is perceptible, even in the excellent picture of him in the Museum at Turin, painted by the French artist Vernet, and which represents him on horseback at a review. The eyes are large and beautiful, but have a fanatical melancholy glance; the lower part of the countenance is projecting, and not handsome; the chin retreats. It is, nevertheless, an exterior which is not insignificant; it is what we call “taking.” His conversation, voice, and friendly manners, are said to have had an irresistible fascination. But the same man whom he to-day fascinated by his friendship, might the day afterwards receive a Uriah letter. The same king who showed himself so engaging to foreigners, was in his family often gloomy and strict, even to severity towards his children. He was devotedly loved by a wife, whom he yet deceived. His piety, nevertheless, was sincere, and during his latter years, assumed a still deeper character. He prayed much, fasted often, and his bed was like that of a capuchin monk. I know not if it were so, but it seems to me, that the prince, with his soul corroded by anguish, might yet amidst the laurel-groves of Oporto, have been refreshed by one grand peace-giving memory—the memory of that moment when he was wholly loyal to his better self, the moment of his abdication, when he gave himself as a sacrifice, to preserve the freedom and independence of his people. For it was this act which saved them.
The young, new king demanded peace from the old general and conqueror, Radetzky, and he obtained it, as well as his kingdom, for the sum of fifteen millions of francs. Radetzky esteemed, in the young
