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 308 country’s welfare. Then came the revolution of 1848, and Felix Schwartzenburg, who was the incarnation of Metternich’s principles without his subtlety and discrimination. He obtained, though but for a moment, a false and dangerous triumph. He endeavoured, with the help of foreign bayonets, not only to restore the central despotism of Viennese bureaucracy, but to complete the work which had been begun even in the days of that ungrateful Queen, who owed the salvation of her crown to the Hungarians, and repaid them by an endeavour to sap and destroy their independence, and national existence. Schwartzenburg triumphed for the moment, and his triumph bore fruit in the ascendancy of the mother of the Emperor, and the fanatical Camarilla—ultimately in the Concordat. That Concordat has already cost Lombardy to Francis Joseph, and unless it be speedily rescinded, Lombardy is but an instalment of the purchase-money which he will be called upon to pay as the price of his subserviency to the Parti Prêtre. And the result of his bargain is that he has been driven to govern by the army. If you will violate the consciences of human beings, you must have a sufficiency of dragoons to back you up in the attempt. But dragoons cost money—many dragoons cost much money—and very many dragoons imply a national bankruptcy. Now Austria, in consequence of this attempt to govern by military authority, stands upon the verge of national bankruptcy; and it is under such conditions that Francis Joseph has summoned his first Parliament, and has announced for the first time his intention of endeavouring to become a Constitutional Sovereign. The situation is full of traps and pitfalls, and the spectator may well be pardoned if he is sceptical as to the result.

It should be remarked that this question of constitutional government for the other provinces of the Austrian Empire—save Hungary—stands quite apart, and must be considered apart from the complications which have arisen with regard to Hungarian affairs. Hungary declines absorption into the general body of the Empire. Hungary is a kingdom by itself, and refuses to be cast into the melting-pot. She consents to be united to Austria by the golden link of the Crown, but will not budge one inch further. Hungary has been Austria’s Ireland—but in her instance the Ireland of the Magyars will prove in all probability the superior both in military power and political influence.

The resolutions of the French Emperor will take their colour and bias from the events which may occur in Hungary during the next few weeks, and therefore we would for the moment direct attention to what is passing at the eastern extremity of Europe, as to the real point of sight. Just now Louis Napoleon stands between the Ultramontanes and the Latitudinarians of his Empire, like Garrick between Tragedy and Comedy—

He lets “I dare not” wait upon “I would,”

Like the poor cat i’ the adage.

He blames the Pope, but he protects him;—he has fought against the Austrian in Lombardy, but maintains the French garrison at Rome;—he keeps his fleet before Gaëta, and just withdraws it in time to ensure the destruction of the young Bourbon;—he delivers an address which is as displeasing to the Ultramontanes as to the Liberals of France. No doubt, but for his troops the Pope would commence his travels to-morrow, and yet the Bishop of Poictiers compares him to Judas Iscariot, and calls him by every ugly name which sacerdotal zeal can devise—and priests know how to rail when they take the matter in hand.

In our own House of Commons, whilst all this pother is on foot, we find that during the representatives of the British people have been engaged in an animated discussion as to the best means of reorganising the administration of the navy. That shows pretty well the tendency of public policy and public opinion in our own country. The continent of Europe is growing bayonets instead of corn—and England is building iron ships of war. Can the end of these things be peace?

In addition to this discussion we have had a dreary debate in the House of Lords, provoked by Lord Normanby, who (forgetful of the glories of his former days, when as Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, he rode about magnificently upon a white horse, and exercised the royal prerogative of mercy in a very summary way), now acts the part of the lean and slippered Pantaloon of Diplomacy. Lord Normanby, in his old age, had been appointed Chief of the Mission to the Court of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and no doubt this was as easy and delightful a post as any man could desire for his declining years. When at Florence, Lord Normanby found it far more agreeable to maintain friendly relations with the reactionary party than to mix himself up with the leaders of the national movement. No doubt, being the accredited Minister of his Sovereign to the court of an independent Prince, he was quite right in avoiding the society and fellowship of those by whom the authority of that Prince was threatened. His position was one of the most strict and absolute neutrality, as far as Italian factions were concerned: his duty was, in these matters, simply to furnish correct reports to his own government. In place of this, Lord Normanby became a violent partizan on the other side, and committed, in fact, the reverse of the mistake which some years ago led to the summary and humiliating dismissal of Sir Henry Bulwer from Madrid by General Narvaez. Having done what he could do to bring discredit upon the British name by his actions in Tuscany, —it was on Friday last—he came forward in the House of Lords as the defender and palliator of the misdeeds of the various Italian Kinglets who have been recently displaced by the Italian people. He could say nothing to the purpose, for there was nothing to be said—but he wound up a very tedious speech by informing the House that the Italians cared very little for English sympathy. Let us hope that they will be as indifferent to the denunciations poured upon them by Lord Normanby in the presence of the English Peers as were the English Peers on Friday night.