playing God save the Queen, and their bagpipes shrieking under the arches of the palace, was a most striking sight.  That was the first time I heard the bagpipes of the Highland regiments.  I have often heard them since, and they always remind me of that wonderfully dramatic incident in the great Indian Mutiny, the relief of Lucknow.  In Lucknow, the capital of the kingdom of Oude, a handful of British soldiers, with the women and children who had escaped the massacre, had taken refuge in a huge and strongly built place called the Residency.  Isolated in the heart of India, besieged for months on end, without any outside news, starving, decimated by sickness and the enemy’s fire, women and soldiers alike, with true British pluck, and having lost all hope of succour, had no thought but to sell their lives as dearly as possible.  All at once the noise of the daily cannonade and the rifle fire seem to be doubled, and unaccustomed shouts are heard, like the national “hurrah.”  The cheering seems to get nearer, but the Sepoys have so often cheered derisively!  Suddenly another sound strikes on the ear of the besieged.  The bagpipes!  The bagpipes!  And soon they make out the famous Highland march, The Campbells are coming!  Reinforcements they were, collected from all quarters, English and Scotch, soldiers and sailors too, commanded by old Lord Clyde of Balaclava fame.  By main force they carried the works the mutineers, tenfold their strength, had thrown up round Lucknow, bringing unhoped-for succour from the mother country, nay, bringing actual salvation with them.  A wonderful moment!

I got back to Paris to hear the news of the failure of the first expedition against Constantine, and the brilliant part my brother Nemours had played in that terrible business.  I never doubted that signal revenge would soon be taken for the check, and I was in despair that my being a sailor stood in the way of my asking to be allowed to have a share in it.

Meanwhile, I was present at a fresh attempt on my father’s life.  A man of the name of Meunier fired a pistol at him the day the Chamber of Deputies was opened.  Some movement in the crowd shook the would-be assassin’s arm, but the bullet came into the carriage, smashing the front window, and my brothers and I were all cut with the broken glass.  I remember a very characteristic remark by one of the Deputies on this occasion.  After the King had departed, as the Members of the Chamber were talking over the attempt, one of them said, “Ought we to congratulate the King?”

“Certainly,” was the reply; “we always do it.”

Shortly afterwards an emulator of Fieschi invented a perfected machine which should have mowed us all down at the earliest opportunity, but he was discovered, and destroyed himself, just as he was going to be arrested, carrying the secret of his accomplices with him.

Amidst political agitation and ministerial ambitions, with which I troubled myself but very little, the marriage of my eldest brother, the Duc d’Orleans, and its attendant festivities, took place.  The wedding was at Fontainebleau; there was a great fete at the Hotel de Ville in Paris, and the formal inauguration of the Museum at Versailles.