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said the boy contemptuously. "Sir, if he is impertinent, thrash him." (This was to me.)

"Impertinent!-thrash!" exclaimed Mr Peacock, waxing very red; but catching the sneer on his companion's lip, he sat down, and subsided into sullen silence.

Meanwhile I paid my bill. This duty, rarely a cheerful one, performed, I looked round for my knapsack, and perceived that it was in the boy's hands. He was very coolly reading the address which, in case of accidents, I had prudently placed on it Pisistratus Caxton, Esq., Hotel,

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of patience, vouchsafed no return to my parting salutation, and in another moment I was alone on the high-road. My thoughts turned long upon the young man I had left: mixed with a sort of instinctive compassionate foreboding of an ill future for one with such habits, and in such companionship, I felt an involuntary admiration, less even for his good looks than his ease, audacity, and the careless superiority he assumed over a comrade so much older than himself.

The day was far gone when I saw the spires of a town at which I intended to rest for the night. The horn of a coach behind made me turn my head, and, as the vehicle passed me, I saw on the outside Mr Peacock, still struggling with a cigar

it could scarcely be the same-and his young friend stretched on the roof amongst the luggage, leaning his handsome head on his hand, and apparently unobservant both of me and every one else.

CHAPTER XIII.

I am apt-judging egotistically, perhaps, from my own experience-to measure a young man's chances of what is termed practical success in life, by what may seem at first two very vulgar qualities; viz., his inquisitiveness and his animal vivacity. A curiosity which springs forward to examine every thing new to his information-a nervous activity, approaching to restlessness, which rarely allows bodily fatigue to interfere with some object in view-constitute, in my mind, very profitable stock in hand to begin the world with.

Tired as I was, after I had performed my ablutions, and refreshed myself in the little coffee-room of the inn at which I put up, with the pedestrian's best beverage, familiar and oft-calumniated tea, I could not resist the temptation of the broad bustling street, which, lighted with gas, shone on me through the dim windows of the coffee-room. I had never before seen a large town, and the contrast of lamp-lit, busy night in the streets, with sober, deserted night in the lanes and fields, struck me forcibly.

I sauntered out, therefore, jostling and jostled, now gazing at the win

dows, now hurried along the tide of life, till I found myself before a cook's shop, round which clustered a small knot of housewives, citizens, and hungry-looking children. While contemplating this group, and marvelling how it comes to pass that the staple business of earth's majority is how, when, and where to eat, my ear was struck with "In Troy there lies the scene,' as the illustrious Will remarks."

Looking round, I perceived Mr Peacock pointing his stick towards an open doorway next to the cook's shop, the hall beyond which was lighted with gas, while, painted in black letters on a pane of glass over the door, was the word "Billiards."

Suiting the action to the word, the speaker plunged at once into the aperture and vanished. The boy-companion was following more slowly, when his eye caught mine. A slight blush came over his dark cheek; he stopped, and leaning against the doorjambs, gazed on me hard and long before he said-"Well met again, sir! You find it hard to amuse yourself in this dull place; the nights are long out of London."

"Oh," said I, ingenuously, "every thing here amuses me; the lights, the shops, the crowd; but, then, to me every thing is new.

The youth came from his loungingplace and moved on, as if inviting me to walk; while he answered, rather with bitter sullenness, than the melancholy his words expressed

"One thing, at least, cannot be new to you; it is an old truth with us before we leave the nursery-'Whatever is worth having must be bought; ergo, he who cannot buy, has nothing worth having.'

"I don't think," said I, wisely, "that the things best worth having can be bought at all. You see that poor dropsical jeweller standing before his shop-door,-his shop is the finest in the street, and I dare say he would be very glad to give it to you or me in return for our good health and strong legs. Oh no! I think with my father All that are worth having are given to all; that is, nature and labour.""

"Your father says that; and you go by what your father says! Of course, all fathers have preached that, and many other good doctrines, since Adam preached to Cain; but I don't see that the fathers have found their sons very credulous listeners."

"So much the worse for the sons," said I bluntly.

"Nature," continued my new acquaintance, without attending to my ejaculation "nature indeed does give us much, and nature also orders each of us how to use her gifts. If nature gave you the propensity to drudge, you will drudge; if she gives me the ambition to rise, and the contempt for work, I may rise-but I certainly shall not work.'

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"Oh," said I, "you agree with Squills, I suppose, and fancy we are all guided by the bumps on our foreheads?"

"And the blood in our veins, and our mother's milk. We inherit other things besides gout and consumption. So you always do as your father tells you! Good boy!"

I was piqued. Why we should be ashamed of being taunted for goodness, I never could understand; but certainly I felt humbled. However I answered sturdily-" If you had as good a father as I have,

VOL. LXIV.-NO.CCCXCIII.

you would not think it so very extraordinary to do as he tells you."

"Ah! so he is a very good father, is he! He must have a great trust in your sobriety and steadiness to let you wander about the world as he does. "

"I am going to join him in London."

"In London! Oh, does he live there?"

"He is going to live there for some time."

"Then, perhaps, we may meet. I, too, am going to town."

"Oh, we shall be sure to meet there!" said I, with frank gladness; for my interest in the young man was not diminished by his conversation, however much I disliked the sentiments it expressed.

The lad laughed, and his laugh was peculiar. It was low, musical, but hollow and artificial.

"Sure to meet! London is a large place where shall you be found?" I gave him, without scruple, the address of the hotel at which I expected to find my father; although his deliberate inspection of my knapsack must already have apprised him of that address. He listened attentively, and repeated it twice over, as if to impress it on his memory; and we both walked on in silence, till, turning up a small passage, we suddenly found ourselves in a large churchyard,—a flagged path stretched diagonally across it towards the market-place, on which it bordered. In this churchyard, upon a grave-stone, sat a young Savoyard; his hurdy-gurdy, or whatever else his instrument might be called, was on his lap; and he was gnawing his crust, and feeding some poor little white mice (standing on their hind-legs on the hurdy-gurdy) as merrily as if he had chosen the gayest resting-place in the world.

We both stopped. The Savoyard, seeing us, put his arch head on one side, showed all his white teeth in that happy smile so peculiar to his race, and in which poverty seems to beg so blithely, and gave the handle of his instrument a turn.

"Poor child!" said I.

"Aha, you pity him! but why? According to your rule, Mr Caxton, he is not so much to be pitied; the

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dropsical jeweller would give him as much for his limbs and health as for ours! How is it-answer me, son of so wise a father-that no one pities the dropsical jeweller, and all pity the healthy Savoyard? It is, sir, because there is a stern truth which is stronger than all Spartan lessonsPoverty is the master-ill of the world. Look round. Does poverty leave its signs over the graves? Look at that large tomb fenced round; read that long inscription:-'Virtues'-'best of husbands' affectionate father''inconsolable grief'-' sleeps in the joyful hope,' &c., &c. Do you suppose these stoneless mounds hide no dust of what were men just as good? But no epitaph tells their virtues; bespeaks their wives' grief; or promises joyful hope to them!"

"Does it matter? Does God care for the epitaph and tombstone?"

"Date qualche cosa!" said the Savoyard, in his touching patois, still smiling, and holding out his little hand.

Therein I dropped a small coin. The boy evinced his gratitude by a new turn of the hurdy-gurdy.

"That is not labour," said my companion; "and had you found him at work, you had given him nothing. I too have my instrument to play upon, and my mice to see after. Adieu !"

He waved his hand, and strode irreverently over the graves back in the direction we had come.

I stood before the fine tomb with its fine epitaph; the Savoyard looked at me wistfully.

CHAPTER XIV.

The Savoyard looked at me wistfully. I wished to enter into conversation with him. That was not easy. However, I began :

PISISTRATUS.-"You must be often hungry enough, my poor boy. Do the mice feed you ?"

SAVOYARD puts his head on one side, shakes it, and strokes his mice. PISISTRATUS. "You are very fond of the mice; they are your only friends, I fear."

SAVOYARD, evidently understanding Pisistratus, rubs his face gently against the mice, then puts them softly down on a grave, and gives a turn to the hurdy-gurdy. The mice play unconcernedly over the grave.

PISISTRATUS, pointing first to the beasts, then to the instrument."Which do you like best, the mice or the hurdy-gurdy ?"

SAVOYARD shows his teeth-considers stretches himself on the grass -plays with the mice-and answers volubly.

PISISTRATUS, by the help of Latin comprehending that the Savoyard says, that the mice are alive and the hurdy gurdy is not " Yes, a live friend is better than a dead one. Mortua est hurda-gurda!"

SAVOYARD shakes his head vehemently." Nô-nô! Eccellenza, non ê mortu!" and strikes up a lively air

The

on the slandered instrument. Savoyard's face brightens-he looks happy: the mice run from the grave into his bosom.

PISISTRATUS, affected.—“Have you a father-An vivat pater ?"

SAVOYARD, with his face overcast. -"No-eccellenza!" then pausing a little, he says briskly, "Si-Si!" and plays a solemn air on the hurdygurdy-stops-rests one hand on the instrument, and raises the other to heaven.

PISISTRATUS understands." The father is like the hurdy-gurdy, at once dead and living. The mere form is a dead thing, but the music lives." Pisistratus drops another small piece of silver on the ground, and turns away.

"God help and God bless thee, Savoyard. Thou hast done Pisistratus all the good in the world. Thou hast corrected the hard wisdom of the young gentleman in the velveteen jacket; Pisistratus is a better lad for having stopped to listen to thee."

I regained the entrance to the churchyard-I looked back-there sate the Savoyard, still amidst men's graves, but under God's sky. He was still looking at me wistfully, and when he caught my eye, he pressed his hand to his heart, and smiled. "God help and God bless thee, young Savoyard.”

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How far is the application to France, of the epithet employed in the title that heads these pages, a misnomer? This is a question that would be answered very differently by those who study its state of feeling, and those who judge its position by mere established fact. That the fact and the feeling are completely at issue throughout the country, is undoubted, indisputable. A republican government has been established by the coup de main of a small minority in Francehas been accepted by the hesitation of surprise-has been maintained by the desire of peace and order:so far goes fact. Republican principles were hateful to the immense majority of the country at large in the past, uncongenial to its habits and sentiments, impossible according to its views; they are productive, as yet, of nothing but confusion, distress, ruin, riot, and mistrust, in the present; they are looked upon with alarm as regards their results in the future:-so much for feeling. Fact and feeling, then, are at variance and in collision. result of the conflict lies hidden in the mysteries of that future, the issue of which, at no epoch of history, perhaps, clearseeing eyes and wise foreseeing heads could less pretend to predict, than in the present chaotic hurlyburly of European society. The politicians who declared that the general spirit of the country in France was, in their vague and fantastic language of the Chamber, centre-gauche, or the advocate of liberal progress, may have been very right, but republican it never was, republican it is not. Republican-without pretension to the audacity of a prediction but just stated as impossible-it certainly does not as yet appear ever likely to be

come.

The

In its present state of feeling, then, France that is to say, the country, the provinces, the departments, or whatever France, out of Paris, may be called-is about as much genuine republican, as a white man who suddenly finds his face smeared over with the contents of a blacking-bottle is a

genuine negro. But, for the sake of
avoiding that confusion of terms and
ideas in which the French themselves
are so fond of indulging, to an extent
that proves the deification of "the
vague" to take far higher flights among
them, especially in their republican
tenets, than any flown by confused
German head,-let it be taken as a
rule, that fact is to have the prece-
dence of feeling, as in most matters in
the world, and let it be supposed that
the misnomer is no misnomer, that
there has been no mistake, in truth, in
the title of "Republican France."

Between France out of Paris and
France in Paris, a great distinction,
in speaking of the country, must al-
ways be drawn; although, in the
matter of republicanism in the feelings
of the mass, the same blacking bottle
remark might be applied to the
majority of the citizens of the capital,
as to the country at large. No family
of grown-up daughters, who have been
tyrannically kept in the nursery like
children when they no longer felt
themselves such, and made to wear
mamma's worn-out dresses scantily
cut down to their shapes, could be
more sundered in feeling from their
lady-mother, and jealous of her over-
grown charms, her gaiety, her splen-
dour, and her power, than the
and
centralisation system,
departments,-kept in the nursery
fed upon the bread-and-milk of
insignificance,-are of the tyrannical
supremacy, the overweening superi-
ority, and the disdainful airs, af-
to her despised progeny
fected
by Mother Paris. The pursuance of
the concentrating system has thus
produced an estrangement in the
family,-a jealousy and spite on the
one hand, a greater and increasing
assumption of airs of supremacy on
the other. The family ties between
Paris and France are as wholly dis-
united as family ties can be, in the
necessities of a more or less intimate
connexion: the mother has isolated,
in her despotism, herself from her chil-
dren, the children have imbibed dis-
trust and envy of the mother. The

upon

- there

good-a fancied good; for, after all, mother and daughters have the same blood, the same temper and character, the same vain-glory, conceit, and irritability, the same strong prejudices of ignorance; and they would join hands and clamour together in the same opposition to the stranger. But this common-cause making, upon occasions of extraordinary pressure from without, detracts nothing, at other times, from the mistrust, jealousy, and angry susceptibility of the children in internal affairs. In moments of family crisis, will matters always go on as heretofore?

consequence is, that there are two the maintenance of the common distinct families in feeling, are two Frances; there is the France of Paris, of Paris that asserts its right to be all France, and the France of the departments, that, in spite of the assertions of Paris, desire to put in their little claim for a small share in the name, and would like to have their own little fingers in the pies of revolutions, and changes of government in the family, that mamma cooks up. True, they are supposed to eat at the same table, but mamma has all the tit-bits. They have a voice in the family council, but it is when mamma has already issued her dictum, and declared that such and such things shall be as she has decided it. They help to support the family establishment with the moneys which mamma declares they must contribute out of their heritage; but then mamma, they declare, spends a most undue proportion upon herself, in dressing herself out with finery, keeping up an unnecessary state, and throwing away the sums confided to her to overpay a throng of unruly onhangers, with all the prodigality of fear; while they, the poor daughters, are made to put up with cast-off finery, and to be thwarted and twitted by harsh governesses, and to fight, as best they may, with an obstreperous herd of unpaid pensioners, which mamma's mismanagement has excited to uproar; and then, after all, to kiss hands and thank mamma for whatever they can get, -scanty sugar-plums and many cuffs. Is this to be endured? The children grumble much, and particularly since mamma has chosen to make changes in the direction of the household establishment of which they by no means approve, and has only produced confusion and disorder in it. But at present they can do no more than grumble; mamma has the rod, and they know that she will use it; mamma has the supreme influence, and habit makes them think they must abide by it. There is no doubt, at the same time, that the children and parent would unite in a common bond of union were the family honour to be asserted against an attack from any adversary to the family out of the house. Their intestine jealousies would be forgotten for the time, for

Nurseries will be obstreperous sometimes, and children will revolt, and mammas may pass very uncomfortable moments in the face of angry daughters in rebellion. Will the children take upon themselves, at last, to protest against mamma's disdainful commands, and assert a will of their own, and a right to think for themselves? This question is one upon the solution of which depends the fate of France, as well as upon the many thousand chances which the capricious and ever-shifting gales of a revolutionary atmosphere may, at any moment, suddenly blow, like a spark into a powder barrel, shattering the face of the past, and changing the direction of the future. Twice already, since the revolution of February, has the question been nearly answered in the affirmative. The last instance, of which more anon, may be taken as a striking proof that the children may possibly not always submit to the dictates of the mother, that family mistrust may break out into family quarrel, and family quarrel in nations is civil war. Who again, however, may venture to predict what shall be the destinies of Republican France,-what web of darkness or of light, of blood-streaked stuff or of goldthreaded tissue, it may be weaving with its agitated and troubled hands, or what force it may interpose to tear the work to shreds before it be even yet completed? may fear, none may say. But prediction, upon whatever cunning_foresight it may be based, must always call a sort of feeling of inspiration,

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