But neither is there blood upon the hand,
Nor stain of injury to any man!

With the deep blessings, unrestrained tears,
Of weeping nations, bear him to his grave!
No cenotaph, in foreign lands, uprear:
Heaven's canopy alone contains his fame:
Vain, perishable, worse than vain, to scrawl
O'er death the honours paid not to the living.
Against the stream of grasping injury,

He fought the battle of the weak,—the just !—
He died amid the freemen's gathering song,
In the bright morn of Freedom's coming day,
And fell beneath the flutter of her flag!

O, bury him, the great, the good, the just!
The moral of his long life rests with those
Whose bitter hearts will rue their bitter deeds.
The funeral anthem shall resound for long,
And far, and wide, o'er mountain, plain, and sea;
Against Oppression's stand, his name shall be
A watchword, and a cry to victory!

Among the Roman names mankind revere,
In Fame's broad temple, his escutcheon hangs,—
The rest is with a Marvell, Hampden, deep
Embalmed in every patriot Briton's heart.
To ages yet to come, to brighter times,
Whose radiant sun is on the horizon,
Commit the holding of his memory:
Upon the monumental stone inscribe,
"Sparta had no worthier son than he !"

M. S. M.

COMMEMORATION OF THE THREE DAYS.

PARIS, AUGUST 16, 1833.

THE French nation may be compared to the ocean, which throws up its most precious productions only during a storm. In the calm that suc.. ceeds, the treasures disappear, while many a goodly wreck drifts upon the shore. But the great element, as if ashamed of the mischief it has done, and the riches it has lavished, lies stagnant and sluggish ;—its limits compressed within moles and harbours, raised by the hands of man; its fearful bosom traversed with impunity by a gilded galley, which its smallest efforts might overwhelm; or fleets of cockboats, such as a single billow would reduce to nothingness.

The Revolution of 1830, has now so far receded into the past, that men are beginning to look to its results, rather than to its causes ;-to withdraw their observation from the roots of the Tree of Liberty, and examine into the nature of the fruit.

The Revolution of July has accomplished but half its promises; its contracts are broken; the contractors themselves have disappeared from the scene of action. Death has deprived the nation of some of its

ablest champions; Casimir Perier, Foy, Manuel. La Fayette is in extreme old age; Lafitte ruined; and Louis Philippe of Orleans-on the throne. The energies of Thiers and Guizot, are cramped by the littleness of placemanship; the Duc de Broglie, labours like the strong man at a fair, with a hundred weight of lead attached to each foot. The pilots are gone. Benjamin Constant is no more; Andrieux, the Polytechnist, rests from his labours; and Béranger, the bard of regeneration, like a plant prematurely forced into blossom by a gleam of sunshine, has withered down to the earth, to wait the return of a more genial season. Disappointment has set its seal upon those who prepared themselves to find in the Revolution of the Three Days, the groundwork of a new order of things, of a settled avenir, for a noble and enlightened country. They behold the old gilded lumbering state-coach of the Bourbons dragged forth again,-revarnished and replenished, to perform its wonted Juggernaut over the necks of the people. They hear the wheels creak,—the coachman swear,-the horses neigh under their rich caparisons,—the victims groan and struggle. Was it for this the patriots of July surrendered their lives to the country? Was it for this that those of the traitors of Ham were spared? Was it for this that the unhappy vagrants of Rambouillet were driven, with rods of bulrushes, from country to country? Alas! what marvel that Béranger has broken the strings of his lyre?" A man may survive the loss of father, mother, and offspring," says an able modern writer; "but it is a hard thing to outlive the loss of a Revolution!"

It is not, however, of the past that we have now occasion to speak. Our duty does not at present lead us to philosophize with the few, but to rejoice with the many. Of the 800,000 inhabitants of Paris, if one thousand have been recently engrossed by the erection of those bulwarks of despotism, the forts of the suburbs, the remaining seven hundred and ninety-nine thousand, have cried "Du pain et des spectacles!" "Commemorate the dead by a distribution of sausages and hot rolls at the Hotel de Ville, and a display of tumblers and rope dancers in the Champs Elysées. Since Napoleon's time, we have forgotten the smell of powder :—give us fireworks. Since Napoleon's time, we hear no more of fleets of flat-bottomed boats :-give us sham fights on the Seine; take Vigiers' baths by storm; and bombard the Morgue. Why grub and burrow in the sands of Egypt, for the granite skeletons of departed centuries? Build us up an obelisk of oil-cloth! Why labour in the dock-yards of Cherbourg to construct vessels of the line? Build us in the Frog Port of the Quai d'Orsay, a three-decker of lath and plaster;—an amphibious man-ofwar,—a vessel of the line-(of march ;) où il n'y a pas á balancer ;— where (one deck on Seine, and one on land) we may play the Triton among the minnows."

"Je ne desire pas mieux," replies the citizen king of civil lists and political persecutions. "You have turned off the engineers from my fortresses. They want work as much as you want recreation. You shall have Chinese pavilions in the Champs Elysées, and orchestras in the reservoirs of the gardens of the Tuileries; you shall have pillars and posts of all sizes and dimensions in all parts of the city; some to bear inscription of the imperial victories, some of my own ;-some to the memory of the victims of July ;-some to the memory of Valmy and Jemmappes. It is true that the name of "un homme de Juillet," counter-signed on a memorial or petition by my ministers of the Home Department, has been motive enough to throw it aside any time these two years; but funeral

masses shall now be celebrated in their honour, and the cries of their orphans shall be drowned in the trumpets and shawms of our military symphonies. We will marry, at our royal and municipal expense, a dozen of their sons and daughters, lest the race of patriots, like that of golden pippins, should be lost to the country; and my own sons and daughters, the citizen-princes and princesses, for whom you provide lords and ladies-inwaiting, shall dance at the wedding." Thus spake the Chef de l'Etat ; and the people responded "Amen, so be it."—" The old dynasty established the seminaires of Jesuits with one hand, and shut up Ecouen with the other. The new dynasty threaten to suppress the Hotel des Invalides, with its three thousand veteran pensioners; but they marry fifteen young couples, and pay for the wedding dinner. Vive le Roi ! Let us celebrate the Revolution of the Three Days."

But the heterogeneous assembly which we generalize under the name of "Government," was not wholly composed of Bourbons; and it naturally occurred to some of the least stupid among the Ministers, that although the Parisians are "contented wi' little, and canty wi' mair," in the way of festivity, the nations and languages of Europe might find cause for contempt in mummeries such as those projected by the King, to form the commemoration of a National Revolution. The statue of Napoleon was already hot from the furnance. Funds for the erection of warehouses for bonded goods, of a new bridge, of a gallery of natural history-had been voted by the Chambers. A solemn inauguration of the imperial effigy would propitiate the many: the foundation of useful and scientific institutions, gratify the few. A grand review of the national guards and the line would serve to surround the throne with an effective force, and figure handsomely in the eyes of Europe. And thus was concocted the programme of the fêtes of July, 1833!

On the 27th, accordingly-the day devoted to commemoration of the dead-the lungs of the officiating priests, the pipes of the officiating organs, and the iron tongues of the officiating batteries, were prepared for action. Masses and military symphonies were performed alternately in all the churches of the capital; and spectral-looking monuments, composed of black boards, striped after a ghastly fashion with white paint, were set up on the various spots consecrated to the interment of the victims. The effect was precisely that of an ill-acted pantomime, ad dressed to the most vulgar of minds. The memory of the heroes of July could be fitly honoured only by the abrogation of the abuses they died to suppress, and the restoration of the principles they died to support. Yet here and there, in various parts of the city, a monument, erected to some solitary victim by his surviving friends, attracted commiseration; while neither the black draperies, nor the thumping of the military organists, nor the tombs of painted wood, tended to affect the minds of the spectators with reverence or gratitude towards the royal commemorator of the modern Thermopylæ. From the sublime to the ridiculous-from the sepulchres of the dead to the booths of the Champs Elysées-it was but a step. "Y-avoit-il des tiens, mon voisin? was whispered beside the Pont d'Arcole, drest out for the occasion with garlands of laurel and everlastings; and soon followed by "Qui veut voir la belle et unique géante Italienne; sept pieds huit pouces de hauteur, sans chaussons ni socques?" While minute-guns were fired from the tempo rary batteries of the Seine during the Messes des morts, tabors and pipes announcing raree-shows, the twanging of guitars, the squeaking of fifes, the popping of petards, the whizzing of frying-pans, the roaring of

wild-beasts, the gabbling of Punchinello, the crying of children and gingerbread, the scolding, screeching, swearing, blaspheming, of men, women, and police, were heard on all sides in the Champs Elysées. Such were the diversions dedicated to the memory of the patriots of July.

The morrow morning, the memorable 28th, presented a nobler picture ; for it was consecrated to the name of Napoleon-the man who raised the blazing torch of glory so high into the clouds that the upraised eyes of his subjects lost sight of the miseries by which they were surrounded— who caused the vessel of the State to float so smoothly and gallantly upon its sea of blood, that the mariners thought only of the promised harbour, nor cared for the colour of the current, or the number of corpses over which it ebbed and flowed! The weather of the 28th was most auspicious-cloudy, but enlivened with frequent gleams of sunshine. The troops, to the number of 85,000 men, were astir in the capital at an early hour-the national guard forming a line on one side the Boulevards, the troops of the line on the other; and, after parading this brilliant line of two miles in extent, Louis Philippe and his sons, followed by a staff of one hundred officers, comprising the noblest names in France, proceeded to the Place Vendôme for the great event of the day—the inauguration of Napoleon's statue.

The Place Vendôme, created by Louis XV. to afford domiciles for his fermiers généraux, is probably the most uniform as well as noblest sample of domestic architecture to be found in any capital of Europe. No worthier area could have been found for that exquisite monument, the Napoleon column,-the only trophy executed with sufficient grandeur and solidity to resist the ungrateful fickleness of the French towards the mighty conqueror whom their incense intoxicated to his ruin. The bronze column of the Place Vendôme, the product of the gleanings of many a field of battle, would have been levelled to the dust by the Parisian populace, to flatter the mean envy of the Bourbons, had it not been so firm in its construction as to outlive the storm, and afford to a Bourbon on the throne of France a future instrument of flattery to the Parisian populace. Not content, however, with their glorious monument, they must needs defile its simplicity with all the meretricious accessions that false taste could devise. On the day of the inauguration, the pillar of brass was encompassed with twelve demi-columns of painted paper, each being surmounted with a gilt paper ball and spike! The pedestal was hung round with festoons of artificial flowers, wrought about in divers colours; the gallery surrounding the summit crowned with a profusion of tri-coloured flags, like a booth at a fair; and the statue itself enshrouded in a mysterious mantle of green, dotted over with golden stars. Yet, in spite of these scenic decorations, the column, the square, the mounted municipal guard by which the populace was kept at bay, the rows of windows lined with groups of the most elegant women in Paris, the decorated tribunes set apart for the Queen and Princesses, and, above all, the veterans of the Garde Impériale and Mameluke brigade, who had re-assumed their well-preserved uniforms, in honour of the new day and their old master-formed a highly interesting spectacle. At the moment when Louis Philippe and his military cavalcade placed themselves in a semicircle opposite the column, with uncovered heads and anxious faces, while at the signal of Monsieur Thiers (the historian of the Revolution) the mantle fell from the statue, amid the shouts of the multitude, the rolling of drums, the clapping of hands, and the scarcely audible strains of " La Parisienne,"—not

a person present but must have felt awed by the consciousness that he was witnessing a grand historical ceremony-a feat for the admiration of posterity! Nothing could exceed the enthusiasm of the spectators. Thousands of faces were upturned towards the statue; as if to witness the unexpected rising of a worshipped star, long set in darkness. Many present were in tears, many in ecstacies,—all in a state of the highest excitement. But such is the versatility of the French, that no sooner had the King put on his hat, the Queen laid aside her pocket handkerchief, and the Princesses their smelling bottles; no sooner was the broken-winded band of the first legion of National Guards heard at a distance, and the white aprons and black beards of the Sapeurs seen entering the square, than the Emperor, his victories, and his sufferings, were forgotten, as much as if he had never lived, and never died. The statue stood alone with its glory: the hearts of the multitude were elsewhere. "Merciful powers! look at the National Guard of the banlieue!" cried the Parisians. "What figures! Some with uniforms-some without; some carrying arms to the statue -some to the King; some taking snuff-some crying, Down with the fortresses!' What a set! Ah! there is my shoemaker! The fat man is my father's grocer. Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! sont-ils drôles! c'est unique."

But if" drôle" in detail, all notion of the burlesque was lost when fifty thousand citizens in arms had successively presented themselves before the King; all, or nearly all, vociferous in their expressions of loyalty to his person, and attachment to constitutional monarchy. Both Carlist and Republican must have felt that they had nothing further to hope from the Bourgeoisie of Paris. The love of order and the egotism of the commercial classes were ascendant. The bonnetier remembered how long his stock of Rouemeries had remained on hand after the last Revolution. The perfumer, the coachmaker, the mercer, recollected that luxury, the virtue of courts, becomes criminal in a republic. What matters it to such men that the journalist who supplies him with the news which sweetens his morning and evening coffee, is thrust into a prison for having garnished that news with a commentary? "Les délits politiques,-cela ne nous regarde pas!" exclaimed the fat corporals of the National Guard; and "Vive le Roi quand même !" burst anew from the lips of men who were called together to solemnize the advent of Liberty!

So soon as the vast army of the capital could be disposed of, (the ceremonial of passing in review occupying nine tedious hours,) his Majesty exhibited once more his rubicund visage and double chin to the crowd, and made off, as Bourbons for centuries past have been fond of doing, to the dinner table at the Tuileries. In gratitude for the excess of pipeclay and loyalty displayed at the review, the colonels of the various regiments were invited to dine with the King; and away went the royal carriages, the mob huzzaing lustily for the Queen in her blue gown, the Princess Marie in her pink gown, and all the little princes and princesses, after their kind, down to the Prince de Joinville, in his bobtail midshipman's jacket!

But while one hundred and fifty persons sat down to dinner with the King, one hundred and fifty thousand were crushed together in a crowd that filled the Champs Elysées, and gardens of the Tuileries, in the hope of hearing a concert performed by five hundred musicians in the open air. Such music well deserved to be called the music of the spheres ;