made on our energies to fill up the lamentable gaps made in our ranks by illness. It is quite certain that we could not at present interfere in any continental war-and, perhaps, that is all for the best-but that is no reason why we should not pay attention to the condition of our national defences. We have all confidence in the alliance with France, and feel convinced that, so long as Napoleon holds the reins of power, we have naught to fear from our old foe and present friend; but that is no reason why we should neglect our naval strength. It is not meet that England should be dependent for her tranquillity on any man, and the certainty that any unforeseen accident to Napoleon would entail a war ought to be a sufficient reason for a large augmentation of our Channel fleet. The Emperor has not been idle: he has built a navy of screwsteamers, which may prove a very dangerous instrument in the hands of his successor, and it behoves us not to put it in the power of Germans to institute such humiliating parallels as that which lately appeared in the columns of the Times. Our present Channel fleet does not worthily represent England; and, although we have several fine vessels fitting out, we do not consider that, even with the addition of these, we shall obtain that superiority of metal and ships which is England's right as sovereign mistress of the seas. Sir Charles Napier, who appears to have assumed the post of a British Cassandra, has drawn attention to the difficulty of manning our fleet, and, surely, these are subjects which demand pressing consideration. Yet, when our country is in this defenceless posture, our great Reformers can only act like the daughters of the horseleech, and appear utterly careless of the honour of their fatherland, so long as their selfish views can be carried into effect.

The next two months must decide the question of peace or war; Sardinia has gone even beyond the limits of prudence, and Austria will be compelled, in self-defence, to read her another terrible lesson. This time she will not stop short ere she reaches Turin, and thus the gauntlet will be thrown down to Europe. For years the French have coveted the occupation of Piedmont, as a stepping-stone to Italy, and the Austrian occupation would indubitably lead to their interference. Then Europe would drift at once into the old coalition; the other sovereigns have laboured for years to maintain the independence of Piedmont, as a great natural barrier against French expansion, and the first appearance of Gallic eagles on Italian soil would lead to a coalition from which we could not long remain strangers. From 1792 till 1815 we were continually waging war against Napoleon in alliance with Prussia, Austria, Russia in turn, and the expenses of that great war still hang as a heavy burden round our necks. In the event of a war between Austria and France, we could not long remain neutral; for such interests would be involved, and such a redistribution of the map of Europe take place, that we should be forced most unwillingly to come to the rescue of the Congress of Vienna, or, at any rate, prevent the French and Russians from dividing Europe between them. And, with such prospects before us, our legislators are expected by John Bright to sit gravely discussing Reform, like the senators, when Brennus appeared in the Capitol of Rome. Fancy Roebuck as a conscript father, and the savage Gaul, in the shape of a French colonel, making him eat those rash words he uttered at Sheffield about our Imperial ally!

Nor are we inclined to accept blindly the consolation afforded us by the author of "Aurons-nous la Guerre?" He bases his assurances of peace on the increased trade of France, and-tell it not in Gath!-the vast extension of the bulling and bearing system. These two levers of interest must prevent a war, for he says that out of the whole French population only one million would be found inclined for war. But, when were the petits bourgeois of Paris ever disposed to fight, or did the great Emperor depend on them? With an army of four hundred and fifty thousand men, all panting for glory and revenge, like greyhounds reluctantly held in a leash, an autocrat will find no difficulty in beating up recruits. For a long time the Napoleonic campaigns were unpopular; the people openly said the Emperor was mad, teste Marmont; but when their sacred soil was trodden by an invader, they rose to a man, and the campaign of 1814 will live in our memories for ever as a proof that Frenchmen will risk life, and what they love more-money, to save their country from desecration.

Cordially do we agree with M. Félix Germain, when he proves the worthlessness of the people for whom it is assumed the Emperor of France would draw the sword. But no one believes that Napoleon would interfere on behalf of constitutional principles in Italy; the plain fact is, that he has an enormous prætorian force to keep under, and if they insist he must yield. There are limits even to the debt which an autocrat can incur, and although France is very flourishing now, a knowledge of the difficulty we have in making both ends meet at home will tell us what the condition of French finances must be with an enormous army to support. The time must come when those men will have to be supported for a season on an enemy's soil, and, from purely selfish considerations, we should have no objection to their choice of the rich Lombardese to fatten upon; at any rate, until such time as we possess a fleet which will ensure our perfect safety at home.

When M. Germain appeals to the imperial statements about the Empire being peace, he only proves more and more the truth of the remark that language is given to conceal our thoughts. As far as the emperor is personally concerned, we will credit him with perfect sincerity, but we cannot say so much of his entourage, who are sadly belied unless they anxiously desire a war. And that a war must be commenced before long, or the emperor consent to resign his throne, is an axiom as incontrovertible as any in Euclid. And from what we all know of the Napoleonic temper, there can be no doubt what his resolve would be.

Thus, then, considering the present a most impolitic time for prating about Reform, we trust that the good sense of the nation will defer the subject, until we have rendered ourselves secure against any eventualities. When each of our Channel ports has a magnificent squadron within sight, and crowds of volunteers flocking in to man them, why-we shall be prepared to express our views about Parliamentary Reform. But not before and we believe that if the Conservative ministry put forth a programme to that effect, every Briton who justly considers his country the greatest in the world, not excepting Mr. Bright's America Felix, will be prepared to give them his hearty and uncompromising support.

RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES STRANGE.

OUR chambers were in Essex-street, Strand, near the Temple: everybody must know the street. We rented the whole of the house, a capital house, towards the bottom of the street on the left hand side. The rooms on the ground floor were the offices for the clerks; on the first floor, the front room was the private room of Mr. Brightman; and the back room was called mine: but this back room was also used by Mr. Brightman, who had a desk in it. On the floor above that were my dwelling rooms, for I lived at the office, a sitting-room, a bedroom, and what Leah called my dressing-room, but I never used it, and it had nothing in it except useless lumber; and the story above was given up to Leah and her husband, who also occupied the kitchens below. He, Watts, was messenger to the firm, and she kept the chambers clean, and "did" for me-as she usually expressed it. My sitting-room up-stairs was not much used, especially in winter, for my room on the first floor was warm and comfortable, with the large fire kept in it all day, so that I generally remained in the room after office hours, and took my chop there. We never had any ceremony of cloth laying: Leah used to bring it upon a tray.

I, Charles Strange, had been articled to Lawyer Brightman, then a man of fifty, and I a boy of fifteen. Before I was five-and-twenty, I had paid a certain sum down, and was his partner-Brightman and Strange. If he had had sons, one of them would probably have occupied the place I gained; but, having none, he admitted me on easy terms, for I had my brains about me, as the saying goes, and was exceedingly useful in the firm. I had been a partner but a short time (at least, I estimate it as short now), when the incident I am about to relate occurred: an incident worth relating, and one I shall ever remember with vivid pain.

One Saturday afternoon, Mr. Brightman had been engaged with clients in his private room, and when they were gone he came back into mine, and sat down to his desk.

"What are you going to do with yourself to-morrow, Charles ?" asked he.

"Nothing particular, sir." I could not help retaining sometimes my old mode of speech, as from clerk to master.

"Then you may as well come down to Clapham and dine with me. Mrs. Brightman is out."

I promised to go, and, as I was speaking, one of the clerks brought in a letter, and laid it on Mr. Brightman's desk.

"What a nuisance!" cried he, when he had read it. Which naturally caused me to look up.

"Here's Sir Edmund Clavering coming to town this evening, and wants me to be here to see him!" he explained. "I can't go home to dinner now."

"Which train is he coming by ?" I asked.

"The one that is due at Euston-square at six o'clock," replied Mr.

Brightman, referring to the letter. "I wanted to be home early this evening."

"You are not obliged to wait, sir." (I wish to my heart he had not!)

"Oh, I suppose I must. He is a good client, and he takes offence easily recollect that breeze, three or four months ago."

At five o'clock the clerks left, all but one; he came up-stairs, as was customary for him to do, to ask Mr. Brightman whether there was anything more.

"Not now," replied Mr. Brightman. "But I tell you what, Lennard," he added, as a thought seemed to strike him, "you may as well look in again to-night, about half-past seven or eight. Sir Edmund Clavering is coming up; I conclude it is for something particular, and I may have instructions to give for Monday morning."

"Very well," said Lennard, "then I'll come in."

He was our head clerk, and much respected. A spare man, with a fair complexion and a thin face of care. He was a gentleman by birth, and had seen better days, as the saying runs, but had lost his fortune. A man of few words, was Lennard, but attentive and always at his post; and he superintended the general clerks well.

He left, and Mr. Brightman went out after him, to get his dinner at a chop-house. I suggested that Mr. Brightman should share some of my steak, saying Leah could cook enough for two as well as for one; but he preferred to go out. I rang the bell as I heard him close the front door, and Watts answered it.

"Tell your wife to get my dinner up at once," I said to him, "or else I must have it up-stairs: Mr. Brightman is coming back. You are going out, are you not?"

"Yes, sir, about that business: Mr. Lennard said I had better go as soon as I had had my tea."

"All right: it will take you two or three hours, for it's some distance. See to the fire in the next room; it is to be kept up. And, Watts, tell Leah not to mind potatoes to-day, for I must have my dinner now."

In about twenty minutes Leah and the steak appeared; potatoes also. I could not help looking at her as she laid the tray on the square table by the fire, and settled the dishes. Leah had her cleaning days, on which she was apt to go the greatest figure conceivable; I suppose this was one, for I never saw her look worse. She had been a comely woman in her day, and could, if she chose, look comely still; but not on busy occasions. Her black gown was in jags and tatters, her arms were bare-and long, skinny arms, like hers, do not show well uncovered-her grizzly hair stood out on end, and something, black and rusty and greasy, was awry on her head, to serve for a cap. Sometimes she honoured me with a bonnet, a first cousin to the cap in dirt and colour, but as much too large as the cap was too small.

"I wonder you go such a figure, Leah!"

'Law, master! When one's in the thick of one's scrubbing, one don't care to titivate oneself off with fine clothes and pomatum. So sure, too, as I count upon Watts, any odd time, to carry up your tray, so sure does he tell me he's going out."

"But you might always look decent. Your wages are good."

Ah, sir, nobody knows where the shoe pinches, but those who wear it."

With this remark and a deep sigh, Leah went down. I ate my dinner, and the tray was taken away before Mr. Brightman returned.

"Now I hope Sir Edmund will be punctual," he cried, as we sat together, talking, and drinking a glass of sherry. "It is half-past six: time he was here."

"And there he is," I exclaimed: for a ring and a knock, that shook the house, resounded in our ears. After five o'clock the front door was always closed.

Watts was out, according to orders, and we heard Leah go to the door in her charming costume. But clients do not pay attention to the attire of laundresses in chambers.

"Good Heavens, can Sir Edmund be drunk!" uttered Mr. Brightman, halting as he was about to enter the other room to receive him. Loud sounds in a man's voice arose from the passage; singing, laughing, joking with Leah. "Open the door, Charles."

I had already opened it, and saw, not Sir Edmund Clavering, but a young country client, George Coney, the son of a substantial yeoman in Gloucestershire. He appeared to be in exalted spirits, and had a little exceeded, but was very far from being drunk.

"What, is Mr. Brightman here! I only expected to see you," cried he, shaking hands with us both. "Look here!" holding out a smallish canvas bag, and rattling it. "What does that sound like?"

"It sounds like gold," said Mr. Brightman.

:

"Right, Master Brightman; thirty golden sovereigns: and I am as delighted with 'em as if they were thirty hundred. Last week I got swindled out of a horse. Thirty pounds I sold him for, and he and the purchaser disappeared and forgot to pay; and father went on at me, like our old mill a clacking; not so much for the loss of the thirty pound, as at my being done and all our farmers, round about, clacked at me, like as many more mills. So I didn't like to stomach that; and, the day afore yesterday, up to London I came-I had got a bit of a clue-and I have met with luck. This afternoon I dropped across the very chap, where I had waited for him since the morning; he was going into a public-house, and another with him, and I pinned 'em in the room, with a policeman outside, and he pretty soon shelled out the thirty pounds, rather than be taken. That's luck, I hope." He opened the bag as he spoke, and displayed the gold.

"Remarkable luck, to get the money," observed Mr. Brightman.

"I expect they had been in luck themselves," continued young Coney, "for they had more gold with them, and several notes. They were for paying me in notes, but, 'No, thank ye,' said I, 'I know good gold when I see it, and I'll take it in that.'"

"I am glad you have been so fortunate," said Mr. Brightman. "When do you go home?"

"Well, now I am here, I think I shall take a spree till Monday, and go down by the night train," replied the young man, tying the bag again, and slipping it into his coat-pocket. "I'm going to a theatre or two to-night."

"Not with that bag of gold," said Mr. Brightman.