e night, and was forgotten in the
morning. Jones covered his retreat with a pleasantry, saying--"So, after
all, I am not to be In--igo, but Out--igo Jones," a piece of wit, which
disposed many in that wit-loving land to believe, that he was not so
very much a demon after all. But the revenge of government was longer
lived than the popular rejoicing. Their first intention was a general
casting out of all who had foiled them in the debate: a two-handed
slaughter of officials--a massacre of the innocents. But the wrath
cooled, and was satisfied with turning off Carter, master of the rolls;
Malone, prime serjeant; Dilks, the quarter-master general; and
abolishing the pension of Boyle, a near relative of the obnoxious
speaker.

But a powerful man was now to be snatched away from the scene: Pelham
died. He had been for some time suffering under the great disease of
high life, high living. His health had given way to many feasts, many
physicians, and the Scarborough waters. He died on the 8th of March,
1754.

France next supplies the historian with another display. The two
countries differ, even in the nineteenth century, by characteristics
wholly irreconcilable; and they are both of a sterner order as time
advances with both. But, in the eighteenth century, each country in its
public transactions approached nearer to the propensities and passions
of the drama. The rapid changes of the English cabinet--the clever
circumventions of courtiers--the bold developments of political talent,
and the dexterous intrigues of office--bore some resemblance to the
graver comedy. On the other hand, the Court life of France was all a
ballet, of which Versailles was the patent theatre. There all was show
and scene-shifting the tinsel of high life, and the frolic, of brilliant
frivolity.--The minister was eclipsed by the mistress; the king was a
buffoon in the hands of the courtier; and the government of a powerful
nation was disposed of in the style of a flirtation behind the scenes.

Louis XV. had at this period grown weary of the faded graces of Madame
de Pompadour, and selected for his favourite a woman of Irish
extraction, of the name of Murphy. The monarch had stooped low enough,
for his new sultana was the daughter of a shoe-maker. The royal history
was scarcely more profligate, than it was ridiculous. His Majesty,
though the husband of a respectable queen, had seemed to regard every
abomination of life as a royal privilege. He had fi