France, Red Republican, manufacturer of
lucifer-matches, affilié of several secret
societies, chemical lecturer, contractor for
paving roads, usher in a boarding-school;
then of Oran, Algeria, private soldier in the
Foreign Legion; then of Burgos, Santander,
St. Sebastian, and Passajes, warrior in the
Spanish service, Carlist or Christino by turns;
then of Montevideo; then of the United
States of America, professor in the colleges of
Gouveville, Va., and Ginslingopolis, Ga.; barman
at a liquor store, professor of languages,
and marker at a New Orleans billiard-room;
subsequently and ultimately of London,
promoter of a patent for extracting vinegar
from white lead, keeper of a cigar-shop,
professor of fencing, calisthenics, and German
literature; and latterly out of any trade or
occupation.

There is likewise to be found here, the Polish
colonel with one arm, Count Schottischyrinkski
playing draughts with Professor Toddiegraff,
lately escaped from Magdeburg; Captain
Scartaffaccio, who has fought bravely under
Charles Albert, at Novara, and for the Danes
in Schleswig Holstein, and against the French
on the battlements of Rome, and under
Manin, at Venice, against the Austrians;
also there may be encountered sundry
refugees of the vielle souche—the old style, in
fact—men who can remember the Grand
Duke Constantine, the knout, nose-slitting,
and Siberia; who have been St. Simonians,
and Carbonaros, and Setembrists;
who can tell you grim stories of the piombi
of Venice, of Prussian citadels, and Italian
galleys, of the French cellular vans, and the
oubliettes of Spielberg. But the last few years,
and the almost European revolt that followed
the Revolution of 1848, has brought to
England a new class of refugees, somewhat looked
down on, it must be said, by the old hands,
the matriculated in barricades, and those who
have gone in for honours in street combats,
but still welcomed by them as brothers in
adversity. These are enthusiastic young
advocates, zealous young sons of good families,
patriotic officers, who have thrown up their
commissions under despot standards to fight
for liberty, freedom-loving literary men,
republican journalists, Socialist workmen. These
poor fellows have been hunted from frontier
to frontier on the Continent, like mad-dogs.
Half of them have been condemned to death
in their own country, many of them forced to
fly from home, and kindred and friends, and
occupation, for deeds or thoughts expressed
in print or writing, which ministers or governments
would take, here, more as compliments
than otherwise. They manage things
differently abroad; and so there are in
London many public-houses and coffee-shops
always full of refugees. Harmless enough
they are, these unfortunate forestieri. There
are black sheep among them, certainly; but St.
Wapshot's sainted fold itself has, sometimes,
muttons of suspicious hue amongst its snowy
fleeces. There are refugees who cheat a little
sometimes at billiards, and who rob their
furnished lodgings, and attempt to pass bad half-
crowns, and forge Prussian bank-notes (I never
could find out how they could pay for forging,
for their value appears to vary between
twopence-halfpenny and sixpence). There are
refugees who get up sham testimonials, and
are connected with swindling companies and
gambling cigar-shops; but consider how
many thousands of them here in London,
born and bred gentlemen, who have lost
everything in the maintenance of what they
conscientiously believed to be the right against
might, live quietly, honestly, inoffensively,
doing no harm, existing on infinitesimal
means, working hard for miserable
remuneration, willing to do anything for a crust,
teaching languages for sixpence a lesson,
painting portraits for a shilling apiece,
taking out lessons on the flute or piano-
forte in bread or meat! We give them foot-
room, to be sure, but little more; and stout
John Bull, with all his antipathy to foreigners,
may sometimes melt at the sight of a burly
Polish major of heavy dragoons, explaining
the intricacies of an Italian verb to the young
ladies in a boarding-school, or a Professor
of moral philosophy selling cigars on commission
for his livelihood. They live, somehow,
these poor foreigners, much as the young
ravens do, I opine; yet they meet sometimes
at Herr Eselskopf 's, in Soho, or at some French
or Polish or Italian public-house in the same
refugee neighbourhood, and take their social
glass, drinking to better times, when they
shall enjoy their own again. Meanwhile,
they accommodate themselves, as best they
may, to the manners and customs of their
step-fatherland, forgetting Rhine wines and
Bavarian beer, and such foreign beverages for
the nonce, and living humbly, industriously,
contentedly, good-humouredly, on such poor
meats and drinks as they can get.

I call these refugees (and they form the
great majority of the exiles in London) the
quiescent ones; but there are also the
incandescent ones, the roaring, raging,
rampaging, red-hot refugees; the amateurs in
vitriol, soda-water bottles full of gunpowder,
and broken bottles for horses' hoofs; the
throwers of grand piano-fortes from first
floor windows on soldiers' heads, the cutters
off of dragoons' feet, the impalers of artillery-
men. There are some of these men in
London. Where do they meet? Not at
Herr Eselskopf's, certainly. They did frequent his
establishment; but since Hector
Chalamot, ex-silkweaver from Lyons,
attempted to bite off the nose of Captain
Sprottleowski, on the question of assassinating
the King of Prussia: which little rixe was
followed by Teufelshand, delegate of the
United Society of Brother Butchers,
demanding the heads of the company: and by
little Doctor Pferdschaff insisting on singing
his " Tod-lied," or Hymn to the Guillotine,