minister--and there is not a more
sagacious mind on the face of the earth--is inclined to think that it may
be averted. But I tell you, as the first secret which you may insert in
your despatches, that it will come--will be sudden, desperate, and
universal."

"May I not ask from what source you have your information; it will at
least strengthen mine?"

"Undoubtedly. You may tell the minister, or the world, that you had it
from Mordecai. I lay on you only one condition--that you shall not mention
it within a week. I have received it from our brethren on the Continent,
as a matter of business. I give it to you here as a flourish for your
first essay in diplomacy."

We had now reached the door of the post-chaise. He drew out another letter.
"This," said he, "is from my daughter. Before you come among us again, she
will probably be the wife of one of our nation, and the richest among us.
But she still values you as the preserver of her life, and sends you a
letter to one of our most intimate friends in Paris. If he shall not be
frightened out of it by the violence of the mob, you will find him and his
family hospitable. Now, farewell!" He turned away.

I sprang into the post-chaise, in which was already seated a French
courier, with despatches from his minister; whose attendance the Jew had
secured, to lighten the first inconveniences to a young traveller. The
word was given--we dashed along the Dover road, and I soon gave my last
gaze to London, with its fiery haze hanging over it, like the flame of a
conflagration.

My mind was still in a whirl as rapid as my wheels. Hope, doubt, and
determination passed through my brain in quick succession, yet there was
one thought that came, like Shakspeare's "delicate spirit," in all the
tumult of soul, of which, like Ariel in the storm, it was the chief cause,
to soothe and subdue me. Hastily as I had driven from the door of my hotel,
I had time to cast my eye along the front of Devonshire House. All the
windows of its principal apartments shone with almost noonday
brightness--uniforms glittered, and plumes waved in the momentary view.
But in the range above, all was dark; except one window--the window of
the boudoir--and there the light was of the dim and melancholy hue that
instinctively gives the impression of the sick-chamber. Was Clotilde still
there, feebly counting the hours of pain, while all within her hearing was
festivity? The answers which I had received to my daily