not discuss with himself. But, that circumstance
too, had had its influence in his course.

He walked to and fro, with thoughts very
busy, until it was time to return to Tellson's,
and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he
arrived in Paris he would present himself to this
old friend, but he must say nothing of his
intention now.

A carriage with post-horses was ready at the
Bank door, and Jerry was booted and equipped.

"I have delivered that letter," said Charles
Darnay to Mr. Lorry. "I would not consent
to your being charged with any written answer,
but perhaps you will take a verbal one?"

"That I will, and readily," said Mr. Lorry,
"if it is not dangerous."

"Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in
the Abbaye."

"What is his name?" said Mr. Lorry, with
his open pocket-book in his hand.

"Gabelle."

"Gabelle. And what is the message to the
unfortunate Gabelle in prison?"

"Simply, 'that he has received the letter, and
will come.'"

"Any time mentioned?"

"He will start upon his journey to-morrow
night."

"Any person mentioned?"

"No."

He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a
number of coats and cloaks, and went out with
him from the warm atmosphere of the old bank,
into the misty air of Fleet-street. "My love
to Lucie, and to little Lucie," said Mr. Lorry
at parting, "and take precious care of them till
I come back." Charles Darnay shook his head
and doubtfully smiled, as the carriage rolled
away.

That night—it was the fourteenth of
August—he sat up late, and wrote two fervent
letters; one was to Lucie, explaining the
strong obligation he was under to go to Paris,
and showing her, at length, the reasons that he
had, for feeling confident that he could become
involved in no personal danger there; the other
was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and their
dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same
topics with the strongest assurances. To both,
he wrote that he would despatch letters in proof
of his safety, immediately after his arrival.

It was a hard day, that day of being among
them, with the first reservation of their joint
lives on his mind. It was a hard matter to
preserve the innocent deceit of which they were
profoundly unsuspicious. But, an affectionate
glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made
him resolute not to tell her what impended (he
had been half moved to do it, so strange it was
to him to act in anything without her quiet aid),
and the day passed quickly. Early in the
evening he embraced her, and her scarcely less
dear namesake, pretending that he would
return by-and-by (an imaginary engagement took
him out, and he had secreted a valise of clothes
ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist of
the heavy streets, with a heavier heart.

The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself,
now, and all the tides and winds were setting
straight and strong towards it. He left his two
letters with a trusty porter, to be delivered half
an hour before midnight, and no sooner; took
horse for Dover; and began his journey. "For
the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of
the honour of your noble name!" was the poor
prisoner's cry with which he strengthened his
sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on
earth behind him, and floated away for the
Loadstone Rock.

THE END OF THE SECOND BOOK.

NORTH-ITALIAN CHARACTER.

Now that there appears to be a chance of
testing by experiment the possibility of North-
Italian independence, a looker-on will be
curious to know what promise is afforded by
the character and habits of the people themselves.
For men can observe what is going on in the
world, or can reflect on the chapters of history
they have read, without coming to the conclusion
that each distinct nation is specially suited to
live under some one special form of government.

Of what are the North-Italians capable?
England, and her numerous progeny, must and will
have self-government. The French, on the
contrary, never do so well as when their vessel of state
is steered by a firm, a capable, and even a severe
pilot. They are too explosive, too deficient in
sang-froid and self-restraint, to bear, without
danger, the excitements of parliamentary debate
and of an unfettered press; they are too vain,
too ambitious individually, too fond of distinction,
and, at the same time, too richly gifted with
personal talent, to work out fairly the theoretical
equality implied by a republic. Under a Louis
XIV., or a Bonaparte, they flourish and thrive.
They bear blossoms and fruit. If the history of
the modern Italians indicates anything, it would
seem to show that an oligarchy is their most
congenial political element. The republics of
Genoa and Venice, with their Councils of Ten,
were always jealous and exclusive aristocracies.
The Popedom was, and is, an aristocracy
of Prelates and Cardinals. The Pope
himself may, by chance, be a man of ability;
more frequently he has been a man of taste, and
of good intentions. But what sort of head
was required by the princes of the Church, as a
general rule, is evident from the fact that it was
possible for a candidate for the Papal throne to
secure his election by assuming crutches,
decrepitude, and the stoop of extreme old age,
casting them off afterwards with the sarcastic
remark that he had been long looking for the keys
of St. Peter, and that now he had found them!

We therefore watch with considerable
interest what course liberated Italy is likely to
adopt in the management of her own domestic
affairs. To enable us to spell her horoscope, we
again recur, with fuller reference, to the striking
sketch which we owe to Mr. Antonio Gallenga,
a gentleman of Piedmontese parentage, but so