ed men of the crack frigate of the French navy are a "good specimen"
of the rest of the French marine, any more than a cuirassed colossus
at the gate of the Horse Guards can be considered a fair sample of the
British soldier of the line. The sword and pistol, however, had no doubt
their effect--the former was in its sheath, the latter not loaded, and
I hear that the French ladies are quite in raptures with these charming
loups-de-mer.

Let the warlike accoutrements then pass. It was necessary, perhaps, to
strike the Parisians with awe, and therefore the crew was armed in this
fierce fashion; but why should the captain begin to swagger as well as
his men? and why did the Prince de Joinville lug out sword and pistol
so early? or why, if he thought fit to make preparations, should the
official journals brag of them afterwards as proofs of his extraordinary
courage?

Here is the case. The English Government makes him a present of the
bones of Napoleon: English workmen work for nine hours without ceasing,
and dig the coffin out of the ground: the English Commissioner hands
over the key of the box to the French representative, Monsieur Chabot:
English horses carry the funeral car down to the sea-shore, accompanied
by the English Governor, who has actually left his bed to walk in the
procession and to do the French nation honor.

After receiving and acknowledging these politenesses, the French captain
takes his charge on board, and the first thing we afterwards hear of
him is the determination "qu'il a su faire passer" into all his crew,
to sink rather than yield up the body of the Emperor aux mains de
l'etranger--into the hands of the foreigner. My dear Monseigneur, is not
this par trop fort? Suppose "the foreigner" had wanted the coffin,
could he not have kept it? Why show this uncalled-for valor, this
extraordinary alacrity at sinking? Sink or blow yourself up as much
as you please, but your Royal Highness must see that the genteel thing
would have been to wait until you were asked to do so, before you
offended good-natured, honest people, who--heaven help them!--have never
shown themselves at all murderously inclined towards you. A man knocks
up his cabins forsooth, throws his tables and chairs overboard, runs
guns into the portholes, and calls le quartier du bord ou existaient ces
chambres, Lacedaemon. Lacedaemon! There is a province, O Prince, in your
royal father's dominions, a fruitful parent of heroes in its time, w