om I met in France, who had given of their goods
to support the cause. With them I talked on this very subject. They
were respectable and respected men; they prayed for success to Don
Carlos with sincere heart; but they had left Spain, and they complained
that this condition of disturbance was lasting too long.

"You ask me why I did not remain," said one to me; "wait, and you shall
see."

He opened a door and pointed to three lovely little girls at play, and
continued, "These are my reasons; I have made more sacrifices than I was
able for the Royal cause, and they asked me at last for another
contribution, which would have ruined me. I love my King; but for no
King, senor, could I afford to make those darlings paupers."

Had these Carlists any glimmer of the sunshine of a victorious issue to
their uprising? (egad, that was a strong blast, and the waves do swish
as if they were enraged at last!). Thieblin thinks not. And yet they are
active, and, like the storm outside, they are gaining strength. Those of
them under arms are four times as numerous as the Republicans in the
northern provinces. Leader swears to me that everyone who can shoulder a
musket is a Carlist. There are no more Chicos to be had, unless the
volunteers of liberty come over, rifles, accoutrements and all, to
Prince Charlie--a liberty they are volunteering to take somewhat freely.

I was rash in saying there were no more Chicos. Did not a company of
"bhoys" trudge over to Lesaca to offer their services recently? But they
were very ancient boys. The youngest of them was sixty-five. They were
veterans of the Seven Years' War, and mostly colonels. Their fidelity
was thankfully acknowledged, but their services were not gratefully
accepted. The aged and ferocious fire-eaters were sent back to their
arrowroot and easy-chairs. At all events, they had more of the timber of
heroism in them than those diplomatic Carlists of the _gandin_ order,
who are Carlists because it makes them interesting in the sight of the
ladies, but whose campaigning is confined to an occasional three days'
incursion on Spanish territory, with a cook and a valet, saddle-bags
full of potted lobster and _pate de foie gras_, and a dressing-case
newly packed with _au Botot_ and essence of Jockey Club. There are
personages of this class not unknown to society at Biarritz and
Bayonne, who have been going to the front for the last three months, and
have not got there yet. One would think th