the tools of the unscrupulous republicans who thirsted for power. The danger was imminent: the duchess and her children must be saved at any hazard, and M. de Lasteyrie, aided by a company of National Guards, sought to force a passage for them.

But during this time the crowd had grown more dense: the princess and her children were thrust against the folding door, and could not advance. Still she extricated herself; but before she could regain her children's hand in the gloom she was dragged onwards through the crowd to the presidential salon. On noticing there the absence of her children, she uttered shrieks of despair which could be heard above the surrounding tumult. The children had been kept back in the lobby by the crowd: the Duke of Chartres, thrown down and lost for an instant beneath the feet of the populace, had been taken up and carried to an adjoining house. A workman seized the Count of Paris and pressed him tightly in his arms, doubtlessly to defend him, but in the midst of noise, disorder, and darkness, every man distrusts his neighbour. The poor lad was torn from him and tossed from hand to hand as far as the corridor, when M. de Montguyon put him out of a window opening on a court-yard, and thus restored him to his mother.

crown,

At the sight of her son the duchess regained her presence of mind, and consulted with her friends as to the next steps to be taken. Eventually they proceeded to the Invalides in a carriage driven by M. de Lasteyrie, but there was no hope there. The governor, Marshal Molitor, begged the duchess to depart, as it was not a safe place for her and her son, but she replied nobly: "No matter, this spot is good enough to die in if we have no to-morrow: to remain in, if we can defend ourselves in it." Before long the Duke of Nemours joined her, and another consultation was held as to the mode of regaining ground. At midnight, however, an envoy arrived from Odilon Barrot to say all was lost for the royal cause, and that she must fly. The princess yielded unwillingly to a stratagem which had been already tried with success on our James II. and on Charles X. But before deciding she said, "If there is a single person here who considers I ought to remain, I will do so. I think more of my son's life than of his but if his life is necessary to France, a king, even one of nine years of age, must know how to die." At nine o'clock the next evening M. Barrot himself arrived, and joined his persuasions to those of the rest, and finally the duchess consented to leave Paris. She proceeded to the Château de Bligny after a narrow escape from the insurgents, and here, for the first time, in the solitude and want of comfort (for they did not dare light a fire), the duchess's high spirit failed her. She spent a night of agony, trembling at every sound, nor did she recover her equanimity till the next morning, when the Duke of Chartres was restored to her. Before the day was over the duchess acquired the certainty from the Duke of Nemours that all was lost, as far as the royalist cause was concerned, and consented to quit France. On crossing the frontier, the duchess burst into tears, and M. de Mornay, who accompanied her, could not restrain his own. "Our tears spring from different sources," she said to him; "you weep with joy at having saved us, and I from grief at quitting France, that country on which I call all the blessings of Heaven. Wherever I may die, let her know that the last beatings of my heart will be for her." Many years later, our author adds, the duchess revealed her love for her adopted country by saying, "When the thought occurs to me that I may never revisit France, I feel as if my bursting." The first halting-place selected by the duchess was Eisenach, where an

heart were

envoy, sent to her by the Queen of the Belgians, found her in a large barn-like room, without fire, dressed in the same clothes she had worn on quitting the Tuileries-another Henrietta Maria! While isolated here, her heart bled once again for the woes France was enduring. Thus nobly does she write on the 9th of July, 1848, to the friend with whom she maintained a constant correspondence through all her vicissitudes :

Oh, my dear friend, what agony! what punishment I have undergone during these four days of expectation, when the fate of France, of society, was being decided in Paris! when our friends were on the breach! when the families of those devoted to us in exile were incurring the greatest dangers! God has saved France, and spared our friends; I bless Him for it, and yet my heart is overwhelmed with sorrow. What a victory! in what an age do we live to be witness of such contests! But what energy has been displayed in resistance-what heroism, what constancy! If it were necessary that blood should flow, let us thank Heaven that it was not in the name of one of us. The men at present in power have saved France; they are re-establishing order, they are taking wise and energetic measures, but their time will not be long. I fear lest the country will have to go through successive crises before the authority is based on a solid foundation. Poor France! so great in her misfortunes as in her glory, both of which are ever in excess!

66

These words were truly prophetic, and the events of the next year proved that France would never be secure until the authority was placed in the hands of a man who recognised the truth of her remarks. When the Emperor Napoleon was consolidated in power, and had the option of calling cousins" with the old rulers of Europe, the Duchess of Orleans must have felt that the sins of the fathers were being, in her family, visited on the children, even to the second generation. Louis Philippe had alienated the friendship of his allies by his tortuous policy, and ended by forfeiting the affection of his people; and it was, undoubtedly, the remembrance of his own short-comings which induced him to resign his throne and the patrimony of his grandchildren, without striking a blow in their defence. He had been tried and found wanting, and his descendants cannot blame France if she prefer a ruler who defends her dignity honourably, and affords her, by his straightforward conduct, the best guarantee of material prosperity.

In 1849 the duchess paid her first visit to England to see her relations, whom she found comfortably established at Claremont. Louis Philippe had secured himself, as far as wealth was concerned, and was leading the life of a respectable country gentleman, for which he was best fitted. No ambitious thoughts troubled his mind; he lived entirely for and in his family, and he was as happy as he might expect to be. In this serenity of mind he ended his days, and was too soon followed by the amiable Queen of the Belgians, whose death drew from the Duchess of Orleans the following painful letter:

It would be useless to describe to you the utter desolation we all feel, after having lost our second earthly Providence! God has taken our angel from us: He knows what is good, but His designs are surely inscrutable. The misfortune that has assailed us does not alone affect our hearts; each day will cause us to feel its effect more deeply. We lament in her not only a friend, but a support. Since the guardian angel has no longer watched over me, isolation has again invaded my existence, and I resign myself to my dumb affliction, feeling afraid even to love ardently those still left me upon earth, for Heaven has, for the fourth time, deprived me of a being who possessed my entire affection. This gloomy thought causes me at times to tremble for my children, who are at

present only an object of anxiety, but who, so soon as they become devoted friends, may possibly undergo the fate which my love has brought upon other cherished beings. Do you blame these thoughts? Be indulgent, and only see in them the result of a succession of misfortunes; aid me in prayer, to soften the bitterness of the woes which chasten me. Could you but see our mother! could you but hear her words of submission and faith, which astonish our hearts! She solely lives for Heaven. Her only thought is to prepare herself to join her own in another world. She is a hundred feet above human sufferings, for God supports and fortifies her. Alas! I give up all prospect of imitating her, and I pray Heaven to pardon me for the degree of sorrow into which this loss has plunged me.

The next blow the duchess received was the event of the 2nd of December, for that finally deprived her of all hope. Her feelings she thus expressed in writing: "Everything hurts me, even the sanctity of the admirable queen. I am irritated because she displays no indignation. She has a word of indulgence, of charity, for every one. I cannot do it." In her febrile agitation she exaggerated the dangers to which her friends in France were exposed, and sent them various sums of money to support them in their exile. It is gratifying to find that the confiscation of the Orleans property had no effect on the family circumstances.

In 1852, while travelling in Switzerland, the duchess and her sons had a narrow escape from drowning: their carriage was overturned near Lausanne into the lake, and the mother had her shoulder-blade broken, although the princes escaped. As soon as she was recovered she came to England, and settled in Devonshire, where her memory will long be blessed by the poor. From this time till 1857 the duchess had no other object than the education of her sons, and with them she visited many parts of Europe; at length she settled down at Thames Ditton, in the bosom of her family, and spent apparently the happiest months she had known since 1848, when death again assailed them. On the 13th November, the Duchess of Nemours died quite suddenly at Claremont of ill-omened memory. Equally painful to the duchess's feelings was the execrable attempt of the 14th January, which she describes in one of her letters as one of the most odious of all she had known, for she would never consent to profit by a crime.

In May, 1858, the duchess was obliged to give up her house at Thames Ditton, and hired Camborn House, at Richmond. Strangely enough, on entering it, she said that the portal resembled that of a tomb, but the prophecy had no effect on her spirits. On the 11th of the same month she was suffering from a cold, and took to that bed from which she never rose again. But she had no idea of her danger, nor, indeed, had any of those about her colds are so common in England that no one cares for them. But, by degrees, that hacking cough, which presages evil, grew upon her; but even then she thought of others rather than herself. At a moment when the paroxysm was most painful, she asked her friend to hold her hands, which caused her some relief; but, turning immediately to the physician, she remarked, "It is not contagious?" Again, when she had grown much weaker, and M. de Mussy insisted on her taking wine, she turned to the nurse, and said, "You require strengthening, too; drink this wine," and she held out the glass to her. At last she died in her sleep-the greatest mercy that could be vouchsafed to her-and, on the physician entering the room, he found that the passage from this life to the next had been so gentle that the

two nurses, who had their eyes fixed upon her, had not noticed any al

teration in her features, and on close examination it was found that she had only grown slightly more pallid than before.

Her poor remains were watched for four days. Travellers who arrived from France asked to see her once again; they pressed into the room, praying and weeping for her who had so often welcomed them. She appeared to smile on them still; and none of those who saw her will ever forget the expression of peace and almost infantile youth which had returned to her countenance. She was at rest at last.

Yes, the troubled one found peace at length. She was buried at Weybridge, between the charming princess, whom Claremont still laments, and the king, whose virtues have been only learned since his death. Our author alludes to some ignoble dispute which caused the intervention of the bishop before her poor body could be consigned to its last restingplace; but we cannot credit it. Any country would be honoured by becoming the last resting-place of such a woman as the deeply lamented Helen of Orleans.

We are glad to find that so touching a history as this will be presented to our readers in an English form, for it deserves close study. The name of the translator, Mrs. Austin, is a guarantee of the fidelity with which the work will be performed, and it could not have been entrusted to worthier hands. At the same time, we must express our regret that a contemporary should have condescended to regard these memoirs as a political pamphlet: on the contrary, after a careful perusal we can only regard them as a memorial worthily raised to a wife and mother deserving of all praise. There is no possibility of any Bourbon again ascending the throne of France; such a consummation is beyond the wildest theories of speculation, and we believe that the family now residing in England have accepted their lot with patience. We regard these memoirs as a just tribute paid to the memory of a princess who behaved most nobly under the exceptional circumstances in which she was placed. She enjoyed a European reputation, and was regarded with admiration wherever she deigned to show herself. In England, it is needless to add, she was respected by the higher classes of society, and loved by the lower; for never, within the memory of man, has been known a princess so selfsacrificing and so devoted to the welfare of the poor. Her fatal illness, in fact, was produced by her habit of visiting in all weathers the pensioners of her bounty, for she could not sleep in comfort if she thought there was any one neglected whom her succour might save a few hours of misery.

We claim no special credit for the Duchess of Orleans as a princess; we would prefer her to be regarded in her greater attributes of a woman, and she will be found to stand the test nobly. It is an easy matter for those who possess to give from their superfluity, but it requires more for them to descend and mix among those unhappy beings who require assistance. And such Helen of Orleans was her bounty was augmented a hundred-fold by the kindness with which she imparted it, and when the reminiscences of the Bourbons as a reigning power shall have faded away, the name of one of the family will be sanctified in memory as a further proof that "only the actions of the just smell sweet and blossom in the dust."

264

UNCLE HENRY'S STORY: THE KNIGHT BANNERET.

BY HENRY SPICER, ESQ.

"How long have we till dinner?" inquired Uncle Henry.

"Six hours and a half."

"Good. That will just do."

General Dove, though a veteran, started. Richard promptly rose, walked to the window, looked out, and came mournfully back. Katty Weldon, quitting her chair, selected the deepest and cosiest she could find, with the undisguised purpose of going to sleep. Philip Balfour affected to be already comatose.

As for Uncle Henry, without appearing to regard the preparations for a universal doze, he took from a deed-box, which stood in the room, an immense roll of manuscript, and there with returned to his seat. Pale, yet resigned, the circle disposed themselves to hear.

Several parties (said Uncle Henry) having already appropriated the old oak cabinet in which this extraordinary document was (to have been) found, I have no resource but to describe to you, perhaps at considerable length [a suppressed groan from the general], the remarkable scene of its discovery in the charter-room of the haunted towers of G

I rented the mansion and manor of that name, a year or two since, for the term of the shooting season, and passed, in those wild and beautiful, though neglected precincts, some of the happiest, because loneliest, hours I ever knew.

As regards the shooting part, it would probably be classed by my friend Philip Balfour under the descriptive title of "bosh." I certainly walked out, every morning, clad in a shooting-jacket; sometimes (not to look particular) in a kilt. I was, moreover, armed with a gun (made, I was told, by the Bishop of Something, though it always seemed to me a singular occupation for hands right reverend), and accompanied by two dogs, and a reclaimed poacher promoted to keeperhood, which last-named individual I sincerely wished at Jericho. The fellow had an extraordinary gift of grinning. On my one day expressing some little surprise at this peculiarity, he tried, indeed, to persuade me that it resulted from a kind of spasmodic action, which, accompanied by a remarkable noise and configuration of features, shaking of the sides, and expulsion of the breath, was common to all the members of his family. If I am not mistaken, however, there is something not widely different from this in the dictionary definition of a jolly good laugh!

I think, upon the whole, I was happier with a keeper recommended to me on a former occasion-a fellow of a different stamp. His name was Green-we called him "Verd Antique." We knew he was sixty-he called himself forty-three, and had, moreover, the peculiarity of growing a year younger every twelvemonth.

A mystery, rather partaking of the fog than the halo, surrounded the childhood and youth of Mr. Green; but, among those admitted most