Signor Azzeccagarbugli,--and the capons, in that awkward predicament,
finding no better occupation than to peck at each other? "As is too
often the case with companions in misfortune," observes the author, in
his quiet, humoristic way. We were just as wise. Instead of saying, _Mea
culpa_, we began to recriminate, and find fault with everything and
everybody. It was the fault of the Ministers, of the _Camarilla_, of the
army, of the big epaulets, of the King. Dynastic interest, of course,
was not forgotten in the indictment.

Dynastic interest, forsooth! So long as it combines and makes but one
with the interest of the nation, I should like to know where is the
great harm of it. As if kings alone were defiled with that pitch! As
if we had not, each and all of us, low and high, rich and poor, our
dynastic interest, and were not eager enough in its pursuit! As if
anybody scrupled at or were found fault with for pushing on his sons,
enlarging his business, rounding his estate, in the view of transmitting
it, thus improved, to his kindred and heirs!

But who thought of such things under the smart of defeat? I do not
intend, by this _post-facto_ grumbling, to give myself credit for having
been wiser than others. By no means. I played my part in the chorus of
fault-finders, and cried out as loud as anybody. The upshot was what
might have been expected. Independence went to the dogs--for a while.
Liberty, thank God, remained in this little corner, at least,--liberty,
the great lever for those who use it wisely. I know of nations, far more
experienced than we are in political matters, and whose programme in
1848 was far less complicated than ours, who cannot say as much for
themselves.

The times were unpropitious to the buttered-toast question, and it