the duke has requested the king to grant him a lettre de cachet in consideration of his own services, and of those of his ancestors, and I cannot interfere." It would have been well if this prerogative had never led to any thing worse than Marmontel's residence of a fortnight in the Bastille.

The destruction of the moral influence of the court was completed by the measure which most clearly proved its undisputed political authority, the alliance with Austria which led to the war of 1757. The King of Prussia, by his military reputation, by his literary pretensions, by his hostility to religion (les préjugés), and by the court which he paid to Voltaire and his followers, had already become the hero of the Parisian saloons, which governed public opinion. Fashion for once supported sound policy. Prussia might be a useful ally against Austria, and could not be a dangerous enemy. Above all, the country required an interval of peace in which the finances might recover from the disorder of the last war. But Kaunitz knew the weak points of Versailles, and showed the reigning favourite the insecurity of her tenure of power in time of peace. The virtuous empress condescended to write an autograph letter to Madame de Pompadour: and the Abbé de Bernes, whom the mistress had formerly employed to write her letters to the king, was raised to the ministry for the express purpose of signing the treaty, which seemed to ensure success to the schemes of Austria and Russia at the expense of France. It was, perhaps, well even for the French interest that Frederick's effectual defence in the struggle which has immortalized his name, prevented Austria from becoming supreme in Germany, and the Russian dominion from advancing to the Oder. From the time when, anticipating the maturity of the schemes of the enemy, the king broke into Saxony, and forced the elector's army to surrender at Pirna; while the wretched Brühl looked down in safety, on the consequences of his purchased intrigues, from the impregnable heights of Königstein; through all the varying fortunes of the war to his final desertion by his only ally, his firmness never failed him. One day defeated, another triumphant; while Prussia was taking oaths of fealty to the Czarina, and while Austrian cavalry were ravaging the Mark of Brandenburg, and bivouaking in the streets of Berlin-still keeping firm hold of Saxony, and knowing that his army was his kingdom, he trusted to the course of events to dissolve the coalition, and, at the worst, he determined to perish with the power which he had created. In his utmost distress, his gaiety never forsook him. A deserter excused himself by saying that he only left his cause when it seemed hopeless. "Wait till the end of this campaign," said the king, "and if things do not mend, I will then desert with you."

As between England and France, although they had exchanged allies, the war was virtually a continuation of the last. But the Marshal de Saxe had left no successor, and Pitt came forth to call out the energies of his country. However small his merit may have been in the expeditions which he planned, he had the inestimable

quality of confidence in himself and the nation. It was better to waste money in fruitless invasions of France, than to stand as in the last war, on the defensive at home. The people were willing to support an army in Germany, when they found that Duke Ferdinand led it to victory; and the conquest of Canada, coinciding with the almost incredible advances of Clive in India, once more renewed the national consciousness of superiority which had lain dor mant since the days of Marlborough. Protestantism also came in support of patriotism; for all Germany felt that the great question of the freedom of religion was at stake; and the enthusiasm of England for the cause of Frederick was redoubled, when it was known that the Austrian commander had received a present of talismanic relics, to mark the special favour of the Pope. No wonder that the conclusion of the peace in 1763, was the commencement of the well-deserved unpopularity which attended George III. for more than twenty years. The nation saw that the honour of the country was sacrificed, and the opportunity of humbling its ancient enemy thrown away, because the illtaught and obstinate young king, under the influence of Lord Bute, hated Frederick as a freethinker, and resented as an encroachment on his prerogative the transcendent superiority of Pitt. The speeches and writings of the day were not sparing in their imputation of corruption and baseness to the hated Scotchman and his master; but, for once, fiction was less strange than truth. It was not known that the last operations of the war were a fraud on both sides; that England, with a stake of a hundred thousand men in the field, was urging France to attack her own general, Duke Ferdinand, and complaining, "You will let yourselves be beaten, and we cannot make peace, we shall not even dare to propose it to parliament." A Frenchman, who knew the state of the national resources, might more easily have pardoned his government for their conduct, in consequence of Lord Bute's remonstrance. "As soon as you receive this letter," wrote the king to the Prince de Soubise, "you will pass the Helda and attack the enemy, without considering whether the arrangements are suitable; and whatever may be the success, you shall not be responsible for it." "The letter of the king," added the minister, "is too formal to make it necessary for me to add any thing. But I can tell you, that if the king's army should be destroyed to the last man, and it should become necessary for me to levy a new one, his majesty would not be alarmed." Choiseul might well be proud of the diplomatic skill with which he had drawn Spain into the war in time to share in the sacrifices which the defeated party must make. He might also think himself fortunate in the character of the English Ambassador, the Duke of Bedford, of whom we have already spoken. The charge of Junius that he was influenced by bribes, is destitute of all probable foundation. In deserting the king of Prussia, and even volunteering to secure a part of his dominions to Russia, as well as in a general readiness to make concessions to the enemy, he could hardly exceed the wishes of George III. and

Lord Bute: but he seems to have sacrificed the claims of his country with a grace peculiarly his own. The Duke de Choiseul objected to the establishment of English garrisons in some of the small islands on the coast of Newfoundland. The Duke of Bedford related, in answer, the explanation which Bouret, a wealthy financier, had given him of the enormous expenses which he had incurred in fitting up a house which was occasionally honoured by royal visits. "It is indeed expensive, but it is for the king." "In the same manner," he continued, "I say to you, there shall be no garrison in the islands of Miguelon and St. Pierre. It may perhaps cost me my head; mais, monsieur, c'est pour

le roi."

It is a singular proof of the perverted judgment of the European aristocracy, that France was never more generally admired and looked up to than during its lowest period of political debasement from the beginning of the seven years' war, to the death of Louis XV. The feudal splendour and luxury of the great nobility combined with the brilliant reputation of the literary circles which met at the tables of Helvetius and of Holbach, to make Paris the acknowledged capital of Europe. It united the convenience of old abuses with the satisfaction of contempt for them. Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick, and his nephew, the celebrated duke, who was long afterwards bribed or beaten by Dumouriez, always professed to regret their position as Germans. "Be assured," said the hero of the English victory of Minden, "that there is no German, however noble or powerful, who would not be proud to serve under the banner of France. What happiness to serve in your company in war, and to live at Paris in time of peace!" Gustavus III. of Sweden, and Catharine II. of Russia, thought a correspondence with the philosophic leaders necessary to their reputation; and Frederick himself maintained through life, the contempt with which his father's homely tastes had unhappily inspired him, for the language and customs of his native country. But at home, the French themselves were beginning to form a truer judgment. Familiarity, and the opportunity of looking behind the scenes, produced the same feelings with which Italians formerly regarded the Pope, while credulous ultra-montanes trembled at his authority. While Louis sank into the lowest depths of contempt, and the patronage of the infamous Du Barry raised the Duke d'Aiguillon to power in the place of Choiseul, the better class of Frenchmen were beginning to look for some principle of national regeneration. Political economy, utilitarianism, Anglomania, were all proofs of the sounder and wholesomer feeling of the second generation of philosophers. Those who were sanguine, hoped for regeneration; while those who found themselves at ease, thought that it was already come, because religious wars and persecution, which Voltaire and his disciples always represent as the worst affliction to which mankind are liable, seemed for the time to be at an end. The best proof of a Providence, it was said, is that under Louis XV. France should enjoy prosperity. If the fact had been true,

the fairer inference would seem to be somewhat different. The insuperable difficulty of reform consisted in the hold which the prin ciples of the upper classes had taken on the people. The Revolution showed the pattern of the Richelieus and d'Aiguillons worked in a coarser stuff. But before the result was known, it was right and natural to hope the best, and even to over-estimate the casual advantages which resulted from the conflicts of rival statesmen. All wise and honest men rejoiced when Choiseul expelled the Jesuits; and when d'Aiguillon and Maupeou had incurred the odium of destroying the parliaments, it was justly considered a grave error in Louis XVI., that by the advice of Maurepas he restored them. The unprovoked attack on England, which followed Lafayette's volunteer expedition to America, was ultimately more injurious to the government which commenced it, than to the enemy; but the enthusiasm for supposed popular rights which accompanied it, was a better symptom of the moral condition of the nation, than the wanton indifference to bloodshed with which Belleisle or Bernes had plunged into war. Honest men, such as Turgot, Necker, and Lafayette, as well as men like Mirabeau, of mere ability, were prepared to reform many of the abuses which oppressed the country. But to this, power and the support of public opinion were necessary, and respect for authority was one of the superstitions (les préjugés) which the people had been effectually taught to despise.

In the rest of Europe, the spirit of change took a different course. The example of Frederick of Prussia, recommended by his great reputation, led kings and ministers to reform, by removing the impediments which checked the action of absolute government. The French philosophers had done them the service of making chartered privileges, and sacred foundations, contemptible; and although the people clung, as in all but extraordinary occasions they will cling, to the usages of their ancestors, the approbation of those who guided public opinion supported the introduction of the centralizing monarchies which still govern a great part of continental Europe. Pombal, in Portugal; Charles III., with the assistance of Tanucci, in Naples; and afterwards, of Aranda, in Spain; acted in the same spirit with Gustavus III., when he overthrew the Swedish oligarchy; and with Joseph II., in his unsuccessful attempt to renew in the house of Hapsburg the authority of the Franconian Emperors. The suppression of the Jesuits was equivalent to a public declaration, that kings were no more to be governed by confessors; and the general indifference to established institutions made way for a firmer and more practical, though less gorgeous system of monarchy. It yet remains to be seen how far human improvement will be promoted by the theory of government, which Frederick exemplified, and Napoleon carried to perfection; but there can be no doubt, that to nations oppressed by obsolete and complicated systems of power, the establishment of a utilitarian despotism, offers, for the time, relief.

aristocracy had cheated out of substantial freedom, | by giving them specious words and legal forms instead. To this we answer without hesitation, that the inviolability of legal forms is the true test of constitutional liberty. A nation which disregards them may be capable of a successful riot; but it has only its wishes, not its rights, to struggle for. A constitution can only be said to exist, when it is impossible to violate the rights of the people without entrenching on some legal form; and conversely the sound instinct of Englishmen teaches them, that freedom is in danger when law is tampered with. Is it possible that so true a friend to liberty can think that the defeat of the court, and the release of a demagogue, would have been a worthier cause for popular rejoicing, than the assertion of the principle that a warrant must apply to a definite person, and recite a definite person, and recite a definite crime? Lord Camden and the Court of Common Pleas declared that Lord Egremont and Lord Halifax, as secretaries of state, were limited in their power of committal by the same rules which bound a simple justice of the peace that a general warrant was absolutely void; and that Wilkes was therefore entitled to his discharge. It followed as a matter of course that he was afterwards entitled to compensation from the ministers who had restrained his liberty; and thus justice was obtained without the necessity of a revolution; even without an act of parliament; and in defiance of an illegal resolution adopted by both Houses. It appears to us that the assertion of a general proposition, which should have imbodied all the Rights of Man, would have been of comparatively little value. If we are right in considering such views as these mistaken, the error is one into which an English historian would not be likely to fall; but Schlosser's position and habits of thought give him many counterbalancing advantages. He is apparently exempt from the party feeling which expresses itself as often by forced candour as by zealous advocacy; and he greatly prefers

naked truth to the edifying use which may be made of it. He expressly disclaims the power of graphic and objective description, as far as it depends on the projection of the writer into his subject by assuming the feelings and spirit of another time or place. Things as they appear to him, not as they might have appeared to him if he had witnessed them, form the subject of his work; and in his account of literature, as well as in the political portion of his history, he uses the language, and judges by the standards of the present day. The general severity and frequent bitterness of his censures seems to us to arise from the entire and unaffected seriousness with which he writes: it is at least consistently indiscriminate. Jesuits, Pietists, and Encyclopædists; Jacobins and Doctrinaires; the careless shallowness of Voltaire; the supercilious indifference of Göthe; England with its narrowness; Germany with its inefficiency; all move his indignation in turn, because they all seem to him defective in moral earnestness. In some cases he may be unintentionally unjust, but it is from a mistake in the fact, not in the rule by which it is estimated. He neither thinks bigoted positiveness the test of earnestness, nor love of innovation equivalent to a desire for improvement; and he holds men responsible for wilful ignorance, as well as for neglect to act up to their knowledge. In England, where opinions, if firmly held, are supposed to justify themselves and their practical results, we think that Schlosser's history may in this respect, as well as in many others, produce a beneficial effect. As a general history of the eighteenth century, it takes up ground which has not, as far as we know, been preoccupied by any English writer. In approaching the French Revolution and the Wars of the Empire, the historian will have many competitors. What his comparative success may be it is not necessary to anticipate; but it is at least certain, that a sufficient history embracing the whole of that time still remains to be written.

THERE are few countries in the civilized world that possess objects and institutions of a higher and more varied interest than our own native land. Approximating in its locality to the frigid zone-and deeply indented throughout its peninsular outline by winding estuaries, and spacious bays, and deep inlets of the ocean, and fringed on its western and northern shores by innumerable islands-Scotland enjoys a climate at once mild and salubrious, equally removed from the rigours of an arctic winter and the scorching heats of a tropical sun. No exhalations poison its atmosphere-no sirocco blights it-no tornado shakes it; and we know no more

of the earthquake than what is required to make us grateful for our ignorance.

At every season of the year Scotland is accessible to the stranger, whether he comes as a pilgrim, with his staff and his scrip, or is welcomed to our shores by the light-beacons which keep watch over them by night. A railroad unites its political with its commercial metropolis, mail-coaches pass daily along its great lines of communication, and the busy steamer plies with unceasing industry along its sinuous and rugged coasts.

With this external character the interior of our peninsula exactly corresponds. Mountain