way in order to grasp the hand of a citizen
soldier. At last the king made up his mind to
suggest that the important military position
should be surrendered by Lafayette, from whom
I afterwards heard the gist of the conversation.
The king said that moral influence was always
more valuable and more lasting than any other;
that in Lafayette's case it was unbounded; that
such influence was weakened, not strengthened,
by his holding the commandership of the National
Guard, and that his resignation of the post would
be a most meritorious act of self–abnegation.

The result was, that the general consented to
give up the chieftaincy. He had at the time
the greatest confidence in the king, and thought
it would be unseemly in his position if he
allowed what might be called a personal vanity
to stand in the way of the king's honest and
patriotic views. I remarked to him, "So the
king managed to persuade you that a man without
a sword is stronger than a man with one."
A very short time before his death, Lafayette
said to me that he had been cruelly deceived,
and had committed a grave fault in allowing
himself to be deposed before he had placed the
liberty and good government of his country on
solid foundations. When he saw the tricolor
floating over every tower, heard the Marseillaise
from every tongue, himself the recognised arbiter
of the national destinies, the whole edifice of
ancient legitimacy in utter ruins, he seemed to
fancy the great work was done, while, in fact,
the central machinery of despotism remained to
be directed by those who could manage to seize
its handle, and nothing was really accomplished
for the establishment of the primary conditions
of freedom—such as free locomotion, free press,
free assembling, trial by jury, habeas corpus;
and to impose the title of Roi des Français,
instead of Roi de France, was hailed as one of
the most triumphant results of the revolution.

Immediately after his recognition by the
British government, after the journées
glorieuses of July, 1830, I visited the king at the
Palais Royal, and met Lord Stewart de Rothsay,
who had just conveyed to the king the all–
important news, coming out as we entered. We
had stopped to examine some of the pictures in
the waiting–room, the most interesting of which
was one by Horace Vernet, representing the king
engaged in Switzerland teaching mathematics to
young people. It was a part of his history to
which he loved to revert, and which he did well
to commemorate. It will be recollected that
he claimed in England the right to be admitted
into the Society of Schoolmasters, "and had his
claims allowed."

Odilon Barrot, then Préfet of the Seine, and
in high favour, was my introducer. I was the
bearer of the address of the Citizens of London,
voted in Common Hall to the Parisians,
congratulating them on the downfal of the
Bourbons, and hailing the uprising of the sun of
liberty in France. Eight years before, I had
been banished by those Bourbons from that
country, on the plea that I was the bearer of
correspondence hostile to the legitimate dynasty,
and that I had furnished money for aiding the
escape from prison of three young republicans
then under sentence of death. Paris was now
in a delirium of delight, and we found the
king almost wild with joy. There was an
ancient arm–chair, covered with scarlet damask
and gold broidery, near the centre of the
room. He dragged two other chairs near it,
sat down in the middle chair, and ordered us
to be seated by his side. He began to
expatiate on the heroic virtues of the Parisians; on
his own reception by the multitude when he was
escorted from Neuilly to Paris; on the headlong
folly of the elder branch; on the grand things to
be done, and which he was determined to do for
his country. In the burstings of his excitement,
"crash!" "crash!" went down the rotten old
arm–chair. The king would have fallen on his
back, had not Odilon Barrot and myself seized
him by the two arms and lifted him up. We
had a ready word of consolation; but the
catastrophe was ominous notwithstanding.

The character of the king was not long
undeveloped. Dupont de l'Eure was the Minister
of Justice immediately after the accession of
Louis Philippe to the throne in 1830. He was
a man of unflinching honesty, and who preserved
his independence under every circumstance. He
told me that on one occasion he nominated a
most excellent and worthy person to a judgeship,
and laid the nomination before the king for his
approval and signature. The king hesitated,
and Dupont, supposing there might be
objections unknown to himself, said he would defer
the appointment, with the view of making further
inquiries. These further inquiries confirmed
the high opinion he had formed of the aptitudes
and deservings of the gentleman in question, and
at the next meeting of the council he told the
king that he had been led to a thorough
reinvestigation of the claims of the functionary,
and, unless his majesty had some valid cause
for the refusal of his sanction, he hoped there
would be no further demur. The king at last
said, impatiently, "He took a brief against me in
an action at law." "And did he succeed?"
inquired the minister. "Yes," answered the
king, still more impatiently. "Then, sire, your
majesty has only to choose between his appointment
and my dismissal." Louis Philippe silently
signed the decree. The king was never satisfied
with a general adhesion to the institutions
of which he was the apex, but of which he
disregarded the base. He demanded a distinct
personal allegiance, and though his notions did
not openly assume the form adopted by the first
Napoleon, "L'état, c'est moi!" he must
certainly have been influenced by the dreamings
that "L'état pour moi!" was the fit interpretation
of the meaning of the two elements of his
supposed popularity, when he was proclaimed
by the Legitimists "Louis Philippe, parce que
Bourbon," and by the Democrats, "Louis
Philippe, quoique Bourbon."

Probably the greatest error Louis Philippe
ever committed was his neglect to cultivate a
friendly and cordial alliance with England. He