THE GREEN HAND.

To a mind like that of Chateaubriand, reposing in solitude when Napoleon was acting with such marvellous effect in the world, the character and qualities of that wonderful man could not fail to be a constant object of solicitude and observation. It has been already noticed that he braved the Emperor in the plenitude of his power, and essentially contributed, in the crisis of his fate, to his dethronement, and the re-establishment of the ancient line of princes. But, as is not unusual with persons of his highly wrought and generous temper of mind, his hostility to the Emperor declined with the termination of his authority, and his admiration for his genius rose with the base desertion of the revolutionary crowd who had fawned upon him when on the throne. The following observations on the style of his writings, indicate the growth of this counter feeling, and are in themselves equally just and felicitous:—

"His partisans have sought to make of Buonaparte a perfect being; a model of sentiment, of delicacy, of morality, and of justice—a writer like Cæsar and Thucydides, an orator like Demosthenes, a historian like Tacitus. The public discourses of Napoleon, his sonorous phrases in the tent and at the council board, are the less inspired by the spirit of prophecy, that many of the catastrophes which he announced have not been accomplished, while the warlike Isaiah himself has disappeared. Prophecies of doom which follow without reaching states become ridiculous. It is their accomplishment which renders them sublime. During sixteen years, Napoleon was the incarnation of destiny. Destiny now is mute, and he, too, should be so. Buonaparte was not a Cæsar; his education had neither been learnedly nor carefully conducted: half a stranger, he was ignorant of the first rules of our language, and could hardly spell it; but what did it signify, after all, that his expression was defective?—he gave the law to the universe. His bulletins have the most thrilling of all eloquence—that of victory. Sometimes, during the intoxications of success, they affected to be written on a drum-head: in the midst of the most lugubrious accents, something emerged which excites a smile. I have read all that Napoleon has written—the first manuscripts of his infancy, his love-letters to Josephine, the five volumes of his discourses, bulletins, and orders; but I have found nothing which so truly portrays the character of that great man, when in adversity, as the following autograph note left at Elba:—"'My heart refuses to share in ordinary joys as ordinary sorrows."'Not having given myself life, I am not entitled to take it away."'My bad genius appeared to me and announced my end; which I found at Leipsic."'I have conjured up the terrible spirit of innovation, which will overrun the world.'"Certes, there is Napoleon to the very life. His bulletins and discourses have often great energy; but it was not his own; it belonged to the age; he only adopted it. It sprang from the revolutionary energy, which he only weakened by moving in opposition to it. Danton said, 'The metal is fused; if you do not watch over the furnace, you will be consumed.' St Just replied, 'Do it if you dare.' These words contain the whole secret of our Revolution. Those who make revolutions by halves, do nothing but dig their own graves."—Vol. vii. p. 101.

"'My heart refuses to share in ordinary joys as ordinary sorrows.

"'Not having given myself life, I am not entitled to take it away.

"'My bad genius appeared to me and announced my end; which I found at Leipsic.

"'I have conjured up the terrible spirit of innovation, which will overrun the world.'

"Certes, there is Napoleon to the very life. His bulletins and discourses have often great energy; but it was not his own; it belonged to the age; he only adopted it. It sprang from the revolutionary energy, which he only weakened by moving in opposition to it. Danton said, 'The metal is fused; if you do not watch over the furnace, you will be consumed.' St Just replied, 'Do it if you dare.' These words contain the whole secret of our Revolution. Those who make revolutions by halves, do nothing but dig their own graves."—Vol. vii. p. 101.

Certes, there is Chateaubriand to the very life.

Chateaubriand, as all the world knows, was Minister for Foreign Affairs to Louis XVIII. at Ghent; adhering thus to his ruling maxim throughout life, "Fidelity to misfortune." So great were the services rendered by him to the cause of European freedom, by the energetic series of papers which he poured forth with unwearied vigour every week, that there were serious thoughts, after the battle of Waterloo, of promoting him to the dignity of Prime Minister. Louis XVIII. openly inclined to it; and if his advice had prevailed, the catastrophe which fifteen years afterwards befel his family, would probably have been prevented. But the insuperable difficulty lay here: the pure and honourable mind of Chateaubriand revolted from the idea of forming a Ministry in conjunction with Talleyrand and Fouché; and yet their influence was such that the monarch, in the first instance at least, was compelled to court their assistance. Expedience, at least immediate expedience, seemed to counsel it; but Chateaubriand, animated by higher principles, and gifted with a more prophetic mind, anticipated no lasting advantage, but rather the reverse, from an alliance with the arch-regicide of Nantes, and the arch-traitor who had sworn allegiance to and betrayedtwelveGovernments in succession. But the chorus of "base unanimities," as he expresses it, with which the monarch was surrounded, proved too strong for any single individual, how gifted soever. Fouché and Talleyrand were taken into power, and Chateaubriand retired. Of the conversation with Louis XVIII., when this vital change was resolved on, he gives the following interesting account, which proves that that sagacious monarch at least was well aware of the consequences of the step to which he was thus involuntarily impelled:—

"Before quitting St Denis, on our way back to Paris, I had an audience of the King, and the following conversation ensued:

"'Well?' said Louis XVIII., opening the dialogue by that exclamation."'Well, sire, you have taken the Duke of Otranto,' (Fouché.)"'I could not avoid it; from my brother to the bailie of Crussol, (and he at least is not suspected,) all said that we could not do otherwise—what think you?'"'Sire! the thing is done; I crave permission to remain silent.'"'No, no—speak out; you know how I resisted at Ghent.'"'In that case, sire, I must obey my orders. Pardon my fidelity: I think it is all over with the monarchy.'"The King remained some time silent. I began to tremble at my boldness, when his Majesty rejoined:—"'In truth, M. de Chateaubriand, I am of your opinion.'"I bowed and withdrew; and thus ended my connection with the Hundred Days."—Vol. vii. 70.

"'Well?' said Louis XVIII., opening the dialogue by that exclamation.

"'Well, sire, you have taken the Duke of Otranto,' (Fouché.)

"'I could not avoid it; from my brother to the bailie of Crussol, (and he at least is not suspected,) all said that we could not do otherwise—what think you?'

"'Sire! the thing is done; I crave permission to remain silent.'

"'No, no—speak out; you know how I resisted at Ghent.'

"'In that case, sire, I must obey my orders. Pardon my fidelity: I think it is all over with the monarchy.'

"The King remained some time silent. I began to tremble at my boldness, when his Majesty rejoined:—

"'In truth, M. de Chateaubriand, I am of your opinion.'

"I bowed and withdrew; and thus ended my connection with the Hundred Days."—Vol. vii. 70.

Manzoni has written an ode, known over all Europe, on the double fall of Napoleon: "The last poet," says Chateaubriand, "of the country of Virgil, sang the last warrior of the country of Cæsar.

Tutte ei provo, la gloriaMaggior dopo il periglio,La fuga e la Vittoria,La reggia e il triste esiglio:Due volte nella polvere,Due volte sugli altar.Ei se nomo: due secoli,L'un contro l'altro armato,Sommessi a lui se volsero,Come aspettando il fato:Ei fe silenzio ed arbitroS'assise in mezzo a loro.

Tutte ei provo, la gloriaMaggior dopo il periglio,La fuga e la Vittoria,La reggia e il triste esiglio:Due volte nella polvere,Due volte sugli altar.

Ei se nomo: due secoli,L'un contro l'altro armato,Sommessi a lui se volsero,Come aspettando il fato:Ei fe silenzio ed arbitroS'assise in mezzo a loro.

"He proved everything; glory greater after danger, flight, and victory: Royalty and sad exile, twice in the dust, twice on the altar."He announced himself: two ages, armed against each other, turned towards him, as if awaiting their fate; he proclaimed silence, and seated himself as arbiter between them."

"He proved everything; glory greater after danger, flight, and victory: Royalty and sad exile, twice in the dust, twice on the altar.

"He announced himself: two ages, armed against each other, turned towards him, as if awaiting their fate; he proclaimed silence, and seated himself as arbiter between them."

Notwithstanding the vehemence of Chateaubriand's dissension with Napoleon, it cannot be expected that a man of his romantic and generous temperament would continue his hostility after death. No one, accordingly, has awarded a more heartfelt or magnanimous tribute to his memory.

"The solitude of the exile and of the tomb of Napoleon has shed an extraordinary interest, a sort of prestige, over his memory. Alexander did not die under the eyes of Greece, he disappeared amidst the distant wonders of Babylon. Buonaparte has not died under the eyes of France: he has been lost in the gloomy edge of the southern horizon. The grandeur of the silence which now surrounds him equals the immensity of the noise which his exploits formerly made. The nations are absent: the crowd of men has retired: the bird of the tropics, "harnessed," in Buffon's words, "to the chariot of the sun," has precipitated itself from the star of light—where does it now repose? It rests on the ashes of which the weight has all but subverted the globe."

"Imposuerunt omnes sibi diademata post mortem ejus; et multiplicata sunt mala in terrâ."[5]"They all assumed diadems after his death, and evils were multiplied on the earth." Twenty years have hardly elapsed since the death of Napoleon, and already the French and Spanish monarchies are no more. The map of the world has undergone a change: a new geography is required: severed from their legitimate rulers, nations have been thrown against nations: renowned actors on the scene have given place to ignoble successors: eagles from the summits of the loftiest pines have plunged into the ocean, while frail shellfish have attached themselves to the sides of the trunk, which still stands erect.

"As in the last result everything advances to its end, 'the terrible spirit of innovation which overruns the world', as the Emperor said, and to which he had opposed the barrier of his genius, has resumed its course. The institutions of the conqueror fail: he will be the last of great existences on the earth. Nothing hereafter will overshadow society, parcelled out and levelled: the shadow of Napoleon alone will be seen on the verge of the old world which has been destroyed, like the phantom of the deluge on the edge of its abyss. Distant posterity will discern that spectre through the gloom of passing events still erect above the gulf into which unknown ages have fallen, until the day marked out by Providence for the resurrection of social man."—Vol. vii. 169-171.

Assuredly no one can say that Chateaubriand's genius has declined with his advanced years.

To a man viewing Napoleon with the feelings expressed in these eloquent words, the translation of his remains from their solitary resting-place under the willow at St Helena could not but be an object of regret. He thus expresses himself on that memorable event, and future ages will probably confirm his opinion:—

"The removal of the remains of Napoleon from St Helena was a fault against his renown. A place of sepulchre in Paris can never equal the Valley of Slanes. Who would wish to see the Pillar of Pompey elsewhere than above the grave dug for his remains by his poor freedman, aided by the old legionary? What shall we do with those magnificent remains in the midst of our miseries? Can the hardest granite typify the everlasting duration of Napoleon's renown? Even if we possessed a Michael Angelo to design the statue on the grave, how should we fashion the mausoleum? Monuments are for little men, for the great a stone and a name. At least they should have suspended the coffin from the summit of the triumphal arch which records his exploits: nations from afar should have beheld their master borne aloft on the shoulders of his victories. Was not the urn which contained the ashes of Trajan placed at Rome, beneath his column? Napoleon at Paris will be lost amidst the crowd of unknown names. God forbid he should be exposed to the vicissitudes of our political changes, surrounded though he is by Louis XIV., Vauban, and Turenne. Let a certain section of our revolutionists triumph, andthe ashes of the conqueror will be sent to join the ashes which our passions have dispersed. The conqueror will be forgotten in the oppressor of our liberties. The bones of Napoleon will not reproduce his genius; they will only teach his despotism to ignoble soldiers."—Vol. vii. 184, 185.

The Restoration did not immediately employ Chateaubriand. His anticipations were realised. The chorus of baseness and selfishness with which the court was surrounded, kept him at a distance. They were afraid of his genius: they were jealous of his reputation. Above all, they dreaded his independence. He was not sufficiently manageable. They were actuated, perhaps not altogether without reason, by the same feeling which made Lord North say, when urged to bring Dr Johnson into Parliament, whose great powers in the political warfare of pamphlets had been so signally evinced on the side of Government, "No, sir, he is an elephant, but a wild one, as likely to trample under foot his friends as his enemies." The veteran statesman, so well versed in the ways of men, was right. Genius is the fountain of thought: it ultimately rules the councils and destinies of men; but it generally requires to be tempered by time before it can be safely introduced into practice.

Chateaubriand enlivens this period of his memoirs, which is neither signalised by political event nor remarkable literary effort, by a sort of biography of Madame Recamier, with whom he was on terms of intimate friendship. This remarkable person, who was beyond all question the most beautiful and attractive woman of her age in France, or perhaps in Europe, is now no more; and he appears to have obtained from her relatives, or perhaps from herself prior to her decease, not only many curious and highly interesting details concerning her early years and subsequent history, but a great variety of original letters from the most eminent men of the age, who were successively led captive by her charms, but none of whom appear to have impaired her reputation. In this country, where the lines of severance between the sexes are much more rigidly drawn, it would be impossible for a young and beautiful married woman to be in the habit of receiving the most ardent love-letters from a great variety of distinguished and fascinating admirers, without the jealousy of rivals being excited, and the breath of scandal fastening upon her as its natural prey. But it is otherwise on the Continent, where, although there is doubtless abundance of dissoluteness of manners in certain circles, yet in others such intimacies may exist, which are yet kept within due bounds, and cast no reflection on the fortunate fair one who sees all the world at her feet.

Such, at least, appears to have been the case with Madame Recamier, the intimate friend of Madame de Stael, who said "She would willingly give all her talents for one half of her beauty;" and whose powers of fascination were such, that she not only inspired a vehement passion nearly at the same time, in La Harpe, Lucien Buonaparte, Murat, Moreau, Bernadotte, Marshal Massena, Benjamin Constant, Prince Augustus of Prussia, Prince Metternich, Chateaubriand, and a vast many others, but attracted the particular notice of Napoleon, and did not escape the vigilant and practised eye of the Duke of Wellington. The Prince of Prussia would have married her, if he could have effected her divorce from M. Recamier. It is one of the worst traits of the Emperor Napoleon's character, that he was not only so envious of the celebrity of her beauty that he banished her from Paris to extinguish its fame, but was inspired with such malignant feelings towards her, from her having rejected his advances, that he got a law passed which rendered the wives of persons engaged in commerce responsible in their separate estates for their husbands' debts; the effect of which was to involve Madame Recamier, whose husband, a great banker in Paris, failed, in almost total ruin, in the latter years of her life.

Madame Recamier, whose birth, though respectable, gave her none of the advantages of rank or opulence, was bred up at the abbey of theDesert, near the confluence of the Rhone and the Saone at Lyons. Her parents, however, resided at Paris; and they having brought her home at the age of twelve years, she was atthat tender age married to M. Recamier, a rich banker, almost four times her own age, whose immense transactions, which entirely absorbed his time and attention, left him no leisure to attend either to the education or occupations of his infantine and beautiful wife. But though thus left to herself, surrounded by admirers, and with every luxury which wealth could purchase at her command, she was never led astray. Benjamin Constant, who knew her well from her earliest years, has left the following interesting portrait of what may be called her infantine married life:—

"She whom I paint emerged pure and brilliant from that corrupted atmosphere, which elsewhere withered where it did not actually corrupt. Infancy was at first her safeguard. Libertinism shrunk from approaching the asylum of so much innocence. Removed from the world in a solitude embellished by the arts, she spent her time in the sweet occupation of those charming and poetical studies which usually constitute the delight of a more advanced age."Often, also, surrounded by her young companions, she abandoned herself to the amusements suited to her tender years. 'Swift as Atalanta in the race,' she outran all her companions: often, in playing Hide-and-seek, she bandaged those eyes which were destined one day to fascinate every beholder. Her look, now so expressive and penetrating, and which seems to indicate mysteries of which she herself is unconscious, then shone only with the animated and playful gaiety of childhood. Her beautiful hair, which could not be undone without causing emotion, fell in natural curls on her shoulders. A hearty and prolonged laugh often burst from these infantine circles, but already you could perceive in her that fine and rapid observation which seizes the salient points of ridicule—that sportive raillery which diverted itself without injuring any one: above all, that exquisite sense of elegance and propriety, of purity and taste, that true nobility of mind, which are given only to a few privileged beings."Nevertheless Madame Recamier emerged occasionally from her retreat, to go to the theatre or to the public promenades; and in those places of general resort her rare appearance was quite an event. Every other object in those immense assemblages was forgotten: every one precipitated himself upon her steps. The fortunate cavalier who attended her could scarcely make his way through the crowds which she collected: her steps were at every instant impeded by the spectators who crowded around her. She enjoyed that success with the gaiety of an infant combined with the timidity of a young woman; but the gracious dignity which at home restrained the overflowing gaiety of her companions, inspired respect in public in the admiring crowd with which she was constantly environed. You would say that her air imposed restraint equally on her companions and on the public. Thus passed the first years of the married life of Madame Recamier, between poetical occupation, infantine amusements, and the triumph of beauty in the world."But her expanding mind and capacious genius soon required other aliment. The instinctive love of the beautiful with which she was inspired from her earliest years, made her long for the society of men distinguished for the reputation of their talents or genius. M. de La Harpe was one of the first who appreciated the young woman, around whom were one day to be grouped all the celebrated characters of her age. The conversation of that young woman of fifteen had a thousand attractions for a man of his great acquirements, and whose excessive vanity, with the habit of conversing with the ablest men in France, had rendered exceedingly difficult to please. He delighted in being her guide: he was astonished at the rapidity with which her talent supplied the want of experience, and comprehended everything which he revealed to her of the world and of men. This was at the moment of his celebrated conversion to Christianity. The Revolution having rendered infidelity all-powerful, scepticism had lost the merit of being opposed to authority, and those whom vanity alone had rendered such could in good faith, and without compromising their reputation, avow their secret belief."—Vol. ix. 118, 121.

"Often, also, surrounded by her young companions, she abandoned herself to the amusements suited to her tender years. 'Swift as Atalanta in the race,' she outran all her companions: often, in playing Hide-and-seek, she bandaged those eyes which were destined one day to fascinate every beholder. Her look, now so expressive and penetrating, and which seems to indicate mysteries of which she herself is unconscious, then shone only with the animated and playful gaiety of childhood. Her beautiful hair, which could not be undone without causing emotion, fell in natural curls on her shoulders. A hearty and prolonged laugh often burst from these infantine circles, but already you could perceive in her that fine and rapid observation which seizes the salient points of ridicule—that sportive raillery which diverted itself without injuring any one: above all, that exquisite sense of elegance and propriety, of purity and taste, that true nobility of mind, which are given only to a few privileged beings.

"Nevertheless Madame Recamier emerged occasionally from her retreat, to go to the theatre or to the public promenades; and in those places of general resort her rare appearance was quite an event. Every other object in those immense assemblages was forgotten: every one precipitated himself upon her steps. The fortunate cavalier who attended her could scarcely make his way through the crowds which she collected: her steps were at every instant impeded by the spectators who crowded around her. She enjoyed that success with the gaiety of an infant combined with the timidity of a young woman; but the gracious dignity which at home restrained the overflowing gaiety of her companions, inspired respect in public in the admiring crowd with which she was constantly environed. You would say that her air imposed restraint equally on her companions and on the public. Thus passed the first years of the married life of Madame Recamier, between poetical occupation, infantine amusements, and the triumph of beauty in the world.

"But her expanding mind and capacious genius soon required other aliment. The instinctive love of the beautiful with which she was inspired from her earliest years, made her long for the society of men distinguished for the reputation of their talents or genius. M. de La Harpe was one of the first who appreciated the young woman, around whom were one day to be grouped all the celebrated characters of her age. The conversation of that young woman of fifteen had a thousand attractions for a man of his great acquirements, and whose excessive vanity, with the habit of conversing with the ablest men in France, had rendered exceedingly difficult to please. He delighted in being her guide: he was astonished at the rapidity with which her talent supplied the want of experience, and comprehended everything which he revealed to her of the world and of men. This was at the moment of his celebrated conversion to Christianity. The Revolution having rendered infidelity all-powerful, scepticism had lost the merit of being opposed to authority, and those whom vanity alone had rendered such could in good faith, and without compromising their reputation, avow their secret belief."—Vol. ix. 118, 121.

Of the unbounded devotion which Madame Recamier in a few years came to inspire in the breasts of the most distinguished men of her day, abundant proof is furnished in Chateaubriand's Memoirs. To give only a few examples, among a host of others which might be cited, Marshal Massena—a roturier by birth, and certainly not inheriting by descent any of the feelings of chivalry—yet even he asked a ribbon from Madame Recamier before he set out for the army of Italy, to take the command in Genoa, in the siege since socelebrated; and, having obtained it, he wrote to her the following note some weeks after:—

"The charming ribbon given by Madame Recamier has been borne by General Massena in the battles and the blockades of Genoa: it has never left him, and been, in every instance, the harbinger of victory."—Vol. viii. 167."There," as Chateaubriand justly observes "the ancient manners reappeared athwart the modern manners of which they formed the base. The gallantry of the noble chevalier shone forth in the plebeian soldier; the memory of the tournaments and of the crusades was concealed amidst the blaze of glory with which modern France has crowned its old victories."

"There," as Chateaubriand justly observes "the ancient manners reappeared athwart the modern manners of which they formed the base. The gallantry of the noble chevalier shone forth in the plebeian soldier; the memory of the tournaments and of the crusades was concealed amidst the blaze of glory with which modern France has crowned its old victories."

Lucien Buonaparte, one of her first adorers, addressed her early in life in these terms:—

"Till within these few days, I knew you only by renown. I had seen you sometimes at church and in the theatres. I knew you were the most beautiful: a thousand voices repeated it; and your charms had struck without dazzling me. Why has the peace rendered me captive? it reigns in our families, but sorrow is in my heart."I have seen you since: Jove seemed to smile on your steps. Seated on the edge of a fountain, motionless and dreamy, you gathered a rose. I addressed you alone: I thought I heard a sigh. Vain illusion! I soon saw the tranquil front of indifference seated between us. The passion which devoured me expressed itself in my words; while yours bore the cruel yet amiable stamp of infancy and sport."Be severe, I implore you, for pity's sake. Banish me from your presence. Desire me to withdraw from your enchanting society: and if I can obey the order, remember only that my heart is for ever your own; that no one ever reigned over it as Juliette; and that he will ever live with her, at least in memory."—Vol. viii. 130.

"I have seen you since: Jove seemed to smile on your steps. Seated on the edge of a fountain, motionless and dreamy, you gathered a rose. I addressed you alone: I thought I heard a sigh. Vain illusion! I soon saw the tranquil front of indifference seated between us. The passion which devoured me expressed itself in my words; while yours bore the cruel yet amiable stamp of infancy and sport.

"Be severe, I implore you, for pity's sake. Banish me from your presence. Desire me to withdraw from your enchanting society: and if I can obey the order, remember only that my heart is for ever your own; that no one ever reigned over it as Juliette; and that he will ever live with her, at least in memory."—Vol. viii. 130.

"For a man ofsangfroid," says Chateaubriand, "all that is a little ridiculous." He is right: it is gallantry without passion which always appearsfadeand contemptible. It is vehemence and sincerity which makes sentiment interesting. The Buonapartes had nothing chivalrous in their breasts: Lucien's letter is very different from Massena wearing Madame Recamier's ribbon next his heart amidst the fire of the Austrian cannon. But Chateaubriand himself had the true spirit of chivalry in his bosom. He thus recounts one of the last moments which he spent in 1832, late in life, with Madame Recamier on the banks of the Lake of Constance:—

"We wandered as chance guided our steps, and sat down beside the lake. From a pavilion in the woods arose a concert of the harp and the German horns, which ceased as we began to listen to them. It was a scene in a fairy tale. As the music did not recommence, I read to Madame Recamier my description of the St Gothard. She asked me to write something in her pocket-book. Immediately below the last words of Rousseau, which were there inscribed, 'Open the windows, that I may again see the light of the sun,' I wrote, 'What I felt the want of on the Lake of Lucerne I have found on the Lake of Constance—the charm and the intelligence of beauty. I no longer wish to die like Rousseau; I wish, on the contrary, to live long, and behold the sun, if it is near you that I am to finish my life. May my days expire at your feet, as the waves of which you hear the murmur.' The azure light of the setting sun coloured the lake; on the horizon, to the south, the snowy alps of the Grisons reflected the ruddy glow; the breeze which swept the waves harmonised with their ceaseless murmur. We knew not where we were."—Vol. x. 246, 247.

With the accession of a more Liberal Administration under M. de Martignac, Chateaubriand was taken into power. In 1822 he was sent as ambassador to London; in 1823 he was made minister of foreign affairs, and directed the expedition into Spain in that year, which had so successful a result; and in 1824 he represented France at the Congress of Verona. He was again, however, chased from the helm by the jealousy of the Royalists, whose imbecility was rebuked by his genius; and it was not till 1828 that he was again taken into power, and appointed to the embassy at Rome. He was there when the Polignac Administration was appointed.

We must hasten to the most brilliant and honourable period of Chateaubriand's life, that in which he stood almost alone amidst a nation'sdefection, and singly opposed the revolutionary torrent by which nearly all others had been swept away. The spectacle is at once animating and mournful: animating as evincing of what high resolves, of what heroic constancy, noble minds are capable even in the extremity of disaster: mournful, as exhibiting so bright a contrast to the tergiversation of later times, and suggesting the mournful reflection that, in these days of economists and material enjoyment, the days of chivalry are gone for ever.

It is well known that Chateaubriand was esteemed not only a Liberal, but an ultra-Liberal, by the extreme Royalist party whom Charles X. summoned to his councils on his accession to the throne; and that, in consequence of his disagreement with Polignac and the leaders of that party, he retired from the ministry, and resigned his appointment as ambassador at Rome. His consternation was great on perceiving the extreme measures which the Polignac party were preparing to carry into execution, and the feeble preparations made for supporting them by military force, in the midst of a warlike and excited people. Of his first intelligence of the appointment of the Polignac Administration by the sovereign whom they were destined so soon to overthrow, he gives the following account:—

"Rumours of a change of Administration had already reached us at Rome. Well-informed persons had even gone so far as to speak of Prince Polignac, but I could not credit the reports. At length the journals arrive; I open them, and my eyes rest on the official ordinance calling him to the head of the ministry. I had experienced many vicissitudes of fortune in my journey through life, but never had I fallen from such an elevation. My evil destiny had again blown over my chimeras: that breath of fate had not only destroyed my illusions, but it had swept away the monarchy. The blow was fearful: for a moment I was in despair, but my part was soon taken. I felt that I must retire from power. The post brought me a multitude of letters; all recommended me to send in my resignation. Even persons to whom I was almost a stranger thought themselves obliged to counsel me to retire. I was in secret mortified at the officious interest thus evinced in my reputation. Thank God, I have never needed nor waited for counsels when the paths of honour and of interest lay before me. Falls from station have ever been to me ruin, for I possessed through life nothing but debts; so that when I resigned my appointments, I was reduced to live by my wits. In a word, I resigned a situation of 200,000 francs (£8000) a-year, and was reduced to nothing; but my choice was not doubtful. Cast to the winds, said I to myself, 200,000 francs (£8000) a-year of income, an appointment entirely suited to your taste, a high and magnificent office, the empire of the fine arts at Rome, the felicity, in fine, of having at length received the recompense for your long and laborious struggles. Honour is to be won, esteem preserved, at no other price."—Vol. ix. 141, 142.

On arriving at Paris after he had resigned his appointment as ambassador at Rome, Chateaubriand found that many of the kind and officious friends who had so strongly urgedhimto resign, had themselves quietly accepted appointments under the Polignac Administration! He withdrew, however, in pursuance of his resolution, into private life; and in order to avoid the expenses of Paris, which exceeded what his reduced income could bear, he retired to Dieppe in June 1830. When there he received the stunning intelligence of the Ordinances of July. His part was immediately taken. He returned with the utmost expedition to Paris, resolved to share the fate of his country whatever it might be, and to exert himself to the utmost to mitigate the calamities which he foresaw awaited it. His first step on arriving in the capital was to write a letter to the King, making a tender of his services to negotiate with the popular leaders who had got the command in the capital. The only answer he received was a verbal one, that M. de Montemart had been appointed to the head of the Ministry, and a reference to him. But M. de Montemart could not be found; and even if he had been, affairs had gone too far to admit of any remedy by individual efforts, how powerful soever. The nation would have a Revolution with its consequences, and it was doomed to have a Revolution with its consequences. But although Louis Philippewas successful, Chateaubriand foresaw that his throne was established on a rotten foundation: that thejuste milieu, resting neither on the attachment of a loyal, nor the passions of a conquering people, could not be of lasting endurance; and that, in default of all principles of honour whereon to rest a Government, those of interest alone remained. He has left the following memorable prophecy of the fate awaiting a monarchy cradled in treason and fostered by selfishness:—

"Louis Philippe, his Government, the whole of that impossible and contradictory combination,will perish in a time more or less retarded by fortuitous events, by complications of interests interior and exterior, by the apathy or corruption of individuals, by the levity of disposition, the indifference and want of nerve in characters. But be its duration long or short, the present dynasty will not exist long enough for the House of Orleans to strike its roots in the soil of France."—Vol. ix. 333.[6]

It is not in public documents and actions that the real opinions of the actors on the stage of public events are to be discerned. It is their private conversation or correspondence that reveals their real sentiments; it is there that the mental struggles which preceded the most decisive steps, and the secret views by which they were actuated in adopting or rejecting them, are in truth disclosed. In this view, the following conversation between Chateaubriand and the Duchess of Orleans, immediately after the triumph of the Barricades, is peculiarly interesting—

"M. Arago spoke to me in the warmest terms of the intellectual superiority of Madame Adelaide; and the Count Analde de Montesquieu, having met me one morning at Madame Recamier's, informed me that the Duke and Duchess of Orleans would be charmed to see me. I went, accordingly, to the Palais Royal with the Chevalier d'Honneur of the future queen. I found the Duchess of Orleans and Madame Adelaide in their private boudoirs. I had previously had the honour of being presented to the duchess. She made me sit down near her, and immediately said—"'Ah! M. de Chateaubriand, we are very unfortunate. If all parties would unite we might perhaps be saved, what think you of that?'"'Madame,' I replied, 'nothing is so easy. Charles X. and the Dauphin have both abdicated; Henry V. is now king; the Duke of Orleans is now Lieutenant-general of the kingdom; let him be Regent during the whole minority of Henry V., and all is accomplished.'"'But, M. de Chateaubriand, the people are extremely agitated; we should fall into anarchy.'"'Madame, may I venture to ask you what is the intention of the Duke of Orleans? will he accept the throne if it is offered to him?'"The two princesses hesitated to answer. After a short pause the Duchess of Orleans replied,—"'Consider, M. de Chateaubriand, the disasters which may ensue—you and all other men of honour require to unite to save us from a republic. At Rome, M. de Chateaubriand, you might render us essential service—or even here, if you did not wish to quit France.'"'Madame is not ignorant of my devotion to the young king and to his mother.'"'Ah! M. de Chateaubriand, how well they have rewarded your fidelity.'"'Your Royal Highness would not wish me to give the lie to my whole life.'"'M. de Chateaubriand, you do not know my niece; she is so inconsiderate, poor Caroline. I will send for the Duke of Orleans; I hope he may succeed in persuading you better than me.'"The princess gave her orders, and in a quarter of an hour Louis Philippe arrived. He was dressed in disorder, and looked extremely fatigued. I rose as he entered, and the Lieutenant-general of the kingdom said,—"'The duchess has doubtless informed you how unfortunate we are.' And upon that he began a speech on the felicity which he enjoyed in the country, and the life, in the midst of his children, which was entirely according to his taste. I seized the opportunity of a momentary pause to repeat what I had said to the princess."'Ah!' he exclaimed, 'that is just what I desire. How happy should I be to become the tutor and support of that infant! I think exactly as you do, M. de Chateaubriand: to take the Duke of Bordeaux would unquestionably be the wisest course that could be adopted. I only fear events are too strong for us.'"'Stronger than us, my Lord Duke! Are you not invested with all powers? Let us hasten to join Henry V. Summonthe Chambers and the army to meet you out of Paris. At the first intelligence of your departure all that effervescence will subside, and all the world will seek shelter under your enlightened and protecting government.'"While I yet spoke, I kept my eyes fixed on Louis Philippe. I saw that my counsels gave him annoyance: I saw written on his forehead the desire to be king. 'M. de Chateaubriand,' said he,without looking me in the face, 'the thing is not so easy as you imagine: things do not go as you imagine. A furious mob may assail the Chambers, and we have, as yet, no military force on which we can rely for its defence.'"The last expression gave me pleasure, because it enabled me to bring forward a decisive reply. 'I feel the difficulty you mention, my Lord Duke; but there is a sure mode of obviating it. If you cannot rejoin Henry V., as I have just proposed, you may embrace another course. The session is about to open: on the first proposition made by the deputies, declare that the Chamber of Deputies has not the power to determine the form of government for France; that thewhole nation must be consulted. Your Royal Highness will thus place yourself at the head of the popular party: the Republicans, who now constitute your danger, will laud you to the skies. In the two months which must elapse before the new legislature can assemble, you can organise a national guard; all your friends, and the friends of the young king, will exert themselves in the provinces. Let the deputies assemble, and let the cause I espouse be publicly pleaded before them. That cause, favoured in heart by you, supported by the great majority of the country electors, will be certain of success. The moment of anarchy being past, you will have nothing to fear from the violence of the Republicans. I even think you might win over, by such a course, General Lafayette and M. Lafitte to your side. What a part for you to play, my Lord Duke! You will reign fifteen years in the name of your young pupil; at the expiration of that time, repose will be a blessing to us all. You will earn the glory, unique in history, of having had the power to ascend the throne, and of having left it to the lawful heir. At the same time, you will have enjoyed the means of educating that heir abreast of the ideas of his age: you will have rendered him capable of reigning over France. One of your daughters may aid him to bear the weight of the crown.'"Louis Philippe looked around with a wandering eye and an absent air. 'I beg your pardon, M. de Chateaubriand,' said he; 'I left a deputation to converse with you, and I must return to it.' With these words, he bowed and withdrew."

"'Ah! M. de Chateaubriand, we are very unfortunate. If all parties would unite we might perhaps be saved, what think you of that?'

"'Madame,' I replied, 'nothing is so easy. Charles X. and the Dauphin have both abdicated; Henry V. is now king; the Duke of Orleans is now Lieutenant-general of the kingdom; let him be Regent during the whole minority of Henry V., and all is accomplished.'

"'But, M. de Chateaubriand, the people are extremely agitated; we should fall into anarchy.'

"'Madame, may I venture to ask you what is the intention of the Duke of Orleans? will he accept the throne if it is offered to him?'

"The two princesses hesitated to answer. After a short pause the Duchess of Orleans replied,—

"'Consider, M. de Chateaubriand, the disasters which may ensue—you and all other men of honour require to unite to save us from a republic. At Rome, M. de Chateaubriand, you might render us essential service—or even here, if you did not wish to quit France.'

"'Madame is not ignorant of my devotion to the young king and to his mother.'

"'Ah! M. de Chateaubriand, how well they have rewarded your fidelity.'

"'Your Royal Highness would not wish me to give the lie to my whole life.'

"'M. de Chateaubriand, you do not know my niece; she is so inconsiderate, poor Caroline. I will send for the Duke of Orleans; I hope he may succeed in persuading you better than me.'

"The princess gave her orders, and in a quarter of an hour Louis Philippe arrived. He was dressed in disorder, and looked extremely fatigued. I rose as he entered, and the Lieutenant-general of the kingdom said,—

"'The duchess has doubtless informed you how unfortunate we are.' And upon that he began a speech on the felicity which he enjoyed in the country, and the life, in the midst of his children, which was entirely according to his taste. I seized the opportunity of a momentary pause to repeat what I had said to the princess.

"'Ah!' he exclaimed, 'that is just what I desire. How happy should I be to become the tutor and support of that infant! I think exactly as you do, M. de Chateaubriand: to take the Duke of Bordeaux would unquestionably be the wisest course that could be adopted. I only fear events are too strong for us.'

"'Stronger than us, my Lord Duke! Are you not invested with all powers? Let us hasten to join Henry V. Summonthe Chambers and the army to meet you out of Paris. At the first intelligence of your departure all that effervescence will subside, and all the world will seek shelter under your enlightened and protecting government.'

"While I yet spoke, I kept my eyes fixed on Louis Philippe. I saw that my counsels gave him annoyance: I saw written on his forehead the desire to be king. 'M. de Chateaubriand,' said he,without looking me in the face, 'the thing is not so easy as you imagine: things do not go as you imagine. A furious mob may assail the Chambers, and we have, as yet, no military force on which we can rely for its defence.'

"The last expression gave me pleasure, because it enabled me to bring forward a decisive reply. 'I feel the difficulty you mention, my Lord Duke; but there is a sure mode of obviating it. If you cannot rejoin Henry V., as I have just proposed, you may embrace another course. The session is about to open: on the first proposition made by the deputies, declare that the Chamber of Deputies has not the power to determine the form of government for France; that thewhole nation must be consulted. Your Royal Highness will thus place yourself at the head of the popular party: the Republicans, who now constitute your danger, will laud you to the skies. In the two months which must elapse before the new legislature can assemble, you can organise a national guard; all your friends, and the friends of the young king, will exert themselves in the provinces. Let the deputies assemble, and let the cause I espouse be publicly pleaded before them. That cause, favoured in heart by you, supported by the great majority of the country electors, will be certain of success. The moment of anarchy being past, you will have nothing to fear from the violence of the Republicans. I even think you might win over, by such a course, General Lafayette and M. Lafitte to your side. What a part for you to play, my Lord Duke! You will reign fifteen years in the name of your young pupil; at the expiration of that time, repose will be a blessing to us all. You will earn the glory, unique in history, of having had the power to ascend the throne, and of having left it to the lawful heir. At the same time, you will have enjoyed the means of educating that heir abreast of the ideas of his age: you will have rendered him capable of reigning over France. One of your daughters may aid him to bear the weight of the crown.'

"Louis Philippe looked around with a wandering eye and an absent air. 'I beg your pardon, M. de Chateaubriand,' said he; 'I left a deputation to converse with you, and I must return to it.' With these words, he bowed and withdrew."

The advice thus given at the decisive moment by Chateaubriand was that of honour and loyalty; it dictated by the spirit of the chevaliersans peur et sans reproche. But it was not that of immediate or apparent interest; and therefore it was not adopted. The event has now proved, however, that in this, as in so many other instances in this world, the path of honour and duty would have been that of expedience. What Chateaubriand recommended to Louis Philippe was substantially what Louis Napoleondid; and the result proved that the great majority of the nation, differing widely from the revolutionary rabble of Paris, was not only Conservative, but Royalist in its dispositions. Had Louis Philippe followed this course, and taken only the regency till the majority of the Duke of Bordeaux, the two branches of the house of Bourbon would have been cordially united: no discord or jealousies would have weakened the Royalist party; the national will would have been decidedly pronounced for the monarchy before it had been rendered an object of contempt; the Revolution of 1848, with all its disastrous consequences, would probably have been prevented; and as the Duke de Bordeaux has no family, the Orleans dynasty, as the next heirs, would have ascended the throne in the natural order of succession—and not only without the bar sinister of treason on their escutcheon, but with a deed of unexampled magnanimity and honour to illustrate their accession!

Louis Philippe, bent on the immediate possession of the throne, made another attempt to gain M. de Chateaubriand; and for this purpose the Duchess of Orleans and Madame Adelaide again sent for him.

"Madame Adelaide was present as on the former occasion; and the duchess now described more specifically the favours with which the Duke of Orleans proposed to honour me. She dwelt on what she called my sway over public opinion; the sacrifices I had made, and the aversionwhich Charles X. and his family had always shown to me in spite of my services. She said to me, that if I would accept the portfolio of foreign affairs, his Royal Highness would be too happy to replace me in that situation; but that possibly I would prefer returning to Rome, and that she would greatly rejoice at that appointment, for the interests of our holy religion."'Madam,' I answered with some degree of vivacity, 'I see that his Royal Highness has taken his line; that he has weighed the consequences; that he is prepared to meet the years of misery and perils he will have to traverse. I have therefore nothing to say on that head—I come not here to fail in respect to the blood of the Bourbons; I owe besides nothing but gratitude and respect toMadame. Leaving apart, then, those great objections, founded on reason and principle, I pray her Royal Highness to allow me to explain what personally concerns myself."'She has had the condescension to speak of what she calls my power over general opinion. Well, if that power is well founded, on what is it founded? Is it on anything else but the public esteem: and should I not lose it the moment I changed my colours? The Duke of Orleans supposes he would in me acquire a support: instead of that he would gain only a miserable maker of phrases, whose voice would no longer be listened to—a renegade, on whom every one would have a right to throw dust and to spit in his face. To the hesitating words which he could pronounce in favour of Louis Philippe, they would oppose the entire volumes he had written in favour of the fallen family. Is it not I, Madam, who have written the pamphlet ofBuonaparte and the Bourbons; the articles on the arrival of Louis XVIII. at Compiègne; the relation of the Royal Council at Ghent, and theHistory of the Life and Death of the Duke de Berri? I know not that I have written a single page where the name of our ancient kings is not either mentioned or alluded to, and where they are not environed by the protestations of my love and fidelity—a thing which marks strength of principle the more strongly, asMadameknows that, as an individual, I put no faith in princes. At the thought even of desertion, the colour mounts to my cheeks. The day after my treachery, I should go to throw myself into the Seine. I imploreMadameto forgive the vehemence of my language: I am penetrated with her goodness: I shall ever preserve a profound and grateful remembrance of it; but she would not wish me to be dishonoured. Pity me, madam, pity me.'""I was still standing; and bowing, I retired. Mademoiselle de Orleans, (the Princess Adelaide,) had not yet said anything. She rose up, and retiring said, 'I do not pity you, M. de Chateaubriand; I do not pity you.' I was forcibly struck with the mournful accent with which she pronounced these words."—Vol. ix. 361, 362.

"'Madam,' I answered with some degree of vivacity, 'I see that his Royal Highness has taken his line; that he has weighed the consequences; that he is prepared to meet the years of misery and perils he will have to traverse. I have therefore nothing to say on that head—I come not here to fail in respect to the blood of the Bourbons; I owe besides nothing but gratitude and respect toMadame. Leaving apart, then, those great objections, founded on reason and principle, I pray her Royal Highness to allow me to explain what personally concerns myself.

"'She has had the condescension to speak of what she calls my power over general opinion. Well, if that power is well founded, on what is it founded? Is it on anything else but the public esteem: and should I not lose it the moment I changed my colours? The Duke of Orleans supposes he would in me acquire a support: instead of that he would gain only a miserable maker of phrases, whose voice would no longer be listened to—a renegade, on whom every one would have a right to throw dust and to spit in his face. To the hesitating words which he could pronounce in favour of Louis Philippe, they would oppose the entire volumes he had written in favour of the fallen family. Is it not I, Madam, who have written the pamphlet ofBuonaparte and the Bourbons; the articles on the arrival of Louis XVIII. at Compiègne; the relation of the Royal Council at Ghent, and theHistory of the Life and Death of the Duke de Berri? I know not that I have written a single page where the name of our ancient kings is not either mentioned or alluded to, and where they are not environed by the protestations of my love and fidelity—a thing which marks strength of principle the more strongly, asMadameknows that, as an individual, I put no faith in princes. At the thought even of desertion, the colour mounts to my cheeks. The day after my treachery, I should go to throw myself into the Seine. I imploreMadameto forgive the vehemence of my language: I am penetrated with her goodness: I shall ever preserve a profound and grateful remembrance of it; but she would not wish me to be dishonoured. Pity me, madam, pity me.'"

"I was still standing; and bowing, I retired. Mademoiselle de Orleans, (the Princess Adelaide,) had not yet said anything. She rose up, and retiring said, 'I do not pity you, M. de Chateaubriand; I do not pity you.' I was forcibly struck with the mournful accent with which she pronounced these words."—Vol. ix. 361, 362.

"Pity not me," said the dying Chevalier Bayard to the traitor Constable de Bourbon; "pity those who fight against their king, their country, and their oath." The feelings of honour are the same in all ages.

We shall close this long line of honourable acts with an extract from Chateaubriand's noble speech in favour of Henry V., in the Chamber of Peers, on July 7, 1830.

"'Charles X. and his sons are dethroned or have abdicated; it signifies not which. The throne isnot vacant—after them comes an infant; will you condemn the innocent?"'What blood now cries out against him? Can you say it is that of his father? That orphan educated in the school of his country, in attachment to a constitutional throne, and in the ideas of his age, will become a king in harmony with the cravings of the future. It is to the guardian of his infancy that you would first tender the oath to be faithful to it. Arrived at mature years, he would himself renew it. The king at this moment, the real king for a time, would be the Duke of Orleans, the regent of the kingdom; a prince who has lived near the people, and who knows that the monarchy now can only be a monarchy of concession and reason. That combination, so natural, so obvious, appears a main element in reconciliation, and would save France from the convulsions which are the consequence of violent changes in a state."'To say that this infant, separated from his masters, would not have leisure to forget their precepts before becoming a man: to say that he would remain infatuated by certain dogmas of his birth, after a long popular education, after the terrible lesson which has discrowned two kings in two nights: is that reasonable?"'It is neither from a sentimental devotion, nor the affection of a nurse for the cradle of Henry IV., that I plead a cause where all would turn against me if it triumphed. I am neither influenced by the ideas of romance nor of chivalry: I do not desire the crown of martyrdom. Ido not believe in the divine right of kings: I am alive to the power of revolutions, and the evidence of facts. I do not even invoke the charter: I ascend to a higher source. I draw my principles from the philosophic ideas of the age in which my life expires: I propose the Duke of Bordeaux simply as a necessity preferable to the Duke of Orleans."'You proclaim the sovereignty of force. It is well.Look carefully after it: guard it well; for, if it escapes you, who will pity your lot?Such is human nature. The most enlightened minds are not always raised above the temptations of success. Theesprits fortswere the first to invoke the right of violence; they supported it by all the force of their talents; and at the moment when the truth of what they said is demonstrated by the abuse of that force, and its overthrow, the conquerors seize the weapon they have broken! Dangerous trophies, which may wound the hand which seized them."'A useless Cassandra, I have fatigued the throne and the country sufficiently with my disdained predictions: it remains for me only to seat myself on the remains of the wreck which I have so often predicted. I recognise in misfortune every power except that of absolving us from our oaths. I must render my life uniform: after all I have written, said, and done for the Bourbons, I should be the basest of the base if I deserted them when for the third time they bend their steps into exile."'Far from me be the thought of casting the seeds of division into France: thence it is that I have avoided in my discourse the language of the passions. If I had the firm conviction that an infant should be left in the obscure and tranquil ranks of life, to secure the repose of thirty-three millions of men, I should have regarded any opinion expressed against the declared wishes of the age as a crime. I have no such conviction. If I was entitled to dispose of the crown, I should willingly lay it at the feet of the Duke of Orleans. But I have no such right. I see no place vacant but a tomb at St Denis, and not a throne."'Whatever destinies may attend the lieutenant-general of the kingdom, I shall never be his enemy, if he acts for the good of his country. I only ask to be allowed to preserve the freedom of my conscience, and to go and leave my bones where I shall find independence and repose. I vote against the motion.'"—Vol. ix. 386-388.

"'Charles X. and his sons are dethroned or have abdicated; it signifies not which. The throne isnot vacant—after them comes an infant; will you condemn the innocent?

"'What blood now cries out against him? Can you say it is that of his father? That orphan educated in the school of his country, in attachment to a constitutional throne, and in the ideas of his age, will become a king in harmony with the cravings of the future. It is to the guardian of his infancy that you would first tender the oath to be faithful to it. Arrived at mature years, he would himself renew it. The king at this moment, the real king for a time, would be the Duke of Orleans, the regent of the kingdom; a prince who has lived near the people, and who knows that the monarchy now can only be a monarchy of concession and reason. That combination, so natural, so obvious, appears a main element in reconciliation, and would save France from the convulsions which are the consequence of violent changes in a state.

"'To say that this infant, separated from his masters, would not have leisure to forget their precepts before becoming a man: to say that he would remain infatuated by certain dogmas of his birth, after a long popular education, after the terrible lesson which has discrowned two kings in two nights: is that reasonable?

"'It is neither from a sentimental devotion, nor the affection of a nurse for the cradle of Henry IV., that I plead a cause where all would turn against me if it triumphed. I am neither influenced by the ideas of romance nor of chivalry: I do not desire the crown of martyrdom. Ido not believe in the divine right of kings: I am alive to the power of revolutions, and the evidence of facts. I do not even invoke the charter: I ascend to a higher source. I draw my principles from the philosophic ideas of the age in which my life expires: I propose the Duke of Bordeaux simply as a necessity preferable to the Duke of Orleans.

"'You proclaim the sovereignty of force. It is well.Look carefully after it: guard it well; for, if it escapes you, who will pity your lot?Such is human nature. The most enlightened minds are not always raised above the temptations of success. Theesprits fortswere the first to invoke the right of violence; they supported it by all the force of their talents; and at the moment when the truth of what they said is demonstrated by the abuse of that force, and its overthrow, the conquerors seize the weapon they have broken! Dangerous trophies, which may wound the hand which seized them.

"'A useless Cassandra, I have fatigued the throne and the country sufficiently with my disdained predictions: it remains for me only to seat myself on the remains of the wreck which I have so often predicted. I recognise in misfortune every power except that of absolving us from our oaths. I must render my life uniform: after all I have written, said, and done for the Bourbons, I should be the basest of the base if I deserted them when for the third time they bend their steps into exile.

"'Far from me be the thought of casting the seeds of division into France: thence it is that I have avoided in my discourse the language of the passions. If I had the firm conviction that an infant should be left in the obscure and tranquil ranks of life, to secure the repose of thirty-three millions of men, I should have regarded any opinion expressed against the declared wishes of the age as a crime. I have no such conviction. If I was entitled to dispose of the crown, I should willingly lay it at the feet of the Duke of Orleans. But I have no such right. I see no place vacant but a tomb at St Denis, and not a throne.

"'Whatever destinies may attend the lieutenant-general of the kingdom, I shall never be his enemy, if he acts for the good of his country. I only ask to be allowed to preserve the freedom of my conscience, and to go and leave my bones where I shall find independence and repose. I vote against the motion.'"—Vol. ix. 386-388.

Chateaubriand was as good as his word. He resigned all his appointments, even his pension of £600 a-year as Peer of France: he sold off all his effects, which scarcely paid his debts: he refused the offer of Charles X. to restore that pension out of the wreck of that Prince's own fortune: he set out again penniless on the pilgrimage of life: and till his death, in 1848, supported himself entirely by his literary talents.

Such was honour in the olden time. We do not say that it would not find imitators, on a similar crisis, on this side of the Channel: we believe it would find many. But this we do say, that it would find them only among those who are imbued with the ancient ideas, among whom, whether patrician or plebeian, the spirit of chivalry is not extinct. It will not be found among the worshippers of mammon, or the slaves of interest. Woe to the nation by whom such feelings are classed with the age of the mammoth and the mastodon! It has entered the gulf of destruction, for it deserves to be destroyed.

"Well, ma'am," continued our narrator, addressing himself, as usual, to his matronly relative in the chair, and with the accustomed catch-word, which was like the knotting together of his interrupted yarn: "well—it was between a fortnight and three weeks after losing sight of St Helena, that, being at last fairly in the latitude of the Cape, the frigate and schooner tacked in company, and stood close-hauled on a wind to the eastward. By the middle watch that night, when the moon set, we could make out the long flat top of Table Mountain heaving in sight off the horizon over against her. Next day, in fact, we were both of us quietly at anchor outside of the shipping in Table Bay; Cape Town glittering along on the green flat amongst the trees to southward, with the hills on each side of it like some big African lion lying on guard close by; while Table Mountain hove up, square-shouldered, blue to the left, four thousand feet high, as bare and steep as a wall, with the rocks and trees creeping up from the foot, and the wreaths of light cloud resting halfway, like nothing else but the very breakwater of the world's end. The sea stretched broad off to north and west, and a whole fleet of craft lay betwixt us and the land—half of them Indiamen—amongst which, you may be sure, I kept a pretty sharp look-out with the glass, to see if the Seringapatam were there still.

I was soon saved further pains on this head, however, when shortly afterwards the frigate was beset by a whole squadron of bumboats, shoving against each other, and squabbling, in all sorts of Nigger tongues, who should be first: the chief of them being in evident command of a fat old Dutch Frouw, with an immense blue umbrella over her, two greasy-looking Hottentot rowers in blankets, and a round-faced Dutch boy, the picture of herself, steering the boat; as the old lady made a clear berth for herself, by laying about with her blue umbrella, till she was close under our quarter, sitting all the while with the broad round stern of her bright-coloured gown spread over a couple of beer-barrels, like a peacock's train. In two minutes more the little fellow was up the side, flourishing a bundle of papers under the first lieutenant's very nose, and asking the ship's custom, even whilst the sentries were ordering them all off. A midshipman took this youth by the cuff of the neck, and was handing him rather roughly along to the care of the purser's steward, when I stepped betwixt them; and a bumboat being the best directory on the point, of course, I soon found the old lady had had dealings with the Seringapatam, which her bluff-built little progeny described as a very good ship indeed, all having paid their bills, except one young officer, who had left a balance standing, for which he had given a letter to his brother in a ship that was to come after. As for the Indiaman herself, the Dutch boy said she had sailed about a week before our arrival, along with two others; and he was anxious to know if we were the vessel in question. I accordingly unfolded the open letter, which was addressed,—"Thomas Spoonbill Simm, Esquire, of His Britannic Majesty's ship Nincompoop, (or otherwise;") and it ran somehow thus:—"Hon. East India Company's ship Seringapatam, Table Bay, September 1, 1816.—My dear Brother, This is to certify, that I have eaten four dozen and a half of eggs, supplied by the worthy Vrouw Dulcken, the bearer of this, whom I can recommend as an old screw, and am due her for the same the sum of nine shillings and sixpence sterling, which you will kindly pay her, taking her receipt or mark, unless you are willing to forfeit our family watch, herewith deposited by me in the hands of said Mother Dulcken. I may add that, in justice to the worthy Vrouw, three of the above-mentioned eggs ought to be charged asfowls, which, by the way,I did not consume; and, with love to all at home, remain your affectionate brother,John Simm, H. E. I. C. S.—P. S.The watch I have discovered to be pinchbeck, and it does not go; so that a sad trick must have been originally played upon our venerated Uncle, from whom it descended. J. S." This precious epistle was, without doubt, a joke of the fat mid. Simm, who used to come such rigs over Ford the cadet, and that jumped overboard one night by mistake out of the Indiaman's quarter-boat, during the voyage. As for the existence of his brother Thomas, or the chance of his touching at that port, I set them down with the coming home of Vanderdecken; though the thought of this young scamp of a sea-lawyer breakfasting for a fortnight so comfortably, only a few feet distant from my charmer's state-room, sent me all abroad again, and right into the Indiaman's decks, by this time far out of sight of land. Piece of impudent roguery though it was, I was actually loath to part with the scrawl, which the reefer had fisted, no doubt, on the lid of his chest—probably with a pipe in his mouth at the time, it smelt so of tobacco—only seven days before. I could even see the grin on his fat face as he wrote it below in the steerage, with his chin up, and his eyes looking down past his pipe; while the little Dutch boy's round flat frontispiece glistened as he peered up at me, in the evident notion of my being the brother expected. In fact, ma'am, I was so soft as to intend paying the nine-and-sixpence myself, and keeping the letter, when I was startled to see the old lady herself had contrived to be hoisted on board amongst her cabbages; and having got wind of the thing, seemingly, she came waddling towards me to hand over Simm's watch to boot. In another half minute the letter was being read aloud in the midst of the whole gun-room officers, amongst roars of laughter; the honest old Dutchwoman holding aloft the precious article, and floundering through to find out the rightful owner, as every one claimed it and offered the nine-and-sixpence; while for my part I tried first to get down one hatchway, then another, and Lord Frederick himself came up on the starboard side of the quarterdeck in the height of the scene. Indeed, I believe it was a joke for months after in the Hebe, of a night, to say it was "the second lieutenant's watch;" the sole revenge I had being to leave Mother Dulcken and her boy to expect the "ship that was coming after."

A Government boat came aboard in the afternoon, and as soon as it left us, Lord Frederick took his gig, and steered for a frigate lying some distance off, which had the harbour flag hoisted at her main, being the only man-o'-war besides ourselves, and commanded by a senior captain. Till it got dark I could see the crews of the nearest merchantmen looking over their bulwarks at us and our prize, apparently comparing the schooner with the frigate, and speculating on her character, as she lay a few fathoms off the Hebe's quarter, both of us rising and falling in turn on the long heave of the Cape swell from seaward. 'Twas hard to say, in fact, so far as their hulls went, which was the most beautiful sample of its kind; though the schooner's French-fashioned sticks and off-hand sort of rigging, showed rather like jury-gear beside the tall regular sticks aloft of the Hebe's decks, with all her hamper perfect to a tee. The Hebe's men very naturally considered their own ship a model for everything that floated, a sort of a Solomon's temple, in short; and to hear the merciless way they ran down the Indiamen all round, would have raised the whole homeward-bound fleet against us; whereas the schooner was our own, at any rate, and she was spoken of much in the manner one mentions an unfortunate orphan, as good as already christened by the name of "the Young Hebe." This our learned chaplain said was quite improper, and he gave another name in place of it—the "Aniceta"—which meant, as he observed, the Hebe's youngest daughter; so the Aniceta she was called, happening to be a title that went, according to the boatswain, full as sweetly through the sheave-hole.

Next day the schooner had landed not only her passengers from St Helena, but the prisoners also, as we still understood the French and theirKroomen to be. Not long after that Lord Frederick came back from Cape Town, looking grave, and went straight down to his cabin, or "cabins," as his lordship preferred to have it said. The first lieutenant dined that day with the captain; but they could scarcely have finished when the "young gentlemen" who had been as usual from the reefer's mess, came up with a message from the captain, that his lordship would be glad if I would join the first lieutenant and himself in a glass of wine. I found them sitting at the side of the table nearest the open port, with the decanters between them, and the broad bright bay in full sight to the shore and the foot of Table Mountain, which rose up blocking the port with the top of it beyond view; the sounds of the merchantmen clicking at their heavy windlasses, and hoisting in water-casks, floated slowly in from every side, while the schooner had hauled on her cable more abreast of the frigate, leaving the sight clear over the eddy round her low counter.

"A lovely piece of workmanship, certainly!" observed Lord Frederick thoughtfully, as he leant back swinging his eyeglass round his finger, with the other hand in the breast of his waistcoat, and looking out at what was seen of the schooner. "And how one might have improved her spars, too!" said Mr Hall, wistfully. "I should have recommended longer lower-masts altogether, Lord Frederick, and a thorough overhaul, I may say, from the combings upwards!" "I would not have her hull touched for the world, Mr Hall!" said the captain; "'tis too—excessively provoking, at least! But pass the bottles to Mr Collins, if you please." I had taken a chair and quietly filled my glass, wondering what could be the matter, when his lordship turned to me and said, "Do you know, Mr Collins, this schooner of ours is likely to be laid up in Chancery, heaven knows how long. The Admiralty court ashore are doubtful of condemning her, apparently, and she must either be sent home or to Monte Video or somewhere, where the master of her claims to belong!" "Indeed, my lord," said I, setting down my glass, "that is curious." "Curious indeed, sir!" replied he, biting his lips, "though, after all, we really can scarce say what she is to be condemned for—only in the meantime I sail to-morrow for India." "She's French to the backbone, that I'll swear, Lord Frederick!" I said; "and what's more, she was"——"Ah," broke in the captain, "I know, I know; but the less we say of that, in present circumstances, the better! Once get her entangled with politics, and we may give her up altogether." Lord Frederick twisted his eyeglass round his forefinger faster than before, still watching the schooner; the first lieutenant held up his claret betwixt himself and the light, and I sipped mine. "I tell you what, gentlemen," exclaimed his lordship suddenly, "Imusthave that schooner at any cost!—What is to be done, Mr Hall?" "She'd be of great service in the China seas, my lord, certainly," said the first lieutenant, looking thoughtfully into his empty glass; "a perfect treasure for light service, especially if new sparred and—" I noticed Lord Frederick glancing sideways at me, as I thought, with a slight gleam in his eye; and accordingly I suggested that he might buy her from the Frenchman himself; a very poor idea, no doubt, as both the captain and first luff seemed to think, and we all three kept eyeing her doubtfully through the port, without a word.

At this time the schooner's counter had been slowly sheering toward the frigate's beam, owing to the ebb-tide, and her holding only by a single cable, till her stern began to show right opposite the cabin, I should say not twenty feet off. Lord Frederick put his glass to his eye, and was peering through it, when he remarked that they had brought up rather too near, leaving scarce room for the schooner to swing as she did, earlier than we, so that she would be in danger of getting foul of the frigate's cables. "The worst of it is, Lord Frederick," said I, "that in case of a gale from seaward here, she might have to slip and run upon very short warning, whereas the Hebe has plenty of ground-tackle to let her ride it out. Considering it was Table Bay, at this season, he ought to have kept her a clearer berth for herself, or else have gonewell outside!"—"Ah!" said Lord Frederick quickly, meeting my eye for half a minute, till the gleam came into his again; and somehow or other mine must have caught it, though I must say the notion that struck me then all at once wasn't in my head before. "Do you know, that's well thought of, Collins!" said his lordship. "You've weathered the Cape before, by the bye?"—"A dozen times, Lord Frederick," said I; when a regularly jovial roar of laughter broke fair through the port into the cabin, from over the schooner's taffrail, as she sheered end-on to the frigate's quarter, and Lord Frederick leant forward with the glass screwed into his right eye to see along their decks, which were covered aft with an awning like the open gable of a tent at a fair. "Singular!" said he; "by the lord Harry, who or what can that be Mr Hammond has got there?" Dangling over the French schooner's taffrail were to be seen the soles of two immense boots, with calves and knees to match, and a pair of tightish striped trousers worked up more than half way, 'till you saw the tops of the stockings; just beyond the knees was the face leaning back in the shade of the awning and a straw hat together, out of which a huge green cabbage-leaf hung like a flap over one eye, while the other kept gazing in a half-closed sleepy sort of way at the sky, and the red end of a cigar winked and glowed in the midst of the puffs of smoke lower down. The first lieutenant started up shocked at the sight, the noble captain of the Hebe sat with his eyeglass fixed, between amusement and wonder; for my own part, when the voice of this same prodigy broke all of a sudden on us out of the awning, in a mixture of stuttering, hiccuping, Yankee drawling, and puffs at the cigar, 'twas all I could do to hold on, with the knowledge of where I was. "Wall now, general," said the American, as if he were talking to some one aloft or in the sky, "ye-you're qui-quite wrong—I ki-kick-calc'late I've fit a deal more be-be-battles than you have—I re-respect you, Ge-Ge-General Washington; but I ho-ho-hope you know who—hic—whom I am!" Here Mr Daniel Snout, who was in a state of beastly intoxication, swayed himself up bodily into the schooner's taffrail, and sat with his arms folded, his long legs swinging over the stern, and his head trying to keep steady, as he scowled solemnly aloft over the frigate's mizen-royal-masthead; while the third lieutenant, Mr Hammond, and the master's mate he had aboard with him, could be heard laughing at his back, as if they had gone mad—Hammond being a wild sprig of an Irishman, who would go any length for a piece of fun.

Just then the American's one eye lighted on the side of the frigate, till it settled lazily on the port of the captain's cabin: first he seemed to notice Lord Frederick Bury, and then myself, the first lieutenant having just recovered himself enough to rush toward the door to get on deck. Daniel himself surveyed me scornfully for a moment, then with a sort of doubtful frown, and a gravity that passes me to describe, unless by the look of an old cock a-drinking—evidently trying to recollect me. "Hallo, mister!" shouted he suddenly, "you haven't touched thosenotionsof mine, I hope." With that he made a spring off where he sat, as if to come towards us—no doubt thinking of the Seringapatam, and the valuables he had left aboard, without seeing the water between; and a pretty deep dive Mr Snout would have made of it, into an ebb-tide that would have swept him under the frigate's bottom, if Mr Hammond and the midshipman hadn't both sprung forward in time to catch him by the neck of the coat. There, accordingly, was the Yankee hanging like a spread eagle over the schooner's taffrail, yelling and turning round at the same time like a fowl on a spit—the third lieutenant's and the mate's faces, two pictures of dismay, as they held on, at finding for the first time where the schooner had shied them round to, with their two pairs of eyes fair in front of the captain's eyeglass,—while Mr Hall was singing out like thunder from the deck above us, "The schooner ahoy—d'ye see where you've got to, sir; haul ahead on that cable, d'ye hear, you lubbers, and keep clear of the ship!"

"Mr Collins," said his lordship quietly to me, as soon as he could keep his countenance, and looking thesterner for the trouble he was put to in doing it, "you will get your things and go aboard the schooner directly—take her in charge, sir, and send Mr Hammond back here."—"Very well, my lord," said I, waiting in the doorway for something more, which, from something in Lord Frederick's look, I had reason to expect, knowing it of old. "I can only spare you a dozen of the men she has," added he; "but if you choose you can send ashore at once to pick up a few makeshifts, or anything you find!"—"Ay, ay, my lord," said I; "the best hand for that would be Mr Snelling, if I may take him, Lord Frederick?" "Oh, certainly," was the answer; "and harkye, Collins, you had better shift your berth a few cable-lengths farther off, or more, if you please."—"One thing, my lord," said I, stooping down to see through the port, "I don't much like the heavy ground-swell that begins to meet the ebb, Lord Frederick; and I fancy it won't be long ere Table Mountain spread its supper-cloth—in which case I'd consider it necessary to slip cable and run out at once, though I mightn't get in again so easily. Am I to find the frigate here again, Lord Frederick?"—"Deuce take it, man—no!" said his lordship. He turned his back to hide the evident twinkle of his eye. "Should we part company, of course you make for the Bay of Bengal! You can't be sure of the Hebe, short of the Sandheads—and if not there, then opposite Fort William, at Calcutta."—"Very good, my lord," said I, and had made my bow to go on deck, when Lord Frederick called me back. "By the bye," said he hastily, "about that Indiaman of yours, Collins—she is here, no doubt?" "No, Lord Frederick," answered I, "I believe she sailed a week ago." "Dear me, the deuce!" exclaimed he, "why I meant to have sent to-morrow to have your friend Westwood arrested and brought aboard!" I started at this, on which his lordship explained that if Westwood got to Bombay, whither the Seringapatam was bound, the authorities there would have news of the thing by this time, and could send him overland at once to England, which would be far worse for him than being carried to Calcutta, where his uncle the Councillor's interest might do something for him. "The best thing you can do, Collins," added Lord Frederick, "if youareobliged to run out to sea, is to look after that Indiaman! With such a neat thing of a sea-boat under you, you might do anything you please; so cruise to windward or leeward in chase, find her out, and take out Westwood bodily—lose him afterwards in the Hoogley, if you like—carry away those old spars of hers, and send up new ones—only don't lose the schooner, I beg; so good bye to you, my dear fellow, lest we should not meet on this side the Line again!"—"Good bye, my lord!" said I cheerfully, and hurried on deck, understanding all he wanted as well as if I'd been ordered to set her jib that moment and heave up anchor. In ten minutes I was over the frigate's side, and in ten more Hammond was back in her, with the men who were to leave; while I sent my baggage below, set the hands to work shifting the schooner's berth, and by sun-down we were lying beyond hail of the ship, opposite the custom-house, and a long line of a main street in Cape Town, where we could see the people, the carriages, and the Dutch bullock-carts passing up and down; while Table Mountain hove away up off the steep Devil's Hill and the Lion's Rump, to the long level line a-top, as blue and bare as an iron monument, and throwing a shadow to the right over the peaks near at hand.

Our friend from the United States being by this time in quite an oblivious condition, the first thing I did was to have him put quietly into the boat with which Mr Snelling was to go ashore for fresh hands, and I instructed the reefer to get clear of him anyhow he liked, if it was only above tide-mark. When they were gone I walked the schooner's little quarterdeck in the dusk by myself, till the half moon rose with a ghostly copper-like glare over the hollow in the Lion's Rump, streaking across the high face of Table Mountain, and bringing out all its rifts and wrinkles again. The land-breeze began to blow steadily with a long sighing sweep from the north-east, meeting the heavy swell that set into the broad bay; and the schooner, being a light crank little craft, got rather uneasy; whereas youcould see the lights of the frigate heaving and settling leisurely, less than half a mile off. I had only six or seven good hands aboard altogether at the time, which, with those the midshipman had, were barely sufficient to work her in such seas; so with all I had to do, with the difficulty of getting men in the circumstances, a long voyage before us, and things that might turn up, as I hoped, to require a touch of the regular service, why the very pleasure of having a command made me a good deal anxious. Even of that I didn't feel sure; and I kept watching Table Mountain, eager for the least bit of haze to come across the top of it, as well as sorry I had sent Snelling ashore. "I'd give a hundred pounds at this moment," thought I, "to have had Bob Jacobs here!"

As the moon got higher, I could see the swell washing up between the different merchantmen in sight, into their shadows, and heavy enough some of them seemed to roll round their cables, betwixt a breeze and a swell running the contrary ways; first one let go a second anchor, and then another, to help their heads shoreward; but still there was no danger, as things went. It wasn't long before I made out two boats coming from toward the town, round the stern of one of the ships, the frigate lying betwixt her and us, so that they took her by the way, and a good deal of hailing seemed to pass between them. I could even see epaulets glisten over the Hebe's quarter, as if there was a stir made aboard; after which the boats were plainly pulling for the schooner. What all this might mean, I couldn't very well conceive, unless it were either Snelling come back already, or else some hands Lord Frederick himself had provided before this, as I saw both boats were full of people. "Forward there!" I sung out, "hail those boats!"—"Ay, ay, the schooner ahoy!" was the answer, in a sharp voice from the headmost of them, "from the shore—all right! Stand by to heave us a line, will ye?" Next came a hail from Snelling, in our own gig; so I at once gave orders to heave them a rope and have both boats brought under the gangway, naturally supposing the sharp little fellow had come some marvellous good speed in shipping hands. As soon as he jumped on deck, I accordingly inquired how many men he had brought, when to my great surprise he informed me there was only one, "a scuffy sort of a swab," as he expressed it, "who would do for cook!"—"The devil he will, you young rascal," I broke out. "Hush, sir, for heaven's sake," said he, making some extraordinary sign which I didn't understand; "it'll all be right in the end, Mr Collins. Now then, sir," to some one in the boat alongside, as he carefully handed him the accommodation-ropes, "here you are—hold on, sir—so-o!" This was a rather youngish fellow in a huge pilot coat and a glazed cap, with some kind of uniform inside, and a large breastpin in his shirt, who handed me a paper the moment he stood firm on deck, without speaking a word; though, by the light of the deck-lantern, I didn't much like the look of his foxy sort of face, with the whiskers on it coming forward from both cheeks to his mouth, nor the glance he gave round the schooner with his pair of quick sharp little eyes. "Much more like a custom-house officer than a cook!" thought I, "unless we mean to have a French one;" but what was my astonishment, on opening the paper, to find him called "Gilbert Webb, harbour-master's assistant, hereby authorised by the Admiralty Court, sitting in Cape Town, to take charge of the doubtful vessel described in her papers as the 'Ludovico,' belonging to Monte Video—from the officer commanding the prize crew of his Britannic Majesty's ship Hebe." My first thought was to have Mr Gilbert Webb pitched over into his boat again, when Lord Frederick's own signature met my eye at the bottom of the paper, addressed below to "Lieutenant Collins, of his Majesty's schooner Aniceta,at sea." A wonderfully mysterious squint from Snelling, behind the officer, was sufficient to clinch the matter in my own mind, showing that the reefer was as sharp as a needle: and I handed back the document to the harbour gentleman, with a "Very well, sir, that will do.""I suppose I'd better have my men up, Lieutenant Collins?" said he, with a quick pert kind of accent, which made me set him down at once for a Londoner, while at the same time he seemed impatient, as I thought, to get the management. "Why, sir," said I, "I suppose you had."

Hereupon up mounted four or five decent enough lookingstevedores[7]—one or two of whom had rather the air of sailors, the rest being broad-beamed, short-legged Dutchmen, with trousers like pillow-slips—followed by a whole string of fourteen or fifteen Indian Lascars, their bundles in their hands, and an ugly oldserdugat their head; while the lame, broken-down, debauched-like fellow of a man-o'-warsman, that Snelling had found sitting on a timberhead ashore, got aboard with our own boat's crew. Our gangway was chokeful, to my fresh dismay, for to get rid of such a tagrag-and-bobtail, in case of running to sea, was impossible; even if they weren't odds against us, here was it likely to get a thick night, the swell growing under the schooner till she began to yerk at her anchor, head to wind, like a young filly at a manger; so that dropping them back into their boat when needful, as I intended at first, was out of the question for the present. I found from the harbour officer that the number of hands would all be required with the morning tide, when his orders were to have the schooner towed in opposite the Battery Dock, especially as there was much chance of the wind blowing strong from seaward next day. The swell on the water, he said, was such that, after putting off, he thought of going back again till the tide began to turn; if he had not been encouraged to stick to it and keep on by the midshipman, whom he fell in with near the quay. This piece of news was the finish to the rage I felt brewing in me, vexed as I naturally was to give up the notion of a free cruise, in command of a craft like the schooner; and, as soon as Mr Webb was comfortable in the cabin, over a tumbler of stiff grog and some cold beef, I sent for Snelling to my own cupboard of a state-room.

"You cursed unlucky little imp you!" I burst out, the moment he made his appearance, "What's the meaning of this, sirrah? eh?"—"What is it, if you please, sir?" said Snelling, pretending to hold down his shock-head like a frightened schoolboy, and looking up all the time both at me and the lamp at once, while he swayed with the uneasy heave of the deck in such a way as made me grip him by the arm in a perfect fury, fancying he had got drunk ashore. "You young blackguard you!" said I, shaking him, "didn't I tell you to get hands—didn't you know I meant to—to—" "Oh yes, Mr Collins," gasped the reefer, "I did indeed—you meant to cut and run—I saw it by your eye, sir, and—don't shake me any more, sir, or you'll spoil my hair—and I don't deserve it—it's—all right!" And on my letting him go, the ugly little scamp sunk down on a chair with his eyes starting from his head, and a leer like a perfect demon incarnate; but so perfectly laughable it was, not to mention the air of complete confidence between us that he threw into it, that I sat down myself, ready to grin at my bad luck. "Well, Mister Snelling," said I, quietly, "youarea touch beyond me! Let's have the joke, at least—out with it, man, else another shake may be—" The reefer pointed with his thumb over his shoulder to the cabin, shoved his chin forward, and whispered, "Why, sir, I'm only doubtful whether you could make him third officer—but at any rate, he'll always be useful at a rope, Mr Collins—won't he, sir?" I gave Snelling one look, meant to be as grave as an Old Bailey chaplain's, but it wouldn't do—my conscience wouldn't stand it—in fact the very self-same notion seemed to me to have been creeping into my mind. "You—young—rascal!" was all I could manage to say, before making bolt to go on deck. "By the by, Mister Snelling," said I, turning and looking down from the hatchway, "you must want a glass of grog—tell the boy to let you have some—andgo and keep the officer company, sir."

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