rriage was the occasion of the singular exertion of _patria
potestas_ referred to above. At least two _lettres de cachet_ had
preceded it, and it is said that only the taking of the Bastille
prevented the issue, or at least the effect, of a third. Meanwhile, he
had been a gentleman-trooper in the _gendarmerie d'elite de la petite
maison du roi_, which, seeing that the _roi_ was Louis Quinze, probably
did not conduct itself after the fashion of the Thundering Legion, or of
Cromwell's Ironsides, or even of Captain Steele's "Christian Hero." The
life of this establishment, though as probably merry, was not long, and
Pigault became an actor--a very bad but rather popular actor, it was
said. Like other bad actors he wrote plays, which, if not good (they are
certainly not very cheerful to read), were far from unsuccessful. But it
was not till after the Revolution, and till he was near forty, that he
undertook prose fiction; his first book being _L'Enfant du Carnaval_ in
1792 (noticed in text). The revolutionary fury, however, of which there
are so many traces in his writings, caught him; he went back to
soldiering and fought at Valmy. He did not stay long in the army, but
went on novel-writing, his success having the rather unexpected, and
certainly very unusual, effect of reconciling his father. Indeed, this
arbitrary parent wished not only to recall him to life, which was
perhaps superfluous, but to "make an eldest son of him." This, Pigault,
who was a loose fish and a vulgar fellow, but, as was said above, not a
scoundrel, could not suffer; and he shared and shared alike with his
brothers and sisters. Under the Empire he obtained a place in the
customs, and held it under succeeding reigns till 1824, dying eleven
years later at over eighty, and having written novels continuously till
a short time before his death, and till the very eve of 1830. This odd
career was crowned by an odd accident, for his daughter's son was Emile
Augier. I never knew this fact till after the death of my friend, the
late Mr. H. D. Traill. If I had, I should certainly have asked him to
write an Imaginary Conversation between grandfather and grandson. Some
years (1822-1824) before his last novel, a complete edition of novels,
plays, and very valueless miscellanies had been issued in twenty octavo
volumes. The reader, like the river Iser in Campbell's great poem, will
be justified for the most part in "rolling rapidly" through them. But he
will find hi