le sun of St John's Day will
ever illumine the deepest recesses of his heart with the immortal
blossom of the purest, best love."

The little gentleman, however, is not done with yet. The dose is not yet
strong enough, although quite as strong as his mother, gentle creature,
could mix it. The early jacket is discarded in favour of the
swallow-tailed coat, and the youth passes into the hands of his
father:--

"His father takes him--'tis a great public festival--immense crowds in
Paris--he leads him from Notre Dame to the Louvre, the Tuileries, the
triumphal arch. From some roof or terrace, he shows him the people, _the
army passing, the bayonets clashing and glittering, and the tricolored
flag_. In the moments of expectation especially, before the _fete_, by
the fantastic reflections of the illumination, in that awful silence
which suddenly takes place in that dark ocean of people, he stoops
towards him and says, 'There, my son, look, there is France--there is
your native country! All this is like one man, one soul, one heart. They
would all die for one; and each man ought also to live and die for all.
Those men passing yonder, who are armed, and now departing, are going
away to fight for us. They leave here their father, their aged mother,
who will want them. You will do the same; you will never forget that
your mother is France.'"

The education is very nearly completed. The father suffers the
swallow-tail to wear out, the incipient mustache to take root, and then
he leads his second and better self to the mountain-side. This time he
does not stoop over him, for the youth is erect, and is as big a man as
his father. "Climb that mountain, my son," says the venerable gentleman,
"provided it be high enough; look to the four winds, you will see
nothing but _enemies_."

And so, by a very roundabout process, we reach the heart of the mystery.
M. Michelet loves fighting--remembers Waterloo--is game--is eager for
another round, and in his heart believes one Frenchman to be equal to at
least half a dozen Englishmen. He burns for one more trial of
strength--a last decisive tussle; and he writes a philosophical work to
prove the physical bout essential to the dignity, the grandeur, and the
redemption of his country. Every time, we repeat the words, that he
looks upon a bayonet, his heart bounds within him, and his only hope,
teacher and professor of the College of France though he be, rests in
trumpets, drums, swords, the ep