his victories; there, by the dome of the
Invalides, where his maimed veterans doze on
the benches; there, on the shining river
crossed by his bridges; and there, in the blue
distance, where the dismal turrets of the
Conciergerie point to the Palais de Justice,
where his judges sit to this day and expound
his code; there, on every side, the sign and
mark of this man are for a wonder and an
astonishment.

But I have not come to the end of my
handful of change yet.  I have a few more
silver pieces, and many coppers.  I finger again
another franc—a dull, tasteless, leaden-looking
piece of metal enough, bearing thereon a very
ordinary, common place-looking ledger-and-
day-book sort of head.  A Dieu ne plaise,
though, that I should be wanting in respect
to the possessor of Claremont and thirty
thousand a year—to a sovereign, moreover,
who, if he had no other claim to respect and
affection, has this at least from English hearts,
that he was the husband of the Princess
Charlotte. But King Leopold does not shine
advantageously on his silver coinage.  The
laurel wreath sits uneasily on his brow, and his
entire position seems anomalous and
uncomfortable, as perchance his corporeal one may
be, in that hybrid land which has been a bone
of European contention since Caesar's time, in
that fat, fertile country of corn-fields, battle-
fields, and coal-mines, of Reubens's pictures and
Jacques CÅ“ur's carvings, of bread-and-butter
sandwiches and hard eggs (so excellently boiled,
however, that I am privately of opinion that the
hens lay hard eggs in the Low Countries), and
whose inhabitants have been so accustomed to
be politically bullied from time immemorial—
from Julius Cæsar to Philip van Artevelde—
from the Duke of Alva to Napoleon—that
they don't seem to know what to make of
liberty now they have got it.  I never knew
a Belgian, even one of the most constitutional,
but who had a savoury relish for the pitiably
greasy monks who infest the streets and
railway trains.  With all their liberty, "les
braves Belges" are notoriously priest-ridden;
and with all their gratitude for the battle of
Waterloo and the downfall of Napoleon, eleven
out of twelve Belgians maintain that the
English were signally beaten on that occasion,
only they were too stupid to become aware
of the fact.  They, the Belgians, found out
their defeat in what is familiarly termed
"no time," and showed their superior
discrimination by running away as fast as their
legs could carry them.  When I visited the
field of Waterloo, the guide—who of course
had been in the battle, though I verily believe
that he must have been in petticoats in 1815—
took care to inform me, while pointing out the
notabilities of the landscape, of the invincible
prowess displayed by the ''braves Belges"
during the battle, and of the hideous and
crapulous cowardice of the Dutch.  He
avowed, while we were on the field and in the
presence of a stout old Indian Colonel, who
looked liberal but fierce as well, that it was a
"grand victoire" a glorious day for Britain;
but, subsequently discussing a chopine of sour
beer with me, he informed me confidentially
that if it had not been for the "infame
trahison " of somebody somewhere, the
English would have been écr-r-rasés by the great
Emperor.

Hallo!  I thought my handful of change
was confined to France and Belgium.  But
I am in error.  Slides from between two
francs a little shabby greasy disc of silver
stating itself to be worth "cinque soldi"
and current, I suppose, in France as a five-
sous piece.  Whose is the head?  Charles
Albert, bland and kingly-looking, and bearing
the orthodox laurel wreath. The legend states
him to be "Dei gratiâ Sardiniæ Rex" and to
the best of my knowledge his style and title
was rightly that of King of Sardinia.  But
what is this in addition ?  "Cypri, Hierosolymæ
Rex"—King of Cyprus and Jerusalem ?  How
about the King of Naples ?  How about his
highness Abdul Medjid, Sultan of Turkey,
without whose permissory firman a single
Christian could not go up to the holy city.
Why should the King of Sardinia call himself
King of Cyprus and Jerusalem, when he is
about as much so as he is King of Brentford
or King of Oude ?  Why should a king
tell so gross a fib in public ?  Why should he
send forth to the ends of Europe so palpable
a what's-its-name upon this twopence-
halfpenny coin, to pass himself off as King of
Jerusalem to the industrials who black shoes
and shave poodles on the Pont Neuf.  But
soft: empty boasts and lying titles are nothing
to Charles Albert now; and before I fling a
stone, I should remember that we have glass-
houses in Great Britain.  I should call to
mind, that not very many years have passed
since our matter-of-fact George the Third
publicly styled himself King of France—at the
very time, too, that he was dispensing with a
lavish hand the blood and treasure of his
kingdom, to help the King of France to his
own again.

More coins! but the coppers begin to have it
their own way, like the carts and waggons over
the carriages anon.  Here are three kings
all of a row.  Louis the Eighteenth, King of
France and Navarre; very fat, very placid,
pomatum and hair-powder visible even on the
tarnished franc stamped with his royal
portrait. Charles the Tenth, also King of France
and Navarre, and passing current now for
fivepence sterling; he has a wan, dissatisfied,
mortified expression of countenance, but the
thin bloodless lips and quenched eye have all
the impassible obstinacy of the fated Bourbon
race, who have learned nothing and forgotten
nothing in years of exile and woe.  And, to
complete the category of kings in silver, is five-
penn'orth of the ancien régime—five-penn'orth
of Versailles, hoops, hair-powder and Madame
de Pompadour—a demi-livre—a ten-sous
piece, bearing the vera effigies of Louis the