riminal, have received a
"gracious answer" to his nonsense? Would he have ever despatched the
nonsense? and would any journalist have been silly enough to talk of
"the noble voice that could thus speak to the throne," and the noble
throne that could return such a noble answer to the noble voice? You get
nothing done here gravely and decently. Tawdry stage tricks are played,
and braggadocio claptraps uttered, on every occasion, however sacred
or solemn: in the face of death, as by Barbes with his hideous Indian
metaphor; in the teeth of reason, as by M. Victor Hugo with his
twopenny-post poetry; and of justice, as by the King's absurd reply
to this absurd demand! Suppose the Count of Paris to be twenty times a
reed, and the Princess Mary a host of angels, is that any reason why the
law should not have its course? Justice is the God of our lower world,
our great omnipresent guardian: as such it moves, or should move on
majestic, awful, irresistible, having no passions--like a God: but, in
the very midst of the path across which it is to pass, lo! M. Victor
Hugo trips forward, smirking, and says, O divine Justice! I will trouble
you to listen to the following trifling effusion of mine:--

Par votre ange envolee, ainsi qu'une," &c.

Awful Justice stops, and, bowing gravely, listens to M. Hugo's verses,
and, with true French politeness, says, "Mon cher Monsieur, these verses
are charming, ravissans, delicieux, and, coming from such a celebrite
litteraire as yourself, shall meet with every possible attention--in
fact, had I required anything to confirm my own previous opinions, this
charming poem would have done so. Bon jour, mon cher Monsieur Hugo, au
revoir!"--and they part:--Justice taking off his hat and bowing, and the
author of "Ruy Blas" quite convinced that he has been treating with him
d'egal en egal. I can hardly bring my mind to fancy that anything is
serious in France--it seems to be all rant, tinsel, and stage-play. Sham
liberty, sham monarchy, sham glory, sham justice,--ou diable donc la
verite va-t-elle se nicher?

. . . . . .

The last rocket of the fete of July has just mounted, exploded, made a
portentous bang, and emitted a gorgeous show of blue lights, and then
(like many reputations) disappeared totally: the hundredth gun on the
Invalid terrace has uttered its last roar--and a great comfort it is for
eyes and ears that the festival is over. We shall be able to go