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There are good-natured people-let us be liberal and admit the factbut they are seldom of the ultrademonstrative class who gain the name. Occasionally they are surly, ill-conditioned brutes, as far as appearances go. Such people are not to be applauded. It is not pleasant to receive a caress which has too great a resemblance to a kick; and there is a well-known point at which dissemblers of their love should draw the line. But even these persons must have a preference over dissemblers on the other side, and get the reputation of being good-natured under false pretences. Some men, by the way, dislike to be thought better than they are, or at least profess to be so when they find they are becoming bored with praise. Douglas Jerrold used to wax very impatient of the people who were always flattering him for his philanthropy, and declared that he would kill a child to get rid of the reputation.

Experience of which a few results have been here sketchedpoints to the conclusion that there are Dogs with Names who deserve them, and Dogs with Names who do not deserve them, besides a third class who partly do and partly do not, and so take up a middle position. Some men doubt the possibility of a reputation being obtained for personal characteristics-mental or moral-for which there is no foundation. They say there can be no smoke without fire. This is quite true as far as the physical fact is concerned, but is the physical fact necessarily applicable to the moral question? I suspect that there have been many Dogs with Names, good or bad, whose names have been given to them without the smallest foundation in desert. Appearances point to falsehood as often as to truth, and popular delusion is capable of anything.

SIDNEY L. BLANCHARD.

THE PICCADILLY PAPERS.

BY A PERIPATETIC.

NAPOLEON AND PARIS.

ND has it come to this?' I

'AN

sorrowfully, wonderingly ask myself, often in the day, often in the night watches. 'Paris, which I know and love so well, the fair Athens of the West; shall the golden city cease, the daughters of music be brought low, that girdle of battlements, those crested fortresses, be unavailing to resist the Teutonic horde of invasion? Already, while I write these lines, the beauty of Paris has vanished, its Emperor a discrowned prisoner, the Empress and her child fled, and the billows of adversity are rolling in fast and dark whose blackness no keen vision can fathom. I know Paris well; I can hardly count up how many times I have visited the city, explored all its alleys and streets, sat in its boulevards, wandered in its woods and gardens, found home, friends, associates within its bor

ders. That glorious avenue of the exile Empress, stretching from the proudest of proud arches of triumph to the beautiful gates of the Bois, where I have a hundred times lingered watching the incessant roll of chariots to and from the glorious city; those gardens of delight with their islands and waters which seemed to evolve the very scenes of fairyland—already their beauty is gone, the gardens trampled down, the waters disturbed, and fairyland has become a huge victualling ground for the city in its state of siege. And that enthroned Cæsarism, in which the imperial Gallic spirit seemed to find its highest embodiment and expression -which seemed to permeate all provincial France, which so dazzled the minds of men that the glorious vision of Liberty seemed but a mere dream-is discarded by the city

which can forgive everything but failure, and in her fickleness and pride passes from change to change with passionate vehemence.

I say at once that I feel deeply sorry for the Emperor, albeit my hatred of Napoleonism is deliberate and deep. I know that for many years Napoleon has been our ally; but I have always felt that the alliance only lasted while it might be subservient to his own ends. I recal this moment a conversation which I once had with a highlycultured and far-sighted Prussian one long summer evening on the bank of the Moselle. There was war in the Emperor's heart, he said, but he could not divine whether it was against England or against Prussia that war would be first declared. In any case our turn would assuredly come. He believed in his star, it was said, and his destiny would lead him to make war against England, even though the same destiny should finish him off with a cannonball in the streets of London or make him die in a London lodging-house. There is something infinitely presumptuous, something like the old Greek theory of fate in a man setting up his star or destiny as that which even controls the operations of Providence. At the same time we are not to believe all that we hear about the Napoleonic belief in destiny. I remember being told by an old peer of France, one of those who had tried him for his attempt on Boulogne, that there was no truth in the statement that he himself had asserted that it was his destiny to avenge Waterloo. It was characteristic of Napoleon that he never showed the least kindness to my old friend and others who had taken the mildest view of his case, but that he had given great honours to the two men who had voted for his execution. Let me, however, say that I have known many people who knew the Emperor more or less during his stay in England, and not from one have I ever heard any story of meanness, or cruelty, or ingratitude. On the contrary, there is hardly one but has his trait of amiability and kindly remembrance to relate. Towards English people

he seemed ever to show a peculiar graciousness, as many known and unknown anecdotes would abundantly prove. Many people liked the man, many were fascinated by him, but hardly any who carefully studied the man and his system could fail to join in its condemnation. We need not believe all the furious pages of Mr. Kinglake, but his famous assertion is true that the Emperor carried strategy into politics. This public immorality is believed to have been accompanied by a throng of private vices. Personal rule reached its acmé and its retribution when, with the insolence of the professional duellist, he caused torrents of blood to be shed in an unrighteous war. The same personal rule crushed the spirit of liberty and would not tolerate the expansion of those constitutional liberties which might have saved the empire and the dynasty. The same personal rule introduced the degradation of the Lower Empire, fostered favouritism and corruption, and destroyed the integrity of the army and the state. It was impossible to argue with the master of three hundred legions. The army stood between the empire and all the thought, culture, and better aspirations of France. Now, in the unsearchable judgment of heaven, that army is annihilated; and History working, as she is wont, in her cycles and parallels, brings round again the era of an invasion and a Committee of Safety.

What a stormy, chequered career has that been, lustrous with exceeding light, dark with exceeding darkness! There is no prince of ancient or modern times that might more truly be called the tennis-ball of fortune. Even the first Napoleon had not that infinite variety of change and adventure that belongs to the nephew. His history almost seems to resemble a series of dissolving views. We see him in tranquil days with his mother on the shores of the Lake of Constance. Then he is early immersed in Italian adventure, intrigue, and war. Then comes the mad attempt on Strasburg, in obedience to that inward whisper which, he declared, dragged

him on. The scene changes, and he s tossing about under the Equator, relegated as an exile to America. Then once more comes the episode of Boulogne and the tame eaglethat satiric tame eagle which seems to typify the touch of bathos that has always clung to his career-and the long captivity at Ham, those silent, anxious years in which he matured his thoughts of war and policy, rounded the cycle of the Napoleonic ideas, and arrived at that dark, inscrutable character which ever seemed to retain a tinge of the fortress gloom. Then we see him in every variety of English life, on the one side literary, thoughtful, scientific, writing to Faraday, chatting with Landor, haunting the London Library; then again hunting with English squires, visiting in English houses, and once more associated with all the dissipations and frivolities of London life. We see him as deputy, as president, as emperor, but the glory of those days is tarnished with the black memory of the coup d'état. The Man of December' will prove to him a title more lasting than any other-remain when all other titles are gone. For a time he seemed the arbiter of Europe; the kingdoms of this world and the glory thereof seemed his. There are pleasant beneficent gleams in that career; glorious wars, triumphs no less glorious of peace; a navy constructed, commerce extended, new towns created and old ones enlarged; nor was severe literary study wanting, as evidenced by the Life of Cæsar.' So long as he kept to his programme that the Empire was Peace it was well with him; so long as war was dignified by something of an Idea, it was not ill with him; but when war recalled the most unrighteous of his uncle's deeds-wanton, purposeless, murderous war-his good genius, his better angels forsook him. Was there no warning dream, no fancied sound of shriek or wailing, no vision or phantom on the night of that morning at the Tuileries when he resolved that Prussia must give further guarantees of the renunciation of the Hohenzollern? If the dead could revisit the scenes

of earth, would not some of the torture which the first Emperor inflicted return to him, when he saw his line, which had had such a marvellous resurrection, again hewed down to the roots? Then we see him brushing away his tears with his glove when he meets the Crown Prince as a captive, and hurries away from Sedan to his castle prison, none so poor as to do him

reverence.

And Paris disowns and deposes him; petted, spoilt, beautiful, imperial Paris, whose river he had quayed with marble, which he had adorned with gardens and fountains, with new palaces, new boulevards, covered, even as Pericles did Athens, with a mantle of imperial splendour. But what shall be our thoughts of Lutetia and her children, Lutetia Obsessa now? Is the deposed Emperor alone, and is Paris no partner of his guilt and shame? Were they not accomplices, each to each? Was he not a ruler fit for such a nation, and was not the nation fit for such a rule? Did he not bend to her pride and love of glory, and did she not almost make his subservience a condition, if she would gratify his dynastic dreams? Has he not received in part his retribution, and is not that retribution come horribly anear her now, the bitter cup tasted by Napoleon and passed on to Paris, even if the new hopes of peace come to fruition? Alas for the beautiful city! Alas for the genius and the art, the glory, valour, wit, eloquence, and loveliness! Her enemies are upon her-those who are burning with the recollection of present wrongs and the six years' iron despotism of the first Napoleon; those who have shown by the treatment of their own Frankfort, four years ago, and of Strasburg, almost their own now, how well they understand the fierce science of the requisition and the bombardment! The King of Prussia, unlike most conquerors, at least acknowledges and owns a God. Happy will it be for him and his own kingdom as well as France if he tempers judgment with generosity and mercy. Happy for Paris if-having sounded all the depths of glory, all the

depths of woe-she attain at last to that supreme conquest, the conquest over herself, which will give her back whatever has been best in bygone supremacy! Happy for Napoleon if, in the wild sad sunset of his life, he shall learn the last lesson of abdicated and deposed monarchy, and find that there is still room for pardon and repentance left!

DIPLOMATIC CORRESPONDENCE.

We shall venture to couple these two important works together, although they are separated from each other by the space of a generation, and Lord Malmesbury's work, while it includes much diplomatic correspondence, has also a wider scope. The Conservative ex-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs has already done good service by the publication of the political correspondence of the first earl, a publication which will naturally insure a favourable reception for the present work. The founder of his family was James Harris, the scholar and the metaphysician, whose writings are still studied at the University of Oxford. The idea obtained from his writings is that he dwelt in a region of abstractions and was not devoid of pedantry. But such an idea would be a mistaken one.

He was na

resign office and occupy himself
with literature and the pursuits of
a country life. Whereupon the old
lord addressed him a letter of
solemn objurgation.
turally amazed at the idea of that
renunciation of office and parlia-
ment which had made the fortune
of their house. Lord Fitzharris
yielded for a time, but in a year or
two he gave himself up to a retired
life at Heron Court, devoting himself
to field sports, study, and the edu-
cation of his children. He died in
1841. We have no doubt but his
son, the present earl, is as valuable
a correspondent as any whose letters
we see in this work. We have
always thought that full justice has
not been done to his administration
at the Foreign Office in the critical
time of 1852. He is now probably
enjoying a long lease of leisure from
politics, and we trust we shall find
some further results on the neutral
ground of literature. We observe
that Mr. Dallas, in his 'Letters,'
pays a high and deserved com-
pliment to the character of Lord
Malmesbury.

The volume commences with some pictures of the old cathedral town of Salisbury in days when such cities were centres of provin

cial life. He was fond of

music and art, of society and politics, and appears to have been one of the most admirable characters of his age. His son, the first earl, obtained his peerage through his great diplomatic services. He has the credit of having been the first to call attention to the great political talents of Lord Palmerston and Mr. Canning. The second lord had good abilities, and held office under Mr. Pitt and the Duke of Portland. But he did not much care for fame or political position. We find him telling his father that he meant to

*A Series of Letters on the First Earl of Malmesbury, his Family and Friends. From 1745 to 1820.' Edited by his grandson, the Right Hon. the Earl of Malmesbury. Two vols. Bentley.

'Letters from London, written from the year 1856 to 1860.' By G. M. Dallas, then Minister of the United States at the

British Court. Edited by his daughter
Julia. Two vols. Bentley.

We are taken back to the revolt of the Highlanders in 1745. There are many descriptions really brilliant of court life, but we shall endeavour, on the present occasion, to limit ourselves to the political and diplomatic departments of the work. It is curious to see in 1782 how the House of Commons was occupied for several nights on the question whether the army should consist of 12,000 or 15,000

men.

We are constantly reminded how little the nature of society shifts; the same expensive Opera, the same scandal-mongering, the same difficulties at court presentation. Mrs. Harris keeps her son extremely well informed on all fashionable events, we should almost have thought with greater freedom of speech than became a wise mother. There is a Dr. Deans who writes the elderly Mr. Harris a great many sensible letters from Paris describing the festivals at Versailles: 'I am

glad that I have assisted at these entertainments: it will be a subject of reflection for the rest of my life . . . having seen the French court in its utmost splendour.' It was destined, however, that the French court should supply him with very different subjects of reflection. It is curious to read such notices as these: 'In spite of age and infirmities Voltaire still preserves his brilliancy of wit and elegance of expression.' 'Gibbon carries me to Twickenham.' 'The Queen [Marie Antoinette] gives life to all public amusements, and is very familiar with those who are in favour.

She has a remarkably fine hand and arm, and admires that perfection in any other person. We have a Russian lady here who excels in that particular, and was accidentally placed in a box at the Opera opposite to her Majesty. The Russians decorate themselves very much with diamonds, and it was observed in the house that this lady, with her fine hands and finer bracelets, attracted the queen's attention. Presently a gentleman, very richly dressed, came into her box, with the queen's compliments,

who

praised her arm very much, and begged to have the pleasure of seeing her bracelets. The lady thought herself much honoured with the queen's notice, and readily sent them. The joke was carried on so well that the sharper got clear off with the diamonds and has not since been heard of.' Again we hear of the dismay that spread through the country in 1779 when the allied French and Spanish fleets swept the Channel, and fears of invasion were entertained. A part of the beautiful wood of Mount Edgecumbe was cut down to make fascine batteries. "The Russians declare [1768] that in less than a month they will be masters of Constantinople.'

Mrs. Harris is, however, by far the cleverest and most amusing letter-writer of the first volume, although the gossip of a reverend gentleman, Mr. William Harris, and also of the Countess of Shaftesbury, about the finery of drawing-rooms, will not be despised by those who

care about such things. She makes herself merry with a new Duchess of Norfolk, a country girl; 'She has dined at the French ambassador's, speaks no French, nor could she eat or drink anything at his table, being always accustomed to plain roast or boiled meats, beer and cider.' 'The coughs have made a second visit to all in this house. This season has been a fine harvest for the doctors, as everybody has been ill and nobody dies. hear several have died in Scotland, but the physicians there said it was only the old men, who ought to have died last year, but the winter was then so mild that they did not go off.' The leading letter-writers of the second volume are the brothers Bowles, of whom the principal writer, General Bowles, still survives. The other brother died Admiral of the Fleet. This volume has also some interesting letters from Lord Palmerston; there are also letters from Pitt and Canning. Lord Fitzharris, the son of the great diplomatist, upholds the seizure of the Danish fleet as 'that masterpiece of bold, and as circumstances developed themselves, of perfectly justifiable policy. Here is a notice of the French invasion of Prussia: Nothing can be more melancholy than all the accounts from Prussia. The wanton cruelties and vexations which are daily inflicted upon the whole country surpass belief, and I believe the king's sufferings are very far from being at an end.' The account of the French camp taken at Talavera reminds us of some tents captured the other day, rendered in every respect as comfortable as possible; the windows of most of the officers' huts were glazed, and, on the whole, it was by many degrees the best camp I ever saw. A French captain of hussars who had been left on picket and fallen asleep was surprised in that state by our advanced guard, and appeared rather astonished, on opening his eyes, to find himself with a British picket instead of his own.' We find that so far from Lord Palmerston being avaricious of office, as was commonly supposed, he declined in 1809 the office of Chancellor of the Exchequer on the

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