It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. On the same day, moreover, which, by a curious coincidence, was the birthday of the Chevalier de Saint George, mobs were collected together in the streets, and the health of that prince was publicly drunk under the title of James the Third; while, in many country towns, the bells were rung, and rejoicings held, as if for a reigning monarch:—the cry of the populace almost universally being, "No King George, but a Stuart!" The adherents of the Chevalier de Saint George, we have said, were lavish in promises to their proselytes. I seed he was one,—and a sharp un, too,—at a glance. And here he was first visited by that genius which, in his subsequent career, prompted him to so many bold and successful attempts. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. He had the air of a man who has said too much. I loathe this room.
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