has been caused by the aristocratical disgust expressed towards the erection of the green-house in Hyde Park. We do not sympathise with the riders in Rotten-row, or the denizens of Belgravia, any more than if it were destined to interrupt the donkey-rides in Greenwick Park, or to debauch the inhabitants of Whitechapel. But we acknowledge the right of complaint in one case just as we would in another; and we think the nuisance to a certain extent comparative. Without transferring it to Galway, or the Isle of Dogs, we think there are many better situations. And we cannot leave this part of the subject without expressing our contempt for the conduct of the Attorney-General of England, who, taking upon himself to prejudge the matter, refused to perform his duty towards the public by signing the information necessary to obtain an injunction to protect our public park, and to rescue it from Dilke, Cole, Fuller, Drew, and Matthew Digby Wyatt, and the intrusion of the bearded foreigner and the ungracious Frenchman.

Having thrown off these observations for the consideration of manufacturing England, we consider that we have performed our duty, and leave the rest to be developed in that chaos which takes shape as the existence of man moves onward, or meets the circling Panorama of Time. If Common Sense be not heard, Prophecy will avail you nothing.

THE DESIGNS OF EUROPE.

OUR NATIONAL DEFENCES.

It is not a compliment in essence when the statesman of a great country is much admired by the politicians of a rival state. Sir Robert Peel's death created much sympathy

in France. He was so forbearing-so amiable towards Frenchmen. The French, and Russians, and Americans admire Cobden. He is the disarming genius of England. The Duke of Wellington is considered a bad general in France. He won Waterloo by mistake, and the British exploits of the Peninsular war were rather a series of French misfortunes than English triumphs or successes. According to the above view of things, we should imagine that Admiral Sir Charles Napier did not enjoy a very high share of popularity in St. Petersburg, Rome, or Paris.

What an alarmist the old warrior is! What an enemy to Europe and his species! Every now and then, in spite of one of those speeches delivered by Cobden, which afford so beautiful a mixture of the theoretical and practical, of practical dryness and theoretical impossibility-the crabbed eloquence of the Manchester school and the inelegant sophistry of the cotton antichrist, whose harshness fools take for manliness, and his particular selfishness for universal love-in defiance of the Peace Congress and the non-resistance doctrine, which would recommend John Bull to skulk under the bed-clothes while the world-burglars are ransacking his premises-in opposition to the pert, disgusting, notoriety-mongering apostles of self and cant, who would sell the trophies of England from Waterloo to Cressy for a temporary fall in the price of manufacturing labour-in spite, we say, of all this, Sir Charles Napier will persist in drawing our attention to the state of the English and French coast and fleets, as if fleets had anything at all to do with it, and as if our seaport towns were not expressly constructed for the importation of cottons and the reception of sea-sick foreigners in the blessed year 1851! Sir Charles Napier has committed this grievous offence against the manufacturing

Millennium for years past. For years has he warned Government and lifted up his voice, unattended to in the Councils of the nation. When, in 1845, the gallant veteran visited Cherbourg in the Jeanette yacht, he warned Peel; but Peel was fast sinking in the slough of the prevailing cant. The last button of his waistcoat scarcely appeared above the sands of egotistic philanthrophy. Peel saw Cobden popular, and he had something else to do than listen to the question of defences. Therefore, Sir Charles Napier groaned and prophesied, as he now groans and prophesies, in vain. The question between Sir Charles Napier and his country-between the warning voice and the declining power, is easily: solved. There are but two considerations. Are the French means of attack and defence superior to ours; and, if they be, is it a matter of any consequence? Is it a rivalry in fireworks and regattas, or a terrible means of hatred and revenge placed in the hands of the volatile but deadly Frenchman— that mixture of the monkey and the tiger, whose highest exemplar is to be found in Napoleon Buonaparte (whom we consider by courtesy a Frenchman), while their lowest is found in such men as Robespierre, Ledru Rollin, or, as far as dangerous frivolity goes, in the person of the President, Louis Napoleon, whose effigy should descend to posterity as a garçon cafétier with a napkin and a champagne bottle?

But the very frivolity and gamin-like desperation of Louis Napoleon, is not by any means the least alarming feature which France at present displays. Neither this mock Alexander nor one of his four Generals would hesitate, for a moment's personal advantage, to turn the arms of France against England. How gloriously popular would be the first note of defiance! It is the trump card in the hand of a profligate gambler, dazzled by the Imperial crown, which

lies mud-bespattered in the kennel; whilst the great Generals of France, some of them hardened in the barbarities of African warfare, regard with professional enthusiasm the prospect of revenge upon England. For what are these military demonstrations-idle show? For what is Cherbourg destined-a peaceable contrast to the Plymouth breakwater? Why is the French fleet driven in upon the English coast-from stress of weather? What was the meaning of Louis Napoleon's allusions to the destinies reserved for the Port of Cherbourg?-Was it a kindly wish that it might avail an English fleet in difficulties? No! It would appear that England required a thunderbolt to awaken her. The English spirit sleeps upon the lap of a Dalilah, bribed by her own canting Philistines; and the only satisfaction we have is to think that the first great smash will involve a Cobden, a Bright, and all the race of criminal lethargists and sickly doctrinaires who are making us ridiculous in the pages of history. Before we advert to Sir Charles Napier's last letter more particularly, let us turn to the late account of a French review given in the daily journals. Let us, then, observe our naval condition, and cast a glance at the events passing round us in Europe, before we predict the consummation of the humiliating predicament in which England may find herself placed, when the feverish excitement of her great Bartholomew show of overtaxed industry shall have left her prostrate and feeble in the sickly re-action which will be produced by her active fatuity and fatuitous inactivity.

We will shortly proceed to quote a morning journal for a description of the review at Versailles in the beginning of October. There, the Parisians, with their sham President and their ferocious Generals, satiated themselves with all

the panoply of war; and, let us ask, how many bosoms out of that vast multitude glowed with animation at the sight, felt fury for the past, and whispered, in self-congratulation, "They have no such army in England!" With all this force, the French have thought fit to fortify Paris. We, with a scanty body of men, which they could surround with the troops summoned for a holiday review, neglect even our coast defences. Everything conspires to provoke a war with England. It is suggestive on all sides, and they will have it, sooner or later, but before long. The whole genius of the French nation tends that way, and every circumstance aids the dénouement. Let us observe one thing here, which is this: We would far rather trust to the forbearance of the Prince de Joinville, were he President, enthusiastic sailor as he is, but brought up under the excellent surveillance of his great and peaceful father, than to any feeling of gratitude or kindliness that might be supposed to animate the bosom of the faded debauchée, Louis Napoleon, when cunning shall prompt animosity towards his quondam refuge, England. We think the one to be a gentleman in feeling; the other a dissipated adventurer. We behold one displaying a manly dignity and reserve in misfortune; the other illustrating a brilliant piece of luck, with all the vagaries of a fantastic butler. Yet the latter holds the destinies of Europe between the finger and thumb of a straw-coloured kid glove; and a real host, in the proud array of arms, obeys the ludicrous command of a mock Napoleon. What signifies it, if Troy must be fired, whether it be by Helen or a monkey?

Now for the review:

"The troops were drawn up in line: many of them had passed the previous night in encampments in the immediate neighbourhood. The