

their whole proceeds, averaging 200,000 francs (£8000) a week, to be

paid into the public treasury! This is done without a hint at

disapprobation, or even an expression of dissent, from the whole press

of France. Nay, they have now taken to stopping, like footpads, common

travellers, and forcing them to give up their specie in exchange for

worthless paper. We doubt if the whole history of mankind contains an

account of the perpetration, in so short a time, of so many acts of

rapacity, or such an instance of the slavish degradation into which

the press has fallen.

Lord Brougham, a great liberal authority in his day, has given, in the

House of Peers, the following graphic and characteristic account of

the state of France at this time, (April 17,) from which he has just

returned:--

"The present condition of Paris, if it continue for any

time, would inevitably effect the ruin of that glorious

country. Paris governs France, and a handful of the mob

govern Paris. He hoped and trusted that they would live to

see better times. He hoped that what they now saw passing

before their eyes--the general want of credit, the utter

impossibility of commerce going on, the complete ruin of

trade in the capital and great towns, the expedients to

which the Provisional Government finds itself compelled to

have recourse day by day to perpetuate its existence, and to

make its ephemeral being last--one day taking possession of

the banks of deposit to the robbery of the poor--another,

stopping the supplies of the rich--a third day stopping

travellers for the purpose of taking their money from them

(hear, hear, and laughter) at the barriers, upon the ground

that the town was in want of cash. He hoped, he said, that

they would soon see such an unsettled state of things give

way to a more firm form of government. He knew some of those

individuals who had severely suffered by these

circumstances--(hear, and laughter)--but he should inform

their Lordships that he was not here present. (Continued

laughter.) Although it was a pity to spoil their merriment,

he yet rejoiced in being able to show them that there was

not a shadow of foundation for the report which had been

circulated respecting himself; when he came to the barrier,

the circumstance occurred which had no doubt given rise to

the story. He was told that he should stop in order that his

baggage might be examined. On requiring further explanation

for this conduct, he was informed that the inquiry was

sought for _for the purpose of seeing whether he had any

money_. (Laughter.) He had heard a great deal respecting the

misgovernment of former rulers, but he had never heard of

such a step as this being tolerated. He knew one person

_from whom they took 200,000 francs, giving him bank paper

instead_. The state of trade in that country was

dreadful--the funds falling suddenly from 70 to 32; the bank

stopping, notwithstanding the order for the suspension of

cash-payments; the taking possession of one of the railways,

with the proceeds, amounting to about £8000 a-week, which

were put into Louis Blanc's pocket to be dispensed again

according to his peculiar theory. In the same way, it was

said, the Provisional Government intended to act with all

the other railways. They had, no doubt, a right to do all

this, if they pleased, and also, as it was rumoured they

intended to do, to seize the bank, and to issue a paper

currency to a very large amount. He only hoped that at the

meeting of the National Assembly, they would open their eyes

to the necessity of taking such steps as to prevent that

mischief to which such experiments as these were likely to

lead. (Hear, hear.) He believed that the certain result of

such a government would be this--that they would be stricken

down with imbecility, and would become too weak to perform

the ordinary functions of a government. They might struggle

on for a time, until some military commander would rise and

destroy the Republic, and perhaps plant in its place a

military despotism. At this moment he was of opinion that

any one general, with 10,000 men, marching into Paris, would

have the effect of at once putting an end to the Republic.

No man could doubt it. The Belgian ambassador the other day

had applied to M. Lamartine for protection; the latter said

in reply, he admitted the full right of the ambassador to

such protection, but he had not really three men at his

disposal. The people in Paris were as uneasy as any persons

could be at this state of things, but they have made up

their minds to the fact that this experiment of a Republic

must be tried; so that France must remain a Republic for

some time, whether it be for her advantage or

not."--_Morning Chronicle_, April 13, 1848.

Wretched as this account of the present state of France is, its

prospects are if possible still more deplorable. The misery brought on

the working-classes by the ruin of commerce, destruction of credit,

and flight of the opulent foreigners, is such that it is absolutely

sickening to contemplate it. _Seventy-five thousand persons_ are out

of employment in Paris alone, which, with the usual number of

dependents, must imply two hundred thousand human beings in a state of

destitution. The only way of supporting this enormous mass of

indigence is by maintaining it as an armed force; and it is said that

200,000 idlers are in this way paid thirty sous a-day to keep them

from plundering the capital! But the resources of no country, far less

one shipwrecked in capital, trade, and industry, can withstand such a

strain. The following is one of the latest accounts of the financial

and social condition of France, by an able observer on the spot:--

"The time is now fast approaching when the pecuniary

resources left in the treasury at the revolution will be

exhausted. The old loan has ceased to be paid up. The new

loan remains a barren failure. The regular taxes are paid

with reluctance, and are not paid beforehand except in

Paris. The additional impost of 45 centimes (near 50 per

cent on the direct taxes) is positively refused as illegal

by the rural districts and provincial cities. The stock of

bullion in the Bank of France decreases, and, in short, the

progress of financial ruin goes steadily on. We pointed out

some weeks ago the exact and inevitable course of this

decline, and we now read in a French journal of repute the

precise confirmation of our predictions:--'We are now,' says

the _Journal des Debats_, 'but two steps removed from a

complete system of paper-money; and if we enter on that

system, we shall not get out of it again _short of the total

ruin of private persons and of the state_, after having

passed through the most rigorous distress; for it would be

the suspension of production and of exchange.' The plan

proposed, though not yet sanctioned by the Provisional

Government, seems to be a _general seizure and incorporation

with the state of all the great financial and trading

companies, such as the Bank of France, the railways, the

canals, mines, &c._, and the issue of a vast amount of paper

by the state on the alleged credit of this property--in

short, a _pure inconvertible system of assignats_. Monstrous

as such a proposal appears, we are inclined to think that

the rapid disappearance of the precious metals will render

some such scheme inevitable, and it will be the form given

to the bankruptcy and ruin of the nation."--_Times_, 14th

April.

In the midst of these woful circumstances, the Provisional Government

does not for a moment intermit in the inflaming the public mind by the

most fallacious and false promises of boundless future prosperity from

the adherence to republican principles, and the return of stanch

republicans to the approaching assembly. In the same able journal it

is observed,--

"We have now before us a handbill entitled the _Bulletin de

la Republique_, and printed on white paper, the distinctive

mark of _official_ proclamations, headed, moreover, with the

words "Ministère de l'Intérieur." This document is one of

those semi-officially circulated, as we understand, by M.

LEDRU ROLLIN, for the purpose of exciting the Republican

party. A more disastrous appeal to popular passions, and a

more delusive pledge to remedy all human sufferings, we

never read; for after having laid to the charge of existing

laws _all_ the miseries of a poor man's lot, heightened by

inflammatory description, the working classes are told that

'henceforth society will give them _employment, food,

instruction, honour, air, and daylight_. It will watch over

the preservation of their lives, their _health, their

intelligence, their dignity_. It will give asylum to the

aged, work for their hands, confidence to their hearts, and

rest to their nights. It will watch over the virtue of their

daughters, the requisite provision for their children, and

the obsequies of the dead.' In a word, this exceptional and

transitory power, whose very form and existence are still

undefined, announces some necromantic method of interposing

between man and all the laws of his existence on this

globe--of suspending the principles of human nature, as it

has already done those of society--and of changing the whole

aspect of human life. No delusions can be so enormous: the

word is too good for them--_they are frauds_; and these

frauds are put forward by men who know well enough that the

effect of the present crisis already is, and will be much

more hereafter, to plunge the very classes to whom these

promises are made _into the lowest depths of human

suffering_."--_Times_, 14th April.

One of the most instructive facts as to the ruinous effect of the late

Revolution on the best interests of French industry, is to be found in

the progressive and rapid decline in the value of all French

securities, public and private, since it took place. It distinctly

appears that _two-thirds of the capital of France has been destroyed

since the Revolution_, in the short space of six weeks! Attend to the

fall in the value of the public funds during that brief but disastrous

period:--

French 3 per cents. 5 per cents.

Fr. Ct. Fr. Ct.

1825 76 35 July 23 1817 69 0 July 29

1829 86 16 Dec. 5 1821 90 60 Nov. 2

1830 85 35 Jan. 18 1822 95 0 Sept. 5

1831 70 50 Dec. 2 1824 104 80 Feb. 5

1834 85 50 Nov. 30 1828 109 0 Sept. 4

1840 86 65 July 22 1829 110 65 Mar. 4

1844 85 65 Dec. 22 1831 98 30 Dec. 15

1845 86 40 May 20 1835 110 36 Feb. 4

1846 85 0 Feb. 28 1837 111 0 Sept. 5

1847 80 30 Jan. 2 1841 117 5 Sept. 4

1848 47 0 Mar. 15 1844 126 30 Mar. 4

1848 41 27 Mar. 28 1847 119 40 Feb. 22

1848 35 67 April 1 1848 116 75 Feb. 22

1848 34 64 April 5 1848 97 50 {fell to 80 Mar. 7.}

1848 33 10 April 14 1848 65 80 April 2

1848 51 0 April 12

_La Presse_, March 12, and _Times_ since that date.

The value of railway stock and bank shares has declined in a still

more alarming proportion. Bank shares, which in 1824 sold for 3400

francs, are now selling at 900 francs--or little more than A FOURTH of

their former value. Railway stock is unsaleable, being marked out for

immediate confiscation. Taking one kind of stock with another, it may

safely be affirmed that TWO-THIRDS _of the capital of France has

perished since the Revolution, in the short space of seven weeks_. The

fruit of thirty-three years' peace, hard labour, and penurious saving,

has disappeared in seven weeks of anarchical transports!! Of course,

the means of employing the people have declined in the same

proportion; for where credit is annihilated, how is industry to be

maintained, before its produce comes in, but by realised capital? How

is its produce to be disposed of if two-thirds of the classes

possessed of property have been rendered bankrupt? Already this

difficulty has been experienced in France. The Paris papers of 13th

April announce that seventy-five thousand persons will be employed at

the "ateliers Nationaux," or public workshops, at 30 sous a-day, in

the end of April--at a cost of 112,500 francs a-day, or 3,375,000

francs, (£150,000) a-month. This is in addition to an armed force of

above 100,000 men, paid for the most part two francs a-day for doing

nothing. No exchequer in the world can stand such a strain; far less

that of a bankrupt and revolutionised country like France. It is no

wonder that the French funds are down at 32, and an issue of

assignats--in other words, the open and avowed destruction of all

realised property--is seriously contemplated.

This is exactly the condition to which France was brought during the

Reign of Terror, when the _whole_ inhabitants of Paris fell as a

burden on the government, and the cost of the 680,000 rations daily

issued to them, exceeded that of the fourteen armies which combated on

the frontiers for the Republic. In those days the misery in Paris, the

result of the Revolution, was so extreme, that the bakers' shops were

besieged day and night without intermission by a famishing crowd; and

the unhappy applicants were kept all night waiting during a severe

frost, with a rope in their hands, and the thermometer often down at

5° Fahrenheit, to secure their place for the distribution when the

doors were opened. There is nothing new in the condition of France and

Paris at this time: it has been seen and experienced in every age of

the world; it has been familiar to the East for three thousand years.

The principle that the state is the universal proprietor, the middle

class the _employés_ of government, and the labouring class the

servants of the state, is exactly the oriental system of government.

It is just the satraps and fellahs of Persia--the mandarins and

peasants of China--the zemindars and ryots of Hindostan over again.

Exact parallels to the armed and insolent rabble who now lord it over

Paris, and through it over France, may be found in the Prætorians of

Rome--the Mamelukes of Egypt--the Janissaries of Constantinople. The

visions of perfectibility and utopian projects of Louis Blanc,

Lamartine, and Ledru Rollin, have already landed the social interests

of France in the straits of the Reign of Terror--its practical

government in the armed despotism of the Algerine pirates, or the

turbulent sway of the Sikh soldiery.

But the contagion of violence, the ascendant of ambition, the lust of

rapine have not been confined to the armed janissaries of Paris, or

their delegates the Provisional Government. They have extended to

other countries: they have spread to other states. They have infected

governments as well as their subjects; they have disgraced the throne

as well as the workshop. Wherever a revolution has been successful,

and liberal governments have been installed, there a system of

_foreign aggression_ has instantly commenced. The first thing which

the revolutionary government of Piedmont did, was to invade Lombardy,

and drive the Austrian armies beyond the Po; the first exploit of

constitutional Prussia, to pour into Sleswig to spoliate Denmark. Open

preparations for revolutionising Lithuania are made in the grand-duchy

of Posen. A war has already commenced on the Po and the Elbe; it is

imminent on the Vistula. Lamartine's reply to the Italian deputation

proves that France is prepared, on the least reverse to the Sardinian

arms, to throw her sword into the scale; his conduct in permitting an

armed rabble to set out from Paris to invade Belgium, and another from

Lyons to revolutionise Savoy, that the extension of the frontier of

France to the Rhine and the Alps is still the favourite project of

the French republic. If he declines to do so, the armed prætorians of

Paris will soon find another foreign minister who will. France has

600,000 men in arms: Austria 500,000: 150,000 Russians will soon be on

the Vistula. Hardly was uttered Mr Cobden's memorable prophecy of the

approach of a pacific millennium, and a universal turning of swords

into spinning-jennies, when the dogs of war were let slip in every

quarter of Europe. Hardly was M. Lamartine's hymn of "liberty,

equality, fraternity," chanted, when the reign of internal spoliation

and external violence commenced in France, and rapidly extended as far

as its influence was felt throughout the world.

"And this, too, shall pass away." The reign of injustice is not

eternal: it defeats itself by its own excesses: the avenging angel is

found in the human heart. In the darkest days of humanity, this great

law of nature is unceasingly acting, and preparing in silence the

renovation of the world. It will bring about the downfall of the

prætorian bands who now rule France, as it brought about the overthrow

of Robespierre, the fall of Napoleon. The revolutionary tempest which

is now sweeping over Europe cannot long continue. The good sense of

men will reassume its sway after having violently reeled: the feelings

of religion and morality will come up to the rescue of the best

interests of humanity: the generous will yet combat the selfish

feelings: the spirit of heaven will rise up against that of hell. It

is in the eternal warfare between these opposite principles, that the

true secret of the whole history of mankind is to be found: in the

alternate triumph of the one and the other, that the clearest

demonstration is to be discerned of the perpetual struggle between the

noble and generous and selfish and corrupt desires which for ever

actuate the heart of man.

"To rouse effort by the language of virtue," says Mr Alison, "and

direct it to the purposes of vice, is the great art of revolution."

What a commentary on these words have recent events afforded! Judging

by the language of the revolutionists, they are angels descended upon

earth. Nothing but gentleness, justice, philanthropy is to be seen in

their expressions: nothing but liberty, equality, fraternity in their

maxims. Astræa appears to have returned to the world: the lion and the

kid have lain down together--Justice and Mercy have kissed each other.

Judging by their actions, a more dangerous set of ruffians never

obtained the direction of human affairs: justice was never more

shamelessly set at nought in measures, robbery never more openly

perpetrated by power. Their whole career has been one uninterrupted

invasion of private rights; their whole power is founded on continual

tribute to the selfish desire of individual aggrandisement among their

followers. We do not ascribe this deplorable contrast between words

and actions to any peculiar profligacy or want of conscience in the

Provisional Government. Some of them are men of powerful intellect or

fine genius; all, we believe, are sincere and well-meaning men. But

"Hell is paved with good intentions." They are pushed on by a

famishing crowd in their rear, whom they are alike unable to restrain

or to feed. They are fanatics, and fanatics of the most dangerous

kind--devout believers in human perfectibility, credulous assertors of

the natural innocence of man. Thence their enormous error--thence the

enormous evils they have brought upon the world--thence the

incalculable importance of the great _experimentum crucis_ as to the

justice of these principles which is now taking place upon the earth.

To give one instance, among many, of the way in which these

regenerators of society proceed to spoliate their neighbours, it is

instructive to refer to the proposals officially promulgated by the

Provisional Government, in their interview with the railway

proprietors of France, whom, by one sweeping act, it was proposed to

"_absorb_" into the state. The Minister of the Interior stated that it

was proposed to "purchase" the shares of the proprietors; and the word

"purchase" sounded well, and was doubtless a balm to many a quaking

heart, expecting unqualified confiscation. But he soon explained what

sort of "purchase" it was which was in contemplation. He said that it

was the intention of Government to "absorb" all the railway shares

throughout France; to take the shares at the _current price in the

market_, and give the proprietors not money but _rentes_, or public

securities, to the same amount! That is, having first, by means of the

revolution, lowered the current value of railway stock to a twentieth,

or, in some cases, a fiftieth part of what it was previous to that

convulsion, they next proceed to _estimate it at_ that depreciated

value, and then pay the unhappy holders, not in cash, but in

Government securities, themselves lowered to a third of their value,

and perhaps ere long worth nothing. A more shameful instance of

spoliation, veiled under the fine names of "absorption,"

centralisation, and the like, never was heard of; but the Minister of

the Interior had two conclusive arguments to adduce on the subject.

Some of the railway lines at least were "paying concerns," and the

republic must have cash; and all of them afforded work for the

labouring classes, and Government must find employment for the

unemployed.

To such a length have these communist and socialist projects proceeded

in Paris, that a great effort of all the holders of property was

deemed indispensable to arrest them. The effort was made on Monday,

17th April; but it is hard to say whether the dreaded evils or the

boasted demonstration were most perilous, or most descriptive of the

present social condition of the French capital. Was it by argument in

the public journals, or by influencing the electors for the

approaching Assembly, or even by discussion at the Clubs, as in the

days of the Jacobins and the Cordeliers, that the thing was done?

Quite the reverse: it was effected by a demonstration of _physical

strength_. They took a leaf out of the book of the Chartists--they

copied the processions of the Janissaries in the Atmeidan of

Constantinople. The National Guard, _two hundred and twenty thousand

strong_, mustered on the streets of Paris: they shouted out, "A bas

les Communistes!"--"A bas Blanqui!"--"Vive le Gouvernement

Provisoire!" and the Parisians flattered themselves the thing was

done. Is not the remedy worse than the disease? What were fifteen

thousand unarmed workmen spouting socialist speeches in the Champs de

Mars to 200,000 armed National Guards, dictating their commands alike

to the Provisional Government and the National Assembly! Was ever a

capital handed over to such a lusty band of metropolitan janissaries?

What chance is there of freedom of deliberation in the future Assembly

in presence of such formidable spectators in the galleries? Already M.

Ledru Rollin is calculating on their ascendancy. Like all persons

engaged in a successful insurrection--in other words, who have been

guilty of treason--he is haunted by a continual, and in the

circumstances ridiculous, dread of a counter-revolution; and in his

circular of 15th April, he openly avows the principle that Paris is

the soul of France; that it is the advanced guard of Freedom, not for

itself alone, but the whole earth; and that the departments must not

think of gainsaying the will of their sovereign leaders, or making the

cause retrograde, in which all nations are finally to be blessed.

The account of this extraordinary demonstration, given in the Paris

correspondence of the _Times_ of 19th April, is so characteristic and

graphic, that we cannot forbear the satisfaction of laying it before

our readers. It recalls the preludes to the worst days of the first

Revolution.

"Ever since the appearance of this bold defiance to the

moderate majority in the Provisional Government, and its

announcement that 'the gauntlet was thrown down--the

death-struggle was at hand,' the city has naturally been in

a state of subdued ferment. Various reports, some of the

most extravagant kind, were circulated from mouth to mouth.

It was said that the majority of the members of the

Government intended retreating to the Tuileries, and

fortifying their position--that a collision between the

violent and moderate parties was imminent--that the Ultras,

led by Blanqui, were to profit by a new manifestation in

favour of a further delay in the general elections, and

against the admission of the military into the city upon the

occasion of the great fraternisation _fete_, in order to

upset the moderate party in the Government; in fine, that

Ledru Rollin, with two or three of his colleagues, was

instigating, aiding, and abetting Blanqui in this movement

to get rid of that majority of his other colleagues that

thwarted his designs. Whatever the truth of all these

rumours, the alarm was general. It soon became generally

known that a monster meeting of the working classes was to

be held in the Champ de Mars on the Sunday, and that Messrs

Louis Blanc and Albert, instigated, it was said, by the

Minister of the Interior, had convoked this assembly. The

Ultra party, it was added, designed to make use of this

manifestation in order to forward the schemes already

mentioned. This was the state of things on Sunday morning.

In the Champ de Mars, a little after noon, the scene was

certainly an exciting one. Delegates of all the trades and

guilds of Paris were assembled, to the number of nearly

100,000 men. Banners were waving in all directions, and the

fermenting crowd filled about a third of the vast space of

the plain. It was with difficulty that an explanation could

be obtained of the real object of the meeting. Its

ostensible object, however, appeared to be the election from

among the working classes of fourteen officers for the staff

of the National Guard; although other motives, such as the

choice of candidates among them for the general elections,

and various deputations to the Government upon various

matters connected with the endless organisation of work,

were also put forward. There is every reason to believe that

the greater part of the meeting had in reality no other

object in view, and that the other secret intrigues fomented

by the Blanqui party were confined, at all events, to but a

chosen few. About two o'clock the monster procession began

to move towards the Hotel de Ville. Along the outer

boulevards, along the esplanade of the Invalides, over the

Pont de la Concorde, and along the quays, it moved on, like

a huge serpent, bristling with tricoloured banners. The head

of the monster appeared to have nearly reached its

destination before the tail had fully left the Champ de

Mars. In passing through the Faubourg St Germain, I found

the _rappel_ beating in every street; the National Guards

were hurrying to their places of meeting, columns were

marching forward; in every mouth was the cry that the

Provisional Government was in danger from the _anarchists_

of the Ultra party.

On reaching the quays, I found every thing in a state of

revolution. They were already lined, literally from one end

to the other, by files of the National Guards; other

battalions were advancing towards the Hotel de Ville; the

legions of the _Garde Mobile_ were hurrying in the same

direction, and seemed, as far as I could judge, animated by

the same spirit of resistance as the National Guards to the

supposed _coup-de-main_ expected to be directed against the

majority of the Government. It was with difficulty that the

advancing legions could proceed along with the monster

procession, which seemed surprised and stupified by the

force displayed. Thousands upon thousands of spectators

crowded the long thoroughfare also, all endeavouring to push

on to the scene of action. I reached at last the Place de

l'Hotel de Ville; it appeared a very sea of bayonets; a

small space only was left for the passage of the procession.

The force of the armed citizens of the National Guards and

the _Garde Mobile_ made certainly a tremendous show. In this

state matters remained upon the Place for about four hours,

during which the members of the Government were employed

probably in receiving the delegates of the monster meeting

of the working classes. From time to time, however, when

they appeared at the windows of the old building, shouts

were raised by the Guards, and the caps, hats, shakos,

képys, and all the other variations of _coiffure_, that

suddenly burst up, like a forest, into the air upon every

bayonet point, had a most singular effect. This was repeated

continually. During the whole of this long scene, in which

such of the armed force as filled the Place kept its

position, the ferment among the surrounding crowd was

intense. Several _hommes du peuple_ were in a very angry and

excited state; they declared that the working classes were

insulted by this demonstration of the National Guards; that

the National Guards were the enemies of the people; that the

people must rise once more against them, &c. The cry against

the Moderates was raised under the name of "_reactionaires_"

and "_faux republicains_;" the counter cry was "_anarchie_"

and "_communisme_." Several times the angry parties among

the spectators were on the point of coming to blows, and

much hustling took place. This state of things remained the

same when I left the Place de l'Hotel de Ville at six

o'clock. In addition to the lines of National Guards that

still occupied the quays, battalions after battalions of the

different legions were still pouring along towards the Hotel

de Ville even at that hour. The advancing columns reached

through the Place du Carrousel far upon the Rue de Rivoli.

They were hurrying on as quickly as the intense press

permitted them, shouting almost universally, "_A bas les

Anarchistes!_" or more commonly, for that was the real

rallying cry, "_A bas les Communistes!_" General Courtais,

with his staff, was riding up and down among the advancing

ranks, declaring, as far as I could hear, that the

Government was _no longer_ in danger, but thanking them for

this demonstration of their desire to support it.--_Times_,

19th April.

On the following night, (Monday 17,) attacks were made by the

Communists on the Treasury, the Hotel de Ville, and several other

posts; but they were defeated by the National Guard.

It thus appears that the Provisional Government, before it has been

seven weeks in office, is already passed in the career of revolution

by a force from below! It is fain to summon the National Guard for its

protection, and to receive the petitions of the _proletaires_ and

_ouvriers_ from the Champ de Mars, surrounded not by the love of the

people, but the bayonets of sixty thousand National Guards grouped

round the Hotel de Ville! Insane projects of communism, and the

division of all profits among the workmen, without leaving any thing

for the profits of stock, have made such progress among them, that in

a few weeks the Provisional Government is accused of imitating the

conduct of Louis Philippe, because they do not forthwith adopt these

without limitation, and are significantly warned to avoid his fate. It

is evident that the destiny of the whole civilised world is wound up

with allowing these communist ideas in France to run their course

unmolested, and work out their appropriate and inevitable fruits.

We anticipate no good from the revolution in Prussia. We are well

aware, indeed, of the intelligence and energy of that gallant people.

We know that her inhabitants are the most highly educated of any

people in Europe, and second to none in patriotism and spirit. Prussia

is capable, in good time, and from her _own exertions_, of working out

the elements of constitutional freedom. But we distrust all

revolutions brought about by example. Contagion never yet spread the

spirit of real freedom: foreign imitation may for a while overthrow

existing governments, but it cannot establish new ones in their stead

on a durable foundation. The Republic of Rienzi, who, according to the

fine expression of Madame de Stael, "mistook recollections for hopes,"

perished in a few years without leaving a wreck behind. Where are now

the Batavian, Cisalpine, Ligurian, and Parthenopeian Republics, which

arose during the fervour of the first Revolution around the great

parent Republic? What has been the result of the revolutionary mania

which in 1820 threw down the established government in Piedmont,

Naples, Spain, or Portugal? What has become of the Republics of South

America, which borrowed their institutions from the French or Spanish

model? Has any one of these countries obtained real freedom in

consequence of their exertions? Have they not all, on the contrary,

suffered dreadfully, and in nothing so much as their capacity for

liberty, from their effects? Has not capital been so abridged,

industry so blighted, security so endangered, violence so general,

that the cause of freedom has been postponed for centuries, if not

rendered entirely hopeless, from the triumph of foreign imported

liberalism? Whatever it may effect elsewhere, _free-trade in

revolutions_ does nothing but evil in society. Nothing but what is of

home growth, in constitutions at least, can succeed there. It is

difficult enough to make the tree of liberty prosper even where it is

indigenous in the earth; but who ever heard of a _transplanted tree of

liberty_ thriving in the soil to which it was transferred?

Already all the usual and well-known effects of successful revolution

are to be seen in Berlin. Extravagant ideas among the working

classes,--visions of unbounded felicity in all. Hopes that can never

be realised,--expectations inconsistent with the first laws of

society. In the midst of this chaos of excitement, transports, and

chimerical projects, have come the inevitable attendants on such an

assault on the established interests and order of society,--shaken

credit, frequent bankruptcy, diminished employment, a falling revenue,

augmented discontent, foreign warfare, general suffering. These

effects follow so universally and invariably from the triumph of

Revolution, that they may be fairly set down as its inevitable

results. It is in the midst of this scene of danger, excitement, and

tribulation, that Prussia, without the least previous preparation for

it, is to plunge at once into _universal suffrage_, equal electoral

districts, and a deputy for every 50,000 souls! England, with its

centuries of freedom, cautious habits, realised wealth, and opulent

middle classes, could not withstand such a constitution. The abolition

of the national debt, of the house of peers, and a division of

property, would follow from it in three months. What, then, is to be

expected from Prussia, which, so far from having served an

apprenticeship to freedom, is not yet entered with the craft?

So strange and sudden has been the revolt at Vienna, that it is

scarcely possible to conceive that it can be of lasting effects. The

framework of society there, the habits of the people, the ideas

prevalent among them, are essentially aristocratic. The change in the

government was entirely the work of a few thousand ardent students and

discontented burghers in the capital. There is no material suffering

in the Austrian provinces: Chartism is not there, as here, fanned by

the misery produced by free-trade and a contracted currency. In these

circumstances, it is not unlikely that, after the first blush of the

insurrection is over, and men begin to consider in what respect they

have benefited by it, there will be a general inclination to return to

the former government. Probably a few concessions--as of a national

Diet, where the wants of the country may be made known by a majority,

still composed of nobles and landed proprietors--will satisfy the

general wish. Old feelings will revive, old ideas return, old habits

retain their ascendancy; foreign warfare will make the national

supersede the social passions. It will be with them as was said of the

first French Revolution in La Vendée,--giving privileges to the people

is like casting water on a higher level--it speedily finds its way to

the lower. The Revolution of 1848 in Vienna will be--like that of Jack

Cade in England, or Rienzi in Italy, and all similar movements in

countries not prepared for them--a brief and painful effort which

leaves not a trace behind. But this much may without the least

hesitation be predicted. If this return to old feelings and habits

does not take place--and Austria, with its various races, provinces,

and interests, and accustomed submission to authority, is really

revolutionised, its power will be annihilated, its provinces

partitioned, its people enslaved, its happiness destroyed, and a fatal

breach made in the great Germanic barrier which separates French

Insurrection from Russian Absolutism.

What a contrast to the storms which now agitate and have so profoundly

shaken the Continental states does the aspect of Great Britain at the

same period afford? We, too, have our dangers: we have our Chartists

and our Repealers: the whole force of revolution in this island, and

of insurrection in the neighbouring one, have been directed to assail

and overturn the constitution. This treasonable attempt, too, has been

made at a time of all others most likely to give it success: when the

ruinous dogmas of free-trade had paralysed industry, and of a gold

currency had shattered it; when bankruptcies to an unheard of extent

had shaken commerce to its centre, and an unexampled number of persons

in all the manufacturing districts were thrown out of employment. Yet

even in these, the most favourable of all circumstances for the

success of sedition, when real and wide-spread internal suffering is

aggravated by vehement external excitement, how has it fared with the

revolutionists? Their treasonable designs have been every where met

with calm resolution by the Government and the country; and with

scarce any effusion of blood, without a contest which can be dignified

with the name of rebellion, without a single execution, as yet at

least, on the scaffold, their designs have been rendered abortive. The

Press has stood nobly forward on this momentous crisis; and to its

ability and truly patriotic spirit, the defeat of the disaffected,

without bloodshed, is mainly to be ascribed. England has shown one

instance at least of an empire saved by the unbought loyalty of her

people and the free independence of her Press. The metropolis has set

a splendid example of mingled patriotism and firmness: and Europe,

which expected to see the treason of the Chartists triumphant on the

10th of April, and another republic, proclaimed on the banks of the

Thames, was astonished to behold their boasted multitudes shrink from

a contest with six thousand soldiers supported by an equal number of

police. Beyond all question, it was the glorious display of public

spirit then made by the middle and higher classes, who came forward to

a man to defend the cause of order, which paralysed the audacity of

the revolutionists, and saved the empire from the horrors of hopeless

indeed, but in any event disastrous, civil warfare.

The following observations by a distinguished journal, long known for

its able and intrepid defence of the cause of religion and order, put

this memorable event in its true light:--

"The _eleventh of April_, in the year 1848, has arrived, and

the United Kingdom is still a _monarchy_. The day, the great

day, which was to revolutionise the nation, and to establish

a republic on the French model, has passed over, and we find

no change. The Parliament sits at its ease as heretofore;

the courts of law administer justice as heretofore; and the

officers of the executive are transacting the business of

the Government without molestation. All other business, too,

is proceeding in its ordinary course.

"A better means of estimating the strength of the Chartists

than has yet been afforded, was afforded by the exhibition

yesterday on Kennington Common. The five millions and a half

mustered 10,000, or, to take the highest estimate, 15,000.

It may be said that these were the Chartists of London and

its neighbourhood; but though we have shown that this is not

the fact, let it be so,--London and its neighbourhood

comprise a population of two millions, giving five hundred

thousand men of military age. Of these, then, but 15,000 at

most--we say but 10,000--are Chartists: 1 _in_ 500

_according to our estimate_, 1 in about 330 according to the

higher estimate of the number on the common.

"Let us now turn to the more pleasing side of yesterday's

proceedings; and let us, in the first place, acknowledge the

true fountain of domestic peace, and of every other

blessing--'UNLESS THE LORD KEEPETH THE CITY, THE WATCHMAN

WAKETH BUT IN VAIN.' To the bounty of Divine Providence we

owe it, that this morning we arise in peace to pursue our

peaceful occupations. May we not add, with humility, that to

the Giver of all good we owe the honour that the metropolis

of England has won, in setting to the world an example of a

peaceful victory over the worst spirit of rebellion,

encouraged by the triumph of rebellion in almost every other

capital of Europe. Yes, it is to Him, and to the teaching of

His word, the glory is due.

"We have told the number of _Chartists_; now what was the

number of _special constables_?--Two hundred thousand; the

_Morning Chronicle_ says, we believe truly, two hundred and

fifty thousand--no sickly spectres, like those whose

perverse activity summoned them from their usual avocations,

but the _manhood_ of the metropolis, from the high-spirited

nobility and gentry downward, through all the gradations of

society, to the strong-armed artisan, and the robust drayman

or coal-whipper. Yes, the special constables enrolled

yesterday presented a body for spirit, strength, and number,

not to be matched, out of Great Britain, on the face of the

earth. How truly did we say a few weeks ago, that every

Sunday saw meekly kneeling in the churches of the metropolis

a body of men that could laugh to scorn the assault of any

enemy, foreign or domestic, that could by possibility be

brought to confront them. These men look for spirit, and

strength, and safety in the right quarter, and _they

themselves_ yesterday exhibited the proof.

"The military preparations of the Government were prudent,

as providing against the danger of local success on the part

of the enemies of order, but it is plain that they did not

operate by terror, for a soldier was not to be seen; it was

_the little staff of the special constable_ that quelled

sedition, and it is right that this should be known to all

our foreign enemies, and to domestic traitors, as proof

beyond all doubt that the people of England are firmly

united in defence of their constitution."--_Standard_, April

11.

That the Chartists fully expected a Revolution to be effected in

London that day is decisively proved by their conduct in the

provinces. At Glasgow, a placard appeared, headed

"THREATENED

REVOLUTION IN LONDON;"

and invited the people to be ready to come out by their thousands and

tens of thousands, the moment farther intelligence was received. The

"absorption" of the Electric Telegraph by Government was a sad blow to

them, for it left them at a loss how to act.

It is impossible to exaggerate the moral guilt of the movement thus

happily defeated by the firmness of the Government and the loyalty of

the immense majority of the people. Situated as the Continent now

is--with capital destroyed and credit ruined in France; war imminent,

and commerce paralysed in Germany; and hostilities actually raging in

Italy, it is evident that Great Britain, if secure of internal

tranquillity, may again, as during the war, become the workshop and

emporium of the world. Secure within her sea-girt shores, protected

alike by her fleets, her armies, her past renown and present spirit,

she, has advantages during such a strife which no other country

possesses, provided she does not throw them away by her own insanity.

But this the proceedings of the Chartists and Repealers are precisely

calculated to do. Had the London demonstration turned out successful,

these prospects would have been utterly ruined, credit destroyed here

as it has been in France, and the misery of the people augmented to a

degree never, perhaps, before witnessed in modern Europe. Every

Chartist meeting, by prolonging the period of distrust, by checking

the return of confidence, by preventing the outlay of capital,

postpones the restoration of prosperity by a certain period. As long

as they continue, trade never can revive, industry must continue to

languish, poverty to increase, suffering to be prolonged, woe to be

augmented. What, then, is the guilt of those who, for their own

selfish purposes, or to gratify a senseless vanity, prolong an

agitation fraught with such disastrous consequences--retain the

people, in whom they profess to be interested, steeped in such

misery--and avert, when about to set in, the returning flood of

prosperity to their country?

The French journalists, in the interest of revolution, are loud in

their condemnation of the apathy, as they call it, of the great bulk

of the English nation on this occasion, and express their astonishment

that the Chartists, for some reason they cannot understand, shrank

from a contest with the Government, under circumstances which gave

them, as they think, every prospect of success. We will tell them the

reason--which is not the less true, that it may not be altogether

pleasing to their vanity: The English are major and they are minor;

the English are men and they are schoolboys. We, too, have had our

dreams of communism, but they were brought forward by Jack Cade in the

days of Richard II.; we, too, have indulged in social aspirations, but

it was in the days of the Fifth-Monarchy Men, and they ended in the

despotism of Cromwell. It is very well for schoolboys and juvenile

academicians to indulge in extravagant freaks suited to their years;

but they do not become bearded veterans. When England became a man,

she put away childish things. France, by the spoliations and

destruction of the first Revolution, has lost the elements of freedom.

But Germany yet possesses them; and if she does not abuse her

advantages, in two hundred years she may possess the mingled freedom

and stability which now constitute at once the glory and happiness of

England. It requires that time to be free of the craft of liberty;

there is no royal road to freedom any more than geometry. England has

preceded other nations by two centuries in this glorious path; it

would ill suit the masters to recede, and imitate the follies of such

as are only becoming tyros in the attempt to follow it. Those who have

long ago reached the summit, and know with what difficulty it was

attained, can afford to smile at the young aspirants who invite them

to descend and renew the toil of the ascent. Those who have spread

political power with safety over a million of pacific electors

diffused over a whole empire, have no occasion to imitate the example

of those who would establish despotic power in the hands of two

hundred thousand armed Janissaries of a single capital.

_Printed by William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh._

* * * * *

Transcriber's note:

Page 553: The transcriber has divided the large table into two sections.

Page 596: No closing quotation mark was provided in the original--'were

"the immediate raising of the siege, and return of the army to the

Continent; ...'

Page 636: "she used a word vernacularly employed to signify the

stripping birds of their fathers." 'fathers' has been replaced with

'feathers'.

The chapter title "THE CAXTONS" has two consecutive chapters entitled

Chapter IX.