engagement between English men-of-war and
the ships of the Republic; when, in the
universal crash of defeat and scudding wrecks,
the Vengeur, when summoned to strike, still
held on the fight; and, though maimed
hopelessly right and left, stem and stern, and sinking
to the bottom steadily, fought the battle
to the last. The lower-deck guns were kept
firing, until the water rushing in effectually
stopped the labours of the gallant sailors. Driven
to the upper deck, they worked the guns there
with equal fierceness, until similarly
interrupted. Finally, with colours flying, with deck
crowded with frantic sans-culotte sailors, tossing
their arms in defiance, shrieking one vociferous
chorus of " Vive la République " down sinks
the Vengeur, and is never seen more. Here
was a subject for painter, for poet, or story-
teller! Something more fit to be measured for
an inspiring ballad, than the mean exit of our
own Royal George. The fiery spirits-and-water
of fiction, compound it as you will, could never
be mixed so hot and strong as this. Yet Mr.
Carlyle, in some of those gropings and borings
for which he is famous, must needs snatch from
us this precious treasure. He has run into this
splendid Vengeur, stem on, with his iron ram,
and sunk her again for ever!

This it would appear is the cruel practical
version of the whole affair: Lord Howe had
come up with Villaret Joyeuse off Brest,
and a tremendous sea-fight had taken place,
with the usual issue—six French ships taken,
and a seventh, called the Vengeur, gone to the
bottom. This is the news brought to London,
and proclaimed at the Opera House to the
tumultuous music of God save the Queen. To
the French capital, then in utter chaos, news
of a victory must be announced; for anything
like a defeat would be guillotining matter for
those who announced it. Gradually, however,
the truth comes out; that ruinous business of
six vessels absent and a Vengeur sunk sounds
queerly as a victory; and so the sans-culotte
next begin to grind their teeth with many a
"sacr-ré," and get thirsty for blood. Some-
thing must be done, and that speedily, and the
ingenious forthwith manufacture the splendid
transparency of the sinking Vengeur, and the
"all hands" shouting " Vive la République" as
they go down.

Still, this may be the version of perfidious
Albion, grudging la France so much glory. But,
curious to say, perfidious Albion at once
accepted the transparency, and admired it more
than any others, until, unluckily, the story being
again ventilated only the other day, an English
naval man, actually in the fight, and not a cable's
length from the sinking vessel, comes forward
and slits the mendacious " windbag" open. It
was, he says, at the end of the fight; the poor
Vengeur was in a helpless condition, and settling
down fast. There were no colours flying;
and there were plenty of sans-culottes, frantic
indeed and shouting, not defiance, but in despair.
The boats of perfidious Albion were hard at
work, almost swamped, bringing them off. A
hundred of these " defiant Vengeurs " were
dragged on board the Culloden; more in that
ship, more in this; and, above all, the captain,
Renaudin, at lunch in the conqueror's cabin!
"Never, in fact," says that officer, " were men
more anxious to be saved." Here, indeed, is a
collapse!

Again: another French transparency, very
pretty and much admired. Every school-girl
knows the story of poor good soft-hearted stupid
Louis, who could not read the signs of the
times, and whom we actually lose temper with
for his obtuseness. But we are agreed how
nobly he played his part at the end, and how a
courageous Irish clergyman, of the Edgeworth
family, was found to stand by him on the
scaffold. Happily there is no false colouring, so
far. We know all the incidents of that
terrible scene, the rolling of the drums when he
would speak, his indignant protest against his
hands being tied like a common malefactor's,
and his ready consent on a whisper from the
priest. So far, all true. But, alas! that we
must sponge out that grand apostrophe, which
is, indeed, the culmination of the whole: " Fils
de Saint-Louis, montez au ciel!" It is like
tearing up a tree by the roots. It grieves
one to the soul to have to give up that darling
bit of sentiment. The whole scene, otherwise
pathetic, someway seems to halt and become
tame, after that excision. Yet it could not
stay, except out of mere compliment to the poor
king. For the words were never spoken. Who,
indeed, was to pick them up? Not the poor
king, certainly. Not the crowd; for the drums
were beating furiously. Sanson and his brethren
were not likely to treasure up a bit of sentiment.
Clearly, then, it rests with the abbé himself,
who, when pressed on the subject, had no
recollection of having made such an apostrophe.
The moment was one of agitation. He does not
know or recollect any words of the kind, and
might have spoken twenty other such speeches.
This is unsatisfactory. Very likely it was
manufactured to order by an enthusiastic Bourbon,
like many other transparencies, and like one
special cracker that is confessed to have been
so manufactured. When the Restoration came,
almost every one had in their mouth the happy
mot of the king, so full of tact and wit: " There
is nothing changed in France: only one French-
man more." But every one did not know that
the French ex-bishops had been asking
perseveringly, " Had he said anything?" and, finally,
in despair at anything neat or appropriate from
such a quarter, had sent forth this pleasant quip.
Thus history is written.

The next slide, ladies and gentlemen, is French
also. The locus in quo being the famed field
of Waterloo. We know the whole story. The
last charge; the French Guard breaking up like
spray before the solid English line, and the
final rout. Then the remnant of the Garde
Imperiale throwing itself in a few squares,
and the brave Cambronne uttering the noble
and defiant, yet mournful refusal, " The Guard
can die, but never surrenders!" Le Garde