it off; only exceeded
in his peculiar taste by the king of Dahomy, who is said to ornament the
steps of his palace with heads, fresh severed, each returning sun, as we
renew the decoration of our apartments from our gay parterres. I make
these observations, that I may not be accused of a disregard to
chronology, in not precisely stating the year, or rather the months,
during which flourished one of a race, who, like the flowers of the
cistus, one morning in all their splendour, on the next, are strewed
lifeless on the ground to make room for their successors. Speaking of
such ephemeral creations, it will be quite sufficient to say, "There
_was_ a Pacha."

Would you inquire by what means he was raised to the distinction? It is
an idle question. In this world, pre-eminence over your fellow
creatures can only be obtained, by leaving others far behind in the
career of virtue or of vice. In compliance with the dispositions of
those who rule, faithful service in the one path or the other will
shower honour upon the subject, and by the breath of kings he becomes
ennobled to look down upon his former equals.

And as the world spins round, the _why_ is of little moment. The
honours are bequeathed, but not the good, or the evil deeds, or the
talents by which they were obtained. In the latter we have but a life
interest, for the entail is cut off by death. Aristocracy in all its
varieties is as necessary for the well binding of society, as the divers
grades between the general and the common soldier are essential in the
field. Never then inquire, why this or that man has been raised above
his fellows; but, each night as you retire to bed, thank Heaven that you
are not _a King_.

And if I may digress, there is one badge of honour in our country, which
I never contemplate without serious reflection rising in my mind. It is
the _bloody_ hand in the dexter chief of a baronet,--now often worn, I
grant, by those who, perhaps, during their whole lives have never raised
their hands in anger. But my thoughts have returned to days of yore--
the iron days of _ironed men_, when it _was_ the symbol of faithful
service in the field--when it really was bestowed upon the "hand embrued
in blood;" and I have meditated, whether that hand, displayed with
exultation in this world, may not be held up trembling in the next--in
judgment against itself.

And I, whose memory stepping from one legal murder to another, can walk
dry-footed ov