England than to France or himself; and France, even when sated with glory, was gradually impoverished and exhausted. Yet it must be allowed by a candid observer, that much that was extravagant and shortlived in the policy of the Napoleonic domination was the natural result of the French Revolution; and that the Empire, spreading over three-fourths of Europe, was, in a certain sense, the military embodiment and expression of the ideas of the Republic; and certainly the internal government of Napoleon was more firm, rational, and even humane, than that of any of his immediate predecessors. M. Lanfrey's estimate of the extraordinary man whose career he has so powerfully described is not altogether the same as ours, though we agree with it in many particulars. The distinctive qualities of Napoleon's nature are not difficult to point out, and no one will question that he was unscrupulous and ambitious; that he was a master of deception and craft; that, with genius of the highest order, he was deficient in real and farsighted wisdom, and allowed passion and imagination to get the better of judgment and prudence. Yet, in considering his place in history, it is but just to recollect that he lived among a nation distracted by revolution, with its principles unhinged and its faith destroyed, and much that appears worst in his character is evidently the result of circumstances which gave it its peculiar shape and turn. If we would judge of him fairly as a ruler, too, we shall see that many of the worst faults of the Empire may be traced directly to the Republic, and that the genius of the two governments was more of a piece than is commonly allowed; and we must acknowledge that he possessed some of the faculties at least of a great sovereign and of a chief who put an end to anarchy not merely by force, but by reconciliation. It is because M. Lanfrey will not regard these unquestionable facts in his narrative that we dissent from it in some respects, much as we admire its high tone, the moral spirit with which it abounds, and its graceful and sometimes beautiful language.

Ought we to Visit Her?

A NOVEL.

BY MRS. EDWARDES, AUThor of ARCHIE LOVELL,” ETC.

CHAPTER XLIII.

LORD BARTY AND HIS FRIENDS.

THE club-gardens at Cowes. Picturesque groups of yachting people in after-dinner dress. Mingled exhalations of Havannah cigars, August flowers, and Cowes mud. Conversation a trifle more animated, perhaps, than the after-dinner conversation of the same people would be in London, but abounding in much the same scintillations of wit and intellect. A foreground group, with whom we have concern -Lord Barty Beaudesert and the guests who, during the last fortyeight hours, have been enjoying his hospitality and the charms of each other's society on board the Laïs.

It is said pleasantly by those who should know them best, their greatest enemies and their greatest friends, that the race of Beaudesert has always consisted, in pretty equal divisions, of knaves and fools. Of the pair of noble brothers who are the race's living representatives, Lord Barty Beaudesert is-not the fool! You need but look into his face to see that. Though, for my part, I hold that knave and fool are convertible terms. No man would be a knave unless he were in some degree a fool; no fool have you ever met who had not in him the potential elements, at least, of knavery.

Lord Barty has the typical "classic" fool's profile of all the Beaudeserts, with the prominent, lacklustre, Beaudesert eye; and still something which scarcely rises to intellect-the sharp wide-awake look, rather, that you will find in a wiry little fox-terrier-redeems his smooth red face from the absolute Beaudesert vacuity.

Very wide awake indeed is Lord Barty Beaudesert; very well known, and with no snow-white reputation, in betting-rings, billiardrooms, and all other resorts where the winning and losing of men's money is legitimate business.

And still Lord Barty is a poor man; for the son and brother of a duke, a very poor man indeed.

He keeps a yacht-hires it, rather, captain, crew, and all (nothing in the world is absolutely Lord Barty's own)-on principles of economy. "The cheapest thing going, a yacht," Lord Barty says. "No houserent, no taxes, no servants. And then you know your outgoing expenses to a shilling."

Lord Barty adds nothing about your incoming revenue; and this to a hospitable yachtsman, fond of loo and chicken-hazard, and blessed with friends of the pigeon-like nature of little Lord Verreker—and, it may be hoped, of this Dundreary fellow Rose is soft about-is not inconsiderable.

The Dundreary fellow Rose is soft about has not, as things at present stand, proved a very lucrative speculation to Lord Barty Beaudesert. Not a man, at any time, whom I would classify as belonging to the genus pigeon is Francis Theobald, although his extreme guilelessness of manner has more than once led even professional fanciers of those birds astray in their judgment upon him; and during the past few days, ever since he determined, indeed, to " follow up his luck" at The Folly, Theobald has been enjoying fortune unprecedented the fortune of a man whom all the gods have conspired to ruin.

Last night-'twas a roughish night at sea, as we know; but weather that might cruelly toss a small mail-steamer in the Channel is comparatively unfelt in the smooth landlocked roads off Cowes-last night, after the boat-race, there was a dinner, with a little loo, when the ladies left, on board the Laïs; and Theobald won everything. Young Lord Verreker fell a victim, naturally. For what end do Lord Verrekers of one-and-twenty exist at all (on board the Laïs especially), unless it be to fall victims? But the same fate befell the veterans ; the same fate befell Harry Desmond and Lord Barty. No science, no combination of science, could hold its own against the aces and kings of Mr. Theobald.

I repeat it, a most unfavourable speculation hitherto has this Dundreary fellow Rose is soft about proved to Lord Barty Beaudesert -how unfavourable a one, is being discussed between Colonel Desmond and Lord Barty at this moment; Loo Childers chatting, with the innocent frankness that proved Mr. Smylie's undoing, to foolish young Lord Verreker; Lady Rose and Mr. Theobald talking in low murmurs, on a rustic seat, a little apart from the rest.

When men and women, in real life, not romance, talk together in this murmuring fashion, I have ascertained, after much close practical observation, that, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, the exhaustion of tone is accompanied by a corresponding exhaustion of ideas. You watch some whispered colloquy, every word of which, judging from outward manner, should be fraught with perilous dramatic interest; you listen, and hear wiredrawn monosyllables about the last change in the weather, or the approaching change in bonnets. The interesting murmuring pair have long ago, to the best of their ability, "said everything." Lady Rose has by no means reached this fatal climax in a tender friendship. But Theobald reached it long ago. He is not, as I have often repeated, a ladies' man. With his wife he is

never bored; but then Jane is not a lady! Jane, in her ignorance, her originality, her chameleon-like moods of thought and temper, is always more or less amusing. Lady Rose Golightly is not amusing in the least, when one has had six or seven days of Lady Rose Golightly. And Theobald dimly suspects-in the inmost recesses of his soul a horrible suspicion is beginning to gain ground-that Lady Rose Golightly, at thirty years of age, is capable of far more constant feelings than was Lady Rose Beaudesert at twenty-two; capable, it may be, of that last resource of worn-out women of the world, a serious passion. But if he were convinced of this, and convinced that he were to be the object of the passion, Mr. Theobald, you may be very sure, would get on board the next steamer that leaves Cowes for the mainland, and bid Lady Rose Golightly, and every person and thing belonging to her, an eternal good-bye!

The murmurs become more and more languid, and Lady Rose's cunning wastes itself in vain efforts to instil into them some kind of galvanic life. Sprightliness, sentiment, veiled half-reproaches, all fall blankly to the ground. At last, happily, occurs a diversion. A boy in red-and-blue uniform enters the gardens not twenty steps away from where Theobald and his companion are sitting, one of the ominous orange-coloured envelopes we all of us know too well, in his hand.

"Those terrible little telegraph-boys!" says Lady Rose. "I have never been able to see one of them without a shudder since I lost my Coco. Coco was my Maltese, Mr. Theobald. The most beautiful dog in London, and affectionate!-the only creature, I do believe, that ever loved me on earth.”

"Case of a dear gazelle," responds Mr. Theobald, sensible that some kind of murmured imbecility is expected of him.

"Case of a dear gazelle, as you say. The poor old love was sickening when I had to leave town, so I gave strict orders to Burton to let me know if he got worse. On the second day after I left I got a telegram. Servants are so cruelly inconsiderate. It would have been just as well, as I had gone, to spare me the last sad scene. Two of the first dog-doctors had seen Coco, and there was no hope. I rushed up to town that night, just in time to see him alive. He died in my arms."

"Happy Coco!" observes Theobald, knocking the ashes from the tip of his cigar.

"And, from that day to this, the sight of a telegraph-boy makes me get cold. I received another most distressing shock, I remember, when my poor mother had her last fatal illness. We were in the Highlands, just in the middle of one of the pleasantest shootingparties. . . . Really, I think there should be a law that some other hired person should be sent on first, to prepare one for the telegraphboys."

"Or, better still, have some hired person to bear one's distressing shocks for one," observes Theobald, "like the deputy mourners at an Irish funeral."

"Ah, if civilization could only arrive at that!"

Lady Rose sighs and looks pensive. Mr. Theobald leans back on the rustic seat, speculating, perhaps, as to whether civilization will ever allow of tender friendships being done by deputy, too. The messenger comes nearer. One of the club-waiters, to whom he has addressed himself, seems to point among the group we are watching, for the person of whom he is in search.

"How glad I am we did not give a definite 'Yes' to Mrs. Dulcimer!" says Lady Rose. Mrs. Dulcimer, a lady of nautical and other reputation, has asked all Cowes to dance on board her yacht to-night; but Lady Rose, mindful of Mr. Theobald's prejudices, has left the question of going open. If her strength allowed-and dear Mrs. Dulcimer would take so undecided an answer-she would be charmed. But in this hot weather Lady Rose is such a terribly poor creature; no knowing, till the eleventh hour, what Lady Rose's strength will allow her to do! "We should be quite sure of being bored if we went ?"

"Quite sure," Mr. Theobald acquiesces; mentally deciding that they would be tolerably certain of that anywhere, and under any circumstances.

And the messenger, with the orange envelope in his hand, approaches nearer.

"Really and truly I believe the telegram is for us," observes Lady Rose, looking over her shoulder with languid interest. "No, for Barty. Barty gets mysterious messages from his horrid jockeys and horse-racing people from morning till night."

But no; the orange envelope is not for Lord Barty Beaudesert. Finger to cap, the boy addresses his lordship, and, by a little nod of his lordship's head, has the rightful object of his search pointed out to him. Another three seconds-another three seconds, the last, of rose-watered boredom, and tender friendship, and Lady Rose Golightly-and the orange envelope is in Francis Theobald's hands.

"Martha Smith, 4, Rue de la Cloche, Ostende, to Francis Theobald, on board the Laïs, Cowes.

"Sir,-A lady named Jane Theobald lies here in my house dangerously ill. A letter she has about her bears your address. Please telegraph instructions, or come without delay."

Theobald starts up to his feet, his face turning to the ghastly corpse-like hue very blonde-complexioned people do turn when the current of the blood is set suddenly awry. "No bad news from home, voice, as she watches him.

I hope?" asks Lady Rose, in her quiet

With the selfishness of a thoroughly ignoble passion, it seems to Lady