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Far and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but

desolation. Every green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of

grain, was as shrivelled and poor as the miserable people.

Everything was bowed down, dejected, oppressed, and broken.

Habitations, fences, domesticated animals, men, women, children,

and the soil that bore them--all worn out.

Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a

national blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite

example of luxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to

equal purpose; nevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow

or other, brought things to this. Strange that Creation, designed

expressly for Monseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and

squeezed out! There must be something short-sighted in the

eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it was, however; and the last

drop of blood having been extracted from the flints, and the last

screw of the rack having been turned so often that its purchase

crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing to bite,

Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and

unaccountable.