. Only a few old men could remember the last meeting of the
States General. The resistance which the Huguenots, the nobles, and the
parliaments had offered to the kingly power, had been put down by the
two great Cardinals who had ruled the nation during forty years. The
government was now a despotism, but, at least in its dealings with the
upper classes, a mild and generous despotism, tempered by courteous
manners and chivalrous sentiments. The means at the disposal of the
sovereign were, for that age, truly formidable. His revenue, raised, it
is true, by a severe and unequal taxation which pressed heavily on the
cultivators of the soil, far exceeded that of any other potentate. His
army, excellently disciplined, and commanded by the greatest generals
then living, already consisted of more than a hundred and twenty
thousand men. Such an array of regular troops had not been seen in
Europe since the downfall of the Roman empire. Of maritime powers France
was not the first. But, though she had rivals on the sea, she had not
yet a superior. Such was her strength during the last forty years of the
seventeenth century, that no enemy could singly withstand her, and that
two great coalitions, in which half Christendom was united against her,
failed of success.

The personal qualities of the French King added to the respect inspired
by the power and importance of his kingdom. No sovereign has ever
represented the majesty of a great state with more dignity and grace. He
was his own prime minister, and performed the duties of a prime minister
with an ability and industry which could not be reasonably expected from
one who had in infancy succeeded to a crown, and who had been surrounded
by flatterers before he could speak. He had shown, in an eminent degree,
two talents invaluable to a prince, the talent of choosing his servants
well, and the talent of appropriating to himself the chief part of the
credit of their acts. In his dealings with foreign powers he had some
generosity, but no justice. To unhappy allies who threw themselves
at his feet, and had no hope but in his compassion, he extended his
protection with a romantic disinterestedness, which seemed better suited
to a knight errant than to a statesman. But he broke through the most
sacred ties of public faith without scruple or shame, whenever they
interfered with his interest, or with what he called his glory. His
perfidy and violence, however, excited less enmity than the