the nation, without any adequate means of
military defence, was menaced on all sides.
The situation was frightful. But it had at
least the advantage of being definite; and,
so far, it must have afforded relief to the
mind of such a man as Kossuth. Only one
course was now left to him—open rupture
with Austria. He adopted it without a
moment's hesitation. Envoys were despatched
from Pesth to Paris and Frankfort,
in the desperate hope of obtaining foreign
assistance for the dislocation of the empire.
Two hundred millions of utterly worthless
paper money were issued, and made forced
currency on pain of death. Kossuth
himself, ill, suffering from acute physical pain
and exhaustion, pale, haggard, and so
weak that he could not walk alone, was
supported in the arms of two friends to his
place in the chamber. "Citizens," he
exclaimed, "the time for dreaming is over.
At this moment we stand alone in the
world. Single-handed we are left to
combat the conspiracy which has united
against us all the sovereigns and peoples
by whom we are surrounded. I repeat it.
We stand utterly alone. Fellow-citizens,
are you ready to fight for your lives and
liberties?"

The situation thus described by Kossuth
on the 11th of July, 1848, was precisely
what Szechenyi had foreseen and predicted
as the inevitable result of the policy so
vehemently preached to the nation by Kossuth
in 1847.

CHAPTER IV.

"I FOUND my countrymen heavily sleeping
in the darkness of night. I waked
them from slumber. I exhorted them to
light their streets and squares, so that they
might see clearly, and walk safely. But,
instead of lamps, it is torches that they have
kindled; and, by way of lighting the town
they have set fire to it. None of us will
now be able to extinguish the conflagration,
and when men ask who was the incendiary,
alas, must I not answer, 'It was
I,' I, who 'murdered sleep?'"

These words of Count Szechenyi's were
repeated to us by a friend of the count's to
whom he uttered them. When Szechenyi
consented to join the Batthiany administration,
he thereby consummated the last great
sacrifice which can be rendered by a noble
nature to a desperate cause. It was not
merely his life that he offered up on the altar
of a nation whose leader he had ceased to
be. It was not merely the legitimate claims
of a great name that he surrendered. It
was the fair fame of a blameless life, and
tin: peace of an acutely sensitive conscience.
His refusal to enter the cabinet would have
been the final abandonment of his country
in the moment of her extremest need. The
Batthiany administration could not have
been formed without him; for he was still
the Great Magyar.

Count Edmond Zichi was, in those days,
minister of police at Pesth. He had the
"petites entrées" to the Archduke Palatine.
On the morning which brought to Pesth
the news of the revolution at Vienna, the
count called on His Imperial and Royal
Highness, whom he found before a Psyche
glass, waxing his long moustaches with
Olympian calm. After listening to the
report of his minister,

"Well," said the archduke, "I know all
that; but what is to be done?"

"Every thing," replied Count Zichi.
"All depends on the firmness and energy
of your highness during the next three
days. All the respectable men in Hungary
are afraid of revolution, and will rally round
you (if you give them the means of doing
so) to prevent it. The troops are sound.
I will answer for the National Guard. You
have only two things to avoid. On the
one hand, you must not offend public feeling
by any appearance of menace; on the
other, you must keep the military force
from being undisciplined and demoralised
by fraternisation with the populace.
Concentrate them within their barracks. I
will be responsible for all other precautionary
measures. Meanwhile, lose not a moment
in dissolving, or at least proroguing,
the Diet. Until the Emperor's safety is
secured, and his authority re-established,
our paramount obligation is to save the
empire from anarchy."

This advice was warmly supported by
the unfortunate Count Lamberg, who
arrived during the interview.

"I will think it over," said the archduke.
"Call again to-morrow, for orders."
But the next day his only orders were,
"Call again to-morrow." On the third
day, instead of being immediately
admitted to the Palatine, Count Edmond
was detained for some hours in the
archduke's antechamber, tête-à-tête with the
afterwards influential Count Grün, then
aide-de-camp to the archduke. The aide-
de-camp was breakfasting. The minister,
who had not tasted food for forty-eight
hours, was worn out with fatigue and
hunger. At last the door of the presence
chamber opened, and the principal