which subsequently rolled over France, might have been distinctly heard, had men chosen to take the warning. Everything prognosticated, to the eye of the experienced statesman, some approaching catastrophe. As in the coming on of a storm, the electric fluid, disseminated through the air, causes oppression and dullness, so the brooding sullenness of the people rendered the atmosphere of the political world stagnant and heavy. But it is a remark obvious to every reader of history, that statesmen, if they reflect at all, are seldom found to reflect sufficiently beforehand on impending evil. There have been instances, undoubtedly, in which the bold intrepidity of a single politician has turned the balance in the scale of a nation's happiness. These instances, however, are but rare. In France, there was apparently little time for reflection. The desperate, but patriotic spirits, who afterwards constituted the great leaders of the French revolution, were all steadily maturing their powers. In comparative obscurity, the dark genius of Robespierre was acquiring strength, and gathering, from every sign of the times, fresh determination and energy. The age of lettres de cachet was drawing towards its close, and the Bastile trembled slightly, with a tremor only sufficient to give birth to a faint hope in the hearts of those within its precincts. Mirabeau's genius, however, only flashed upon the grand epoch of the revolution. He was lost to it just when his efforts could least be spared. His career was cast in the forging of the destiny of France, not in its working out. Our regret that such should have been the case is augmented by the reflection, that his talents were only beginning to be developed in all their glory. His sun was scarcely at its height, when by some unfortunate displacement in the machinery by which it had been launched upwards, the blazing orb precipitately fell, surrounded by the expiring rays of its own magnificence.

To estimate correctly a man of superior mind, the historian must stand on an elevation by no means far removed from that of the person whom he would pourtray. If he be placed much beneath, all hope of impartiality, of philosophical appreciation is gone. The author of the volumes before us, though he undoubtedly deserves the credit of having produced an attractive work, has not suffered it to appear that his talents in any way fitted him for the task he has undertaken. There is no evidence of that profound sympathy of soul with soul, which intellects on a common level display. Romilly was far better suited to be the biographer of Mirabeau, than the present author. Power, consciousness of innate merit, enabled him to pierce instantaneously through the disguises of his character, and meet him face

to face. Of Lord Brougham's appreciation of Mirabeau much has been said, though his lordship's views on most subjects, would incline us to well weigh his testimony before we received it. Our author armed, however, with all the confidence which vanity inspires, in the attempt to establish a fact favourable to himself, only convinces us that, in every respect, he was ill fitted to be the historian of the Count de Mirabeau. We require some one who, while capable and willing to appreciate him, will at the same time be impartial enough boldly to acknowledge his faults; and not as though the avenging spirit of the French orator stood at his elbow, to scare him from the truth,-side with him, defend his vices, excuse his faults, and impugn at the same time the justice, the goodness, and wisdom of the Almighty. Because human laws, derived from Scripture, stood in the way of the gratification of Mirabeau's wishes, the Almighty is implicated in the blame of the transaction. It will not be suprising, therefore, to find the man who imagines himself superior in wisdom to the Creator, asserting his claims to superiority over man, and boldly asserting that he alone, of all biographers, is to be considered as possessed of any worth. He affirms, that as yet, there has been written no life of Mirabeau worthy to be counted as such, no historian has painted him in his true colours; Penchet, Vitry, Romilly, Michelet, -all fall at once into the shade, before the transcendent splendour of the Life History.

That the work is by no means devoid of merit, that the writer occasionally manifests great power, we cordially admit. Nay, more. He has rendered his work amusing; so that many, satisfied to contemplate the mere outward shell of Mirabeau's character, will be delighted with it. But the volumes are defaced by many blemishes, of which, one of the worst is conceit. Nothing else could have inspired an author with the hope of displacing, by his hasty compilation, the laborious efforts of hard-working, pains-taking men of talent.

To sum up all,' he says, alluding to Penchet and Vitry, 'both their lives are execrable. We have no biography in the English language so utterly and unblushingly false, and so thoroughly tedious as their volumes.'

This sweeping censure upon rival biographers by no means. tends to improve the terms upon which we feel ourselves with our author. Setting aside his pompous and laboured style, this was sufficient of itself to detract from whatever favourable impressions we might otherwise have been inclined to form of him. As we proceed, however, in our brief outline of the life of this great man, we shall have further opportunities of remarking

upon the style which distinguishes these volumes. We pause only now to make the following extract :

-

Feeling a deep interest in this Mirabeau, and seeing that in biographical dictionaries, and histories of Europe, and such like, nothing but the grossest falsehoods have hitherto been propagafed; and believing, moreover, that as it is the vilest sin to traduce or disbelieve a hero, so it is the noblest purpose pen can be applied to, to untraduce and make clean that hero, and to cleanse his effigy from the filth which ignorance or malevolence have flung upon it,- we have endeavoured, with much expense and labour, to concentrate from this 'fils adoptif,' and other accredited sources, a concise and veracious life-history of Mirabeau.'-Vol. I. p. 10.

To imagine that by simply stating his conviction that Mirabeau has been aspersed, our author will wipe off all the imputations which have been hanging upon his memory for so many years, is as futile a supposition as could well be made. Yet our author, notwithstanding that he lays bare many of the secrets of the prison-house, presumes that we shall forgive every one of Mirabeau's failings, for the sake of his biographer.

Further up the genealogic tree' than Mirabeau's father, we shall not attempt to go. It is his character which at first mainly influenced, and subsequently, in a measure, developed itself, in the Count de Mirabeau, who possessed all his vehemence and revengeful nature, without his cruelty and persevering malice. At the age of twenty-seven, the Friend of Man married Marie Geneviève de Vassan, of high birth and great fortune, but not beautiful. As soon as the newly-wedded pair were settled, they began to live in a state of disagreement and open warfare. Domestic storms visited their house, and, in the midst of them, Gabriel Honoré de Riquetti was born at Bignon, on the 9th of March, 1749. Before the birth of his child, supposing it to be a boy (in which hope he had reason to fear disappointment, having had already four girls), the Marquis of Mirabeau had determined upon a certain course of education, which he immediately commenced carrying out.

No tender associations linger round the cradle of Mirabeau. Distinguished from his birth by his ugliness, he is rocked to sleep by the stormy passions of his father, and the tears wrung by ill usage from his mother; and we find the Marquis describing him, at five years of age, as ugly as the nephew of the devil. To mould this little deformity, already scarred with the small-pox, his features displaced and enlarged to something superhuman, now became the task of the Friend of Man.' Nature was to be allowed, according to our philosopher, little weight in the matter. His own character is the model upon

which he designed to frame that of his son. But in the struggle, the Marquis found he had to deal with a spirit fully as obstinate as his own, so that Mirabeau grew up in his perverted notions of right and wrong with little aid from his father, who, disappointed in his hopes, appears to have early commenced the system of harshness and persecution which he afterwards so rigorously pursued. The spirit he so steadily sought to quell rose high in the conflict, and, the harsher the measures employed to repress it, the more it became hardened. Under the care of a tutor, who appears by all accounts to have become attached to the child, as we generally do to those in whose minds we have implanted the first seeds of that which, diligently pursued, raises a man above mediocrity, Mirabeau early began to display his talents. To make speeches, instead of short, sharp answers, appears to have been his forte. At the age of six, we find the young orator making his first display of eloquence :

'One day, before company, he was asked to recite something. He accordingly addressed the following remarks to his tutor :

Sir, I beg you to be careful with your writing, and not to make blots upon your copy. Be attentive to what any one does. Obey your father, your master, your mother, and never contradict. Have no deceit, but honour above all things. Attack no one unless they attack you. Defend your country. Be not arbitrary with the servants, neither familiar. Conceal your neighbour's faults, because you may fall into the same.'-Ib. p. 34.

With the seeds of vice slowly implanted in his character, Mirabeau possessed many qualities that were amiable and loveable. His spirit of charity and generosity, though steadily sought to be repressed by the father, as in direct opposition to his sentiments of economy, was highly meritorious. In children, however, this generosity is often the result of mere recklessness. They bestow freely what they have no present desire for, though true generosity consists rather in bestowing freely what might have been useful to the giver, because another appears to require it, than in passing over to another that which time or constant use has rendered valueless in our own eyes.

When Mirabeau was eleven, prizes were given at Bignon for various feats, and he was so fortunate as to gain a hat for running. He immediately turned to an old bystander, who had but a poor cap, and, covering him with the prize hat, said, Here, take this; I have not two heads.' He appeared at that moment, writes Nivernois, as the emperor of the world.'-lb. p. 36.

It could scarcely be expected, however, that with all his no doubt brilliant qualities, Mirabeau could acquire any very firm

and strict code of morality. No governing principle, nothing of that pure spirit which draws all virtue around it, as a magnet, was infused into his soul. The world was his stage; no immortality of hope stretched beyond. There was nothing within him which bade him fear consequences. Nor was it to be expected in so material an age. Under his father's stern tutelage, he lived but to seek opportunities to gratify his passions, no matter at whose expense.

At the age of fifteen, under the assumed name of Peter Buffiere, our hero was placed in a military school at Paris, kept by the Abbé Choquarts, all whose instructions were subservient to one great one, do not spare the rod.' The Abbé, however, soon discovered beneath the plain, seamed features of the future orator, a genius and desire of improvement, which disarmed his severity. He could not be harsh when the soul-beaming eye of Mirabeau was upon him, bespeaking such ready obedience. Here he made improvement in, besides the dead languages, English, Italian, German, and Spanish, while mathematics, drawing, and music, in turns occupied his mind, and in all of which he made considerable progress. But, like most other lads at school, he required his pockets to be occasionally supplied. This his father refused to do, and his mother, discovering the circumstance, augmented still further the dislike of her husband, by forwarding supplies of cash to her child. Storms ensued in the domestic circle, and the Marquis left no means untried to incense still further his justly offended wife, who could not but resent the profligate course her husband was pursuing, away from her. Mirabeau was now prohibited from holding any correspondence with his mother; and, after revolving schemes of punishment the Marquis hit upon the plan of sending his son into the army.

As a volunteer, then, on the 19th of July, Mirabeau joined a regiment stationed at Saintes, on the river Charante, not far from Rochelle. The Marquis of Lambert being the most rigorous commander and strict disciplinarian in the service, was chosen as the commander of the young man. His conduct here, for a time appeared to give his father every satisfaction. He procured him a commission, as a reward for his behaviour. But Mirabeau did not continue long to please his stern parent, whose economical notions ill suited with his exalted notions of rank and influence. He would not allow him sufficient even to support himself on a footing with other gentlemen. Mirabeau began to play; he fell into debt, and subsequently in love. Rather say, however, not that he fell in love, but that he entangled himself in one of those affaires de cœur so common to military men. A lettre de cachet hovered about him. The