“dicam horrida belia, Dicam acies, actosque animis in funera Reges.”

His handling of them is characteristic.  Few men living then could have approached either without a certain awe, their “genius” rebuked,—­like Mark Antony’s, in the presence of Caesars so imposing and so mighty; Kinglake’s attitude towards both is the attitude of cold analysis.

In the opening of the fifties the Czar Nicholas was the most powerful man then living in the world.  He ruled over sixty million subjects whose loyalty bordered on worship:  he had in arms a million soldiers, brave and highly trained.  In the troubles of 1848 he had stood scornful and secure amid the overthrow of surrounding thrones; and the entire impact of his vast and well-organized Empire was subject to his single will; whatever he chose to do he did.  Of stern and unrelenting nature, of active and widely ranging capacity for business, of gigantic stature and commanding presence, he inspired almost universal terror; and yet his friendliness had when he pleased a glow and frankness irresistible in its charm.  Readers of Queen Victoria’s early life will recall the alarm she felt at his sudden proposal to visit Windsor in 1844, the fascination which his presence exercised on her when he became her guest.  He professed to embody his standard of conduct in the English word “gentleman”; his ideal of human grandeur was the character of the Duke of Wellington.  It was an evil destiny that betrayed this high-minded man into crooked ways; that made England sacrifice the stateliest among her ancient friends to an ignoble and crime-stained adventurer; that poured out blood and treasure for no public advantage and with no permanent result; that first humiliated, then slew with broken heart the man who had been so great, and who is still regarded by surviving Russians who knew his inner life and had seen him in his gentle mood with passionate reverence and affection.

Kinglake’s description of “Prince Louis Bonaparte,” of his character, his accomplices, his policy, his crimes, is perhaps unequalled in historical literature; I know not where else to look for a vivisection so scientific and so merciless of a great potentate in the height of his power.  With scrutiny polite, impartial, guarded, he lays bare the springs of a conscienceless nature and the secrets of a crime-driven career; while for the combination of precise simplicity with exhaustive synopsis, the masquerading of moral indignation in the guise of mocking laughter, the loathing of a gentleman for a scoundrel set to the measure not of indignation but of contempt, we must go back to the refined insolence, the [Greek text which cannot be reproduced] of Voltaire.  He had well known Prince Napoleon in his London days, had been attracted by him as a curiosity—­“a balloon man who had twice fallen from the skies and yet was still alive”—­had divined the mental power veiled habitually by his blank, opaque, wooden looks, had listened to his ambitious talk and gathered up the utterances of his thoughtful, long-pondering mind, had quarrelled with him finally and lastingly over rivalry in the good graces of a woman. {21} He saw in him a fourfold student; of the art of war, of the mind of the first Napoleon, of the French people’s character, of the science by which law may lend itself to stratagem and become a weapon of deceit.