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O those who read in history of the murders, mutilations, and depositions of emperors in quick succession, it would seem as if any man destined to be emperor at Constantinople might write himself beforehand the most wretched. But the position was so splendid, the power so boundless, that there never was wanting an ambitious man, when the chance came, ready to stake his life on a single effort—he never had more than one chance—to get the crown, and having won, to wear it, in spite of all risks and anxieties. Once on the throne, indeed, a man would easily persuade himself that he was in perfect safety, notwithstanding history and all its warnings. The acclamations of a mob might mean nothing, except to a weak and vain prince. The solid strength of the crown, however, lay, or seemed to lie, on a stronger basis than mob favour. There was the fidelity of the Imperial Guard, composed as it was, not of fickle Greeks, but of Englishmen and Danes, a stalwart and loyal troop; there was the strength of the imperial palace, which was like a fortress; there were the walls,