nifestation of national self-esteem.
That he knew how to profit by this sentiment, and incorporate his own
with the country's glory, so that they seemed to be inseparable, is not
among the lowest nor the least of the efforts of his genius.

The paroxysm of national vanity, for it was indeed no less, imparted a
peculiar character to the period. A vainglorious, boastful spirit was
abroad; men met each other with high-sounding gratulations about French
greatness and splendour, the sway we wielded over the rest of Europe,
and the influence with which we impressed our views over the entire
globe.

Since the fall of the monarchy there had been half-a-dozen national
fevers! There was the great Fraternal and Equality one; there was
the era of classical associations, with all their train of trumpery
affectation in dress and manner. Then came the conquering spirit, with
the flattering spectacle of great armies; and now, as if to complete
the cycle, there grew up that exaggerated conception of 'France and
her Mission,' an unlucky phrase that has since done plenty of mischief,
which seemed to carry the nation into the seventh heaven of overweening
self-love.

If I advert to this here, it is but passingly, neither stopping to
examine its causes, nor seeking to inquire the consequences that ensued
from it, but, as it were, chronicling the fact as it impressed me as
I stood that day on the Quai Voltaire, perhaps the only unimpassioned
lounger along its crowded thoroughfare.

Not even the ordinary 'a quatre sous' claimed exemption from this
sentiment. It might be supposed that meagre diet and sour wine were but
sorry provocatives to national enthusiasm, but even they could minister
to the epidemic ardour, and the humble dishes of that frugal board
masqueraded under titles that served to feed popular vanity. Of this
I was made suddenly aware as I stood looking over the parapet into the
river, and heard the rude voices of the labourers as they called for
cutlets _a la Caire_, potatoes _en Mamelouques_, or roast beef _a la
Monte-Notte_, while every goblet of their wine was tossed off to some
proud sentiment of national supremacy.

Amused by the scene, so novel in all its bearings, I took my place at
the table, not sorry for the excuse to myself for partaking so humble a
repast.

'_Sacrebleu!_' cried a rough-looking fellow with a red nightcap set
on one side of the head, 'make room there, we have the _aristocrates_,
coming down amo