In a manuscript life of Jemmy Twitcher—­the work will shortly appear under the philosophical auspices of SIR LYTTON BULWER—­we find a curious circumstance, curiously paralleled by a recent political event. Jemmy had managed to pass himself off as a shrewd, cunning, but withal very honest sort of fellow; he was, nevertheless, in heart and soul, a housebreaker of the first order.  One night, Jemmy quitted his respectable abode, and, furnished with dark lantern, pistol, crowbar, and crape, joined half-a-dozen neophyte burglars—­his pupils and his victims.  The hostelry chosen for attack was “The Spaniards.”  The host and his servants were, however, on the alert; and, after a smart struggle in the passage, the housebreakers were worsted; two or three of them being killed, and the others—­save and except the cautious Jemmy, who had only directed the movement from without—­being fast in the clutches of the constables. Jemmy, flinging away his crape and his crowbar, ran home to his house—­he was then living somewhere in Petty France—­went to bed, and the next morning appeared as snug and as respectable as ever to his neighbours.  Vehement was his disgust at the knaves killed and caught in the attack on “The Spaniards;” and though there were not wanting bold speakers, who averred that Twitcher was at the bottom of the burglary, nevertheless, his grave look, and the character he had contrived to piece together for honest dealing, secured him from conviction.

Jemmy Twitcher was what the world calls a warm fellow.  He had gold in his chest, silver tankards on his board, pictures on his walls; and more, he had a fine family of promising Twitchers.  One night, greatly to his horror at the iniquity of man, miscreants surrounded his dwelling and fired bullets at his children.  The villains were apprehended; and the hair of Jemmy—­who had evidently forgotten all about the affair at “The Spaniards”—­stood on end, as the conspiracy of the villains was revealed, as it was shown how, in anticipation of a wicked success, they had shared among them, not only his gold and his tankards, but the money and plate of all his honest neighbours. Jemmy, still forgetful of “The Spaniards” cried aloud for justice and the gibbet!

Have we not here the late revolution in Spain—­the QUENISSET conspiracy—­and in the prime mover of the first, and the intended victim of the second rascality, KING LOUIS-PHILIPPE, the JEMMY TWITCHER OF THE FRENCH?

The commission recently appointed in France for the examination of the Communists and Equalised Operatives, taken in connexion with the recent bloodshed under French royal authority, is another of the ten thousand illustrations of the peculiar morality of crowned heads.  Here is a sawyer, a cabinet-maker, a cobbler, and such sort, all food for the guillotine for attempting to do no more than has been most treacherously perpetrated by the present King of the French and the ex-Queen of Spain.  How is it that LOUIS-PHILIPPE feels no touch of sympathy for that pusillanimous scoundrel—­Just?  He is naturally his veritable double; but then Just is only a carpenter, LOUIS-PHILIPPE is King of the French!