he is. Very often, round the dinner-tables of England, you hear discussions as to what is the real secret of Louis Napoleon’s success! He is not a very acute man—he is not a very accomplished man. Most of us could name, amongst our friends and acquaintances—certainly amongst the public men of our time—persons apparently of higher pretensions to success, and yet somehow or another they don’t succeed. True, he is the nephew of the most ‘successful’ man of modern times; but it must be admitted on the other hand, that he has turned his position as residuary legatee to the very best possible account. Our explanation of this phenomenon is two-fold. First, there is the wonderful taciturnity of the man: he can hold his tongue—that is a great matter; but still more, without a passion—without a prejudice—without a conviction—without an angularity of mind (save the Imperial Angle)—he can quietly watch the fluctuations of the political barometer—it is filled with quicksilver which we call “public opinion”—and regulate his policy by the register. A man who will and who can do this is in a very fair way to become a very great man in action. Now the private opinion of Louis Napoleon with regard to the Papal question is possibly one of absolute indifference;—probably if the decision of the question lay with him, he would get rid of the Pope to-morrow; but certainly, as a fact, he will go just so far, and not one step further, than the public opinion of France will permit.
What then is the turn of men’s ideas in France upon this subject? This is to us the momentous question not only of Last Week, but of many weeks past, and of many weeks to come. In it is involved the reply to this demand of the Birmingham men who met together, the other day, in such numbers, and declared that the question of Reform should no longer be treated as a sham—a mere stalking-horse for the Ins or the Outs. Upon its solution depends the amount and quality of our Navy Estimates—the number and cost to the nation of our new Iron Navy—the reform of the Admiralty, and almost the intensity or slackness of the chace after Sir Baldwin Walker, that run-away Admiral of ours whom we must first catch, and then examine. Is there to be a peaceful end of the Italian—that is, of the Papal question? Our Army Estimates, our expenditure upon fortifications, the enthusiasm of our Volunteers, the quantum of Lord Herbert’s graceful oratory, all depend upon the conclusion at which we may arrive upon this point. In point of fact, with the exception of the agitation for secession upon the other side of the Atlantic—and possibly the Yelverton affair—the public action of this country, and of all other European countries, is paralysed until the Papal question is disposed of. It lies with the French Emperor to abandon the Pope to his fate—it lies with the French nation to decide what the action of their Emperor shall be.
Is Louis Napoleon yet strong enough to deal with the Priests who had so large a share in raising him to power? Undoubtedly he would do so if he could; nor are signs wanting to show that, in his opinion, the moment has arrived when he may throw off a tutelage which oppresses him and embarrasses his government, although, in the beginning, it contributed in no small degree to his exaltation to power. What test can we apply to measure the gross ignorance of a French peasant who is vegetating in some village in the Bocages of Brittany, or amidst the jagged hills of Auvergne? The French Emperor must receive reports from the Prefects, and sub-Prefects—from his mayors and village authorities upon such points. With regard to these, English ideas are without value. Louis Napoleon has proved to the world, upon more than one occasion, that he can measure this class of force with sufficient accuracy, and turn it to his own account. If, then, we find him abandoning the Pope’s cause, we may feel reasonably secure that the peasantry and peasant-priests of France do not altogether share I the sentiments of the Bishop of Poictiers. There is, however, another class of public opinion amongst our neighbours on the other side of the Channel of which we can form a juster estimate. It is the “opinion” of which the head-quarters would be found in the Faubourg St. Germain—amidst the elder representatives of the territorial class—in the chef-lieux of the old provinces, rather than of the new departments. It would express in a word the sum of the sentiments rather than the convictions of traditionary France—of that France which reads Voltaire en cachette, or not at all; and believes according to the belief of cathedral towns and Madame la Comtesse. This “opinion” has been a power indeed! It has governed Europe for many an age. Napoleon Bonaparte’s career was one long struggle against it, and he got the worst of it in the long run. “Cette conspiration sourde” of which he used to speak with true Corsican bitterness—that enemy which was guilty of no such overt act of treason as justified the employment of the gaoler and the firing party—was his true antagonist, and he knew it well. The imprisonment of the Pope of that day in a French prison was but an expedient to neutralise the force of this unseen antagonist. Could he have brought the spiritual into due subordination to the political and military chief—and he had remained that military chief, it might have been well. But time passed. The annoyances of peace were harder of endurance than the perils of war. The Great Soldier was in a hurry to get to Moscow; and so the raft, with the Pope on board, drifted back once more to its old haven in the Vatican.
In the recent discussions at Paris we have a kind of test which may help us to something like a correct impression of this “public opinion” of France. Louis Napoleon had judged that the moment had arrived when he could permit the opponents of his government to display themselves before the country in their true colours with the most perfect confidence, that the more vehement was their opposition the greater would be his gain. He has dared to do what his uncle never dared in the plenitude of his power—namely, summon the opponents of his dynasty to take part in the public discussion of his policy. During the First Empire, the Senate and the Corps Législatif were a mockery, because they had the name without