hose majestic figure had been so long and loudly extolled,
was in truth a little man. (Even M. de Chateaubriand, to whom we should
have thought all the Bourbons would have seemed at least six feet high,
admits this fact. "C'est une erreur," says he in his strange memoirs of
the Duke of Berri, "de croire que Louis XIV. etait d'une haute stature.
Une cuirasse qui nous reste de lui, et les exhumations de St Denys,
n'ont laisse sur certain point aucun doute.") That fine expression
of Juvenal is singularly applicable, both in its literal and in its
metaphorical sense, to Louis the Fourteenth:

"Mors sola fatetur
Quantula sint hominum corpuscula."

His person and his government have had the same fate. He had the art of
making both appear grand and august, in spite of the clearest evidence
that both were below the ordinary standard. Death and time have exposed
both the deceptions. The body of the great king has been measured more
justly than it was measured by the courtiers who were afraid to look
above his shoe-tie. His public character has been scrutinized by men
free from the hopes and fears of Boileau and Moliere. In the grave, the
most majestic of princes is only five feet eight. In history, the hero
and the politician dwindles into a vain and feeble tyrant,--the slave
of priests and women--little in war,--little in government,--little in
everything but the art of simulating greatness.

He left to his infant successor a famished and miserable people, a
beaten and humbled army, provinces turned into deserts by misgovernment
and persecution, factions dividing the court, a schism raging in the
church, an immense debt, an empty treasury, immeasurable palaces, an
innumerable household, inestimable jewels and furniture. All the sap and
nutriment of the state seemed to have been drawn to feed one bloated and
unwholesome excrescence. The nation was withered. The court was morbidly
flourishing. Yet it does not appear that the associations which attached
the people to the monarchy had lost strength during his reign. He had
neglected or sacrificed their dearest interests; but he had struck
their imaginations. The very things which ought to have made him most
unpopular,--the prodigies of luxury and magnificence with which his
person was surrounded, while, beyond the inclosure of his parks, nothing
was to be seen but starvation and despair,--seemed to increase the
respectful attachment which his subjects felt for him. That