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vernment paper. There was but one measure wanting to destroy the bank, and it was adopted. In February 1720, an edict was issued, forbidding any person to keep more than 500 livres (£20) in his hands, under penalty of fine and confiscation. This was equivalent to the total disappearance of coin. But it was further prohibited to buy up jewellery and plate with the paper. This was equivalent to the total depreciation of the paper, for if it could not buy what men chose, it had lost its use. But this was connected with a still worse measure, the employment of informers, who were to receive half the amount of their discoveries. France was instantly covered with this worse than locust host. No family, no individual was safe. Arrests and confiscations were universal; the simple word of an informer, that he suspected gold in any man's house, was enough to authorize a search warrant. Robbery and revenge naturally availed themselves of this desperate privilege, and all kinds of offences and insults were offered. Lord Stair, the British ambassador, wittily said of this extraordinary act of tyranny, that Law had now completed the proof of his sincerity in turning papist-having first shown his faith in transubstantiation, by turning all the gold of France into paper, and next having thrown all France into the Inquisition. The blow was struck.

Popular terror now began to flame into popular rage. Coin was not to be had, or if had, any sum above 500 livres brought the possessor or offerer to ruin. No one would touch the paper of the bank. Conspiracies began to be organized. Threats of a new St Bartholomew were heard in all quarters. All was poverty, misery, and vengeance; and the government were still more frantic than the people. The curse of despotism was now thoroughly felt. Force attempted every thing, in an instance where it could do nothing. The excess of paper had been the origin of the evil: the government, in its desperation, absolutely swelled that excess. tween the 1st of February and the last of May, it issued notes to the amount of 1500 millions of livres (£60,000,000 sterling.)

Be

This only increased the general depreciation. The president of the par

liament of Paris told the regent to his face, that he would rather have 100,000 livres in specie, than 5,000,000 in his paper.

We can follow those details no longer. On the 27th of May, the bank stopped payment in specie. Law and D'Argenson were both dismissed from the ministry. D'Aguesseau was made chancellor again, and by some temporary arrangments the bank was enabled to pay small sums in coin. This produced new riots; the rush to the bank was so furious, that people were frequently crushed to death. In one day, fifteen were thus killed. The bank itself would have been plundered, but for the soldiers, who met the crowd with fixed bayonets. bayonets. Law's equipage happening to be in the court-yard of the Palais-Royal, to which some of the bodies of the dead were carried by an immense mob, to show the regent the effect of his measures, the carriage was torn to pieces; and the president of the parliament, which was then sitting, happening to bring the news, the whole assembly rose with a general acclamation — a voice being heard above it all, crying out, " And Law himself, is he torn to pieces?" The president is said to have even turned poet on the occasion, and, in his rapture, to have entered the hall, saying or singing

"Messieurs, Messieurs, bonne nouvelle ! Le carosse de Law est reduit en canelle."

The French are certainly a singular people. In this conflict the shares of the Great Indian Company were continually going down. The regent made another hopeless attempt to raise them. The parliament, now tenfold fortified by the public opinion, contemptuously refused to register the decree. The regent, in return, banished the whole body to Pontaise. The parliament took a comic, but characteristic revenge. They gave a succession of balls and suppers. Never was banishment so amusing before. All the wits and all the beauties of Paris flocked to their parties. Judges and councillors danced, sung, and gamed, like so many court pages. All was calembourgs, caricatures, farces, and flirtations. taise was city and court together, and gayer than either had ever been. This continued for weeks, until the

Pon

regent, convinced that, while Frenchmen could dance and sing, they were not to be reduced to obedience, suffered them to return to Paris, and thus broke up the most sportive scene of Europe.

In the month of November, the India and Mississippi Company were stripped of all their royal privileges, and reduced to a private establishment. This was ruin. Law was suffered by the regent to leave the country, and he set out for Brussels under an escort of cavalry. All his property in France was instantly confiscated; and he is said to have retained only a single diamond, worth five or six thousand pounds. The notes in circulation were stated to be 2700 millions; for not one-half of which, on the largest calculation, was specie to be forthcoming. The national debt had risen to 3100 millions of livres, (£124,000,000 sterling, at an interest of £3,196,000,) a small sum, compared with the burdens of later times-but formidable, compared with the French ability to bear it. All the leading actors in this affair soon sank away.

D'Argenson, overwhelmed with the loss of office, died in retirement within a year. The regent died in 1723 suddenly, while sitting by his fireside, perhaps from the habits of a profligate life, but not improbably also from vexation and a sense of the popular hatred. Law retired to Venice, where he was compelled to pawn his diamond; he then lived in Copenhagen, and, pursued by creditors, obtained leave to reside in England. After a residence of four years, he returned to Venice, where he died in great embarrassment. His brother, who had shared his prosperity and his fall, being imprisoned in the Bastile, was ultimately more fortunate; for, settling in France, he became the founder of a family,

possessing the marquisate of Lauris

ton.

Law must have been an impostor; for it is a rule of finance, as well as of nature, that "ex nihilo nihil fit ;" and paper cannot supersede coin without exposing its holders to the rapid discovery that it is worth nothing. But he must also have been an enthusiast. Inflated with the success of his projects, he must have thought that time and circumstance would be controlled for him, and that the delusion would last until he, at least, would be out of the reach of the general debacle. It is only on this ground that we can account for his extraordinary disregard of all the common precautions by which property is to be secured his purchase of great landed possessions in France, where they were in the grasp of authority-his neglect of remittances to the foreign banks, or any of those various arrangements by which chance is turned into certainty. The only solution for his conduct is, that he was by nature and by habit a gamester, and the gamester knows not the word "to-morrow." The success of the moment is always regarded as perpetual, and no success can exceed his expectations, or satiate his avarice. To this propensity he fell, and justly fell, a victim. His apostasy deprived him of all respect and all sympathy. Europe looked on him with contempt as a beggar, France with hatred as a swindler, and England gave him a refuge, only with that disdain which must be felt for the knave combined with the fool.

We have felt much amusement and interest in these volumes. The remaining subjects - the Crusaders, Witchcraft, and others, offer striking illustrations of popular error-strikingly detailed. And we shall be gratified by seeing the History of the Alchemists, from the same writer.

THE HEIRESS AND HER FRIENDS. CHAPTER I.

ANY one passing along that fine row of cottages on the way to Dul wich, each standing (like a nobleman's mansion) in its own grounds, and guarded from the vulgar intrusion of every thing but noise and dust, by bright green railings-each also ornamented with a line of shrubs along the walk, and four, rather finer than ordinary, safely ensconced in gigantic flower-pots; any one, I say, passing along that line might have seen, a great many years ago, a bright brass plate at No. 7, with the name of Mr John Hibbert engraved on it in the Roman letters. Furthermore, any one on enquiry would have found that Mr John Hibbert punctually paid his weekly bills, was as regular as clockwork in his daily movements to and from Old Broad Street, was in a flourishing way of business; and, in all senses of the word-even to the extent of keeping a gig-a respectable man. Mr John Hibbert was a widower; and as history has forgot ten to record the maiden name of his deceased companion, we may very safely conjecture that she was not any near relation of the Plantagenets or Howards; but she was a most excellent woman, as Mr Hibbert frequently took occasion to mention, especially when he was in wrath with either of his daughters; and it would indeed have been astonishing, as he often observed, that such a paragon should have been the mother of two such very provoking creatures, if it had, indeed, been true that she was so entirely faultless as she was now represented by the irate father. It was remarked as a fine trait of his character, and a proof of his contempt of flattery, that he had never made use towards her, during her life, of a single expression that could lead her to think it at all remarkable that the girls were much like the ordinary race of mortals. She had no idea that she was such a wondrous piece of perfection herself; probably from having it pretty often dinned into her ears that she was the very reverse-from all which we are bound to confess that Mr John Hibbert, in spite of his

brass plate and green railings, and perfect respectability, was a considerable brute in his way, and that his family were rather to be pitied than otherwise. His eldest daughter took the management of his house, and was trained from an early age in all the ways of her amiable sire. Such a tartar was never known by any of the butchers' boys or grocers' apprentices in those parts: roasting before a slow fire was not half punishment enough, if she had had it in her power to inflict it, for venturing into the kitchen with dirty shoes. The maid, when she heard of any one being condemned to hard labour at the treadmill, looked up, with a sigh of envy, reflecting that the unfortunate prisoner was at least free from the superintendence of Miss Susan. And it was a great pity that that excellent establishment had not the benefit of her assistance, for nature had exactly adapted her to be an overseer if she had been a man, she would have been a slave-driver from choice. Her sister Elizabeth was eight years younger, and if you had seen them walking together to church, you never would have thought them branches of the same tree. Susan was short and thin; a small red nose gave a finish to a countenance of which the other principal features were bright grey eyes, very small and deep, and a large mouth, with long white teeth. zabeth, on the other hand, had all the beauty resulting from a fine healthy complexion, good features, and a full well-shaped figure. She had nothing of what people absurdly call intellect in her face as if clever people were not generally the stupidest-looking, ugliest monsters, you can meet with; but in her great black shining eyes, cherry-coloured lips, and rosy cheeks, there was something which, for my own part, I greatly prefer to the most intellectual snub-nose or philosophical squinting eyes you can imagine.

Eli

They say pretty girls know their prettiness at a very early age-and perhaps the remark may be right; but in this instance Miss Susanwhich is a very uncommon thing—

very early made the discovery that she was atrociously ugly. Upon my word, I think, by constantly dwelling on the subject in her own mind, she exaggerated her ugliness, as other people, by the same process, exaggerate their beauty. She seemed to take a pride in it: she petted it, and caressed it; and was quite pleased when her mirror discovered to her that she was looking at any time more than usually hideous. The father, also, seemed to be enchanted with her frightfulness. He was an ugly fellow himself, and took it as a sort of compliment that his daughter was a second edition of his own unloveliness. But with regard to Elizabeth, they both felt that there was some implied insult in all that flush of health and beauty. They could not exactly accuse her of having fine-cut features and graceful movements, and white hands, and small delicate feet, on purpose to spite them; but they felt that all was not right; that there was some latent undefined satire-perhaps a libel-in those bright sunny eyes and glossy ringlets; and, if the truth must be told, they hated her with all their hearts. And no wonder; she was such a provoking girl she laughed, and talked, and sang, all day long, unless when Susan had succeeded in bullying and tormenting her into a good cry. She ran out of the house without her bonnet, and slipped into No. 9, and gossiped, and talked, and laughed, and played on the piano, with the young Misses Forman, and then burried back again when she was tired, and bounded into the drawing-room without wiping her shoes on the scraper; in short, she was a hoyden of the most undeniable character, and cared nothing at all about punctilios, and not much more for her sister, who was little else than a great ill-natured redhaired punctilio in propria persona. This lasted for a long time. Mr John Hibbert grew richer and richer every year, and would perhaps have been lord mayor of London if he had lived long enough: but he did not; for, when his youngest daughter was eigh teen, and his eldest owned to twentythree, though in reality she was twentysix, he was taken very unwell. He grew more sour and crabbed than ever. He could not go every day, as he used to do, into the city; so he sat and sulked most tremendously, at home. Susan sat opposite, and

VOL. LI, No. CCCXV.

sulked too. Elizabeth couldn't sulk; but she sat as quiet as she could, and tried to look unhappy: but beautiful girls of eighteen find it very difficult to look unhappy; and so she sometimes looked up from her work with a radiant smile, and was sure to be rebuked for it, as if it had been a heinous sin, by her father and sister. Then she began to cry, and they said she was sulky; then she smiled again, and they said she was thoughtless, and did not care whether her father lived or died; then she went up to her bed-room to avoid their reproaches, and they said she neglected the sufferer. In short, one pretty, silly, happy creature of eighteen, is no match for two ugly people that are determined never to be pleased. And Elizabeth was treated worse than Cinderella, without any fairy coming to give her carriages and fine clothes-a clear proof to me that there are no fairies left, or they would have done it to a certainty. But all this scolding at the poor girl, and grumbling at every thing else, did not do a bit of good to Mr Hibbert's complaint. He grew worse and worse, and, by sympathy, Susan scolded more and more. Both the maids rushed out of the house in a fit of frenzy, as if they were going to drown themselves in the Thames ; the butcher's boy refused to take another joint to No. 7, and the grocer's apprentice meditated attack on the till, and a flight to America. They were, therefore, unattended to, and nearly starved, and at last had to send Elizabeth round to the tradespeople, to make matters smooth. The butcher's boy at the first smile agreed to deliver, if required, an ox per day, cut up into half pounds; and the grocer's apprentice became moral and religious all of a sudden, and would not have gone to America to be made president of the United States. Even the maids, when they came back about their boxes, agreed to stay, all for the sake of Miss Elizabeth. What two beautiful things are good nature and good looks! Mr Hibbert sold off his stock in trade, and got a large sum for the good-will of the business-added up all his accounts, and found he was worth fifty thousand pounds. Fifty thousand pounds, and to live all his life at No. 7!- Poor man, he did not know that all his life was not to be

E

an

THE HEIRESS AND HER FRIENDS.

CHAPTER I.

ANY one passing along that fine row of cottages on the way to Dul wich, each standing (like a nobleman's mansion) in its own grounds, and guarded from the vulgar intrusion of every thing but noise and dust, by bright green railings-each also ornamented with a line of shrubs along the walk, and four, rather finer than ordinary, safely ensconced in gigantic flower-pots; any one, I say, passing along that line might have seen, a great many years ago, a bright brass plate at No. 7, with the name of Mr John Hibbert engraved on it in the Roman letters. Furthermore, any one on enquiry would have found that Mr John Hibbert punctually paid his weekly bills, was as regular as clockwork in his daily movements to and from Old Broad Street, was in a flourishing way of business; and, in all senses of the word-even to the extent of keeping a gig-a respectable man. Mr John Hibbert was a widower; and as history has forgot ten to record the maiden name of his deceased companion, we may very safely conjecture that she was not any near relation of the Plantagenets or Howards; but she was a most excellent woman, as Mr Hibbert frequently took occasion to mention, especially when he was in wrath with either of his daughters; and it would indeed have been astonishing, as he often observed, that such a paragon should have been the mother of two such very provoking creatures, if it had, indeed, been true that she was so entirely faultless as she was now represented by the irate father. was remarked as a fine trait of his character, and a proof of his contempt of flattery, that he had never made use towards her, during her life, of a single expression that could lead her to think it at all remarkable that the girls were much like the ordinary race of mortals. She had no idea that she was such a wondrous piece of perfection herself; probably from having it pretty often dinned into her ears that she was the very reverse-from all which we are bound to confess that Mr John Hibbert, in spite of his

It

brass plate and green railings, and perfect respectability, was a considerable brute in his way, and that his family were rather to be pitied than otherwise. His eldest daughter took the management of his house, and was trained from an early age in all the ways of her amiable sire. Such a tartar was never known by any of the butchers' boys or grocers' apprentices in those parts: roasting before a slow fire was not half punishment enough, if she had had it in her power to inflict it, for venturing into the kitchen with dirty shoes. The maid, when she heard of any one being condemned to hard labour at the treadmill, looked up, with a sigh of envy, reflecting that the unfortunate prisoner was at least free from the superintendence of Miss Susan. And it was a great pity that that excellent establishment had not the benefit of her assistance, for nature had exactly adapted her to be an overseer: if she had been a man, she would have been a slave-driver from choice. Her sister Elizabeth was eight years younger, and if you had seen them walking together to church, you never would have thought them branches of the same tree. Susan was short and thin; a small red nose gave a finish to a countenance of which the other principal features were bright grey eyes, very small and deep, and a large mouth, with long white teeth. Elizabeth, on the other hand, had all the beauty resulting from a fine healthy complexion, good features, and a full well-shaped figure. She had nothing of what people absurdly call intellect in her face-as if clever people were not generally the stupidest-looking, ugliest monsters, you can meet with; but in her great black shining eyes, cherry-coloured lips, and rosy cheeks, there was something which, for my own part, I greatly prefer to the most intellectual snub-nose or philosophical squinting eyes you can imagine.

They say pretty girls know their prettiness at a very early age-and perhaps the remark may be right; but in this instance Miss Susanwhich is a very uncommon thing

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