ill be such as
long as the roads are open to Australia, to Canada, and New Zealand.

A young man whose life was to be spent in writing politico-religious
pamphlets had much to learn in Paris in those days. Indeed, Paris
has ever been a school for such writers since men began to find that
something was wrong, even under the reign of the great Dubarry. Since
those days it has been the laboratory of the political alchemist,
in which everything hitherto held precious has been reduced to a
residuum, in order that from the ashes might be created that great
arcanum, a fitting constitution under which thinking men may live
contented. The secret had been hardly solved in those latter days of
poor Louis Philippe. Much had certainly been done when a citizen king
was thought of and set agoing; but even a citizen king required to be
wound up, and the alchemist was still at his crucibles.

Now, indeed, the work has been finished. The laboratory is closed.
The philosopher, his task all done, has retired to his needed rest.
Thinking men, even thinking Frenchmen, can live contented. Chocolate
is sold--and paid for. And a score and a half of daily theatres are
open at the most moderate of prices.

Intent on such things, and on his coming volume, our young
broken-hearted philosopher stayed out three months at Paris. We need
not follow him very closely in his doings there. His name was already
sufficiently known to secure his admittance amongst those learned
men who, if they had hitherto established little, had at any rate
achieved the doubting of much. While he was here the British Ministry
went out of office. Sir Robert, having repealed the corn laws,
fell to the ground between two stools, and the number of the
"Daily Jupiter" which gave the first authentic list of the members
of the new government, contained, among the few new names that
were mentioned, that of Sir Henry Harcourt as Her Majesty's
solicitor-general.

At the end of the three months Bertram returned to England, enriched
by many new ideas as to the government of mankind in general. His
volume was not yet finished. So he packed up his papers in his
portmanteau and took them down with him to Hurst Staple. He saw
no one as he passed through London. The season was then over,
and his friend Sir Henry was refreshing himself with ten days'
grouse-shooting after the successful campaign of the last session.
But had he been in London, Bertram would not have seen him, for he
saw