Illustration:The Column in the Place Vendôme.
The Column in the Place Vendôme.
Erected by the first Napoleon to commemorate his German campaign of 1805. An imitation of the Column of Trajan, at Rome, slightly taller. It cost 1,500,000 francs!
“THE COMMUNE OF PARIS,
“Considering that the Imperial column of the Place Vendôme is a monument of barbarian, a symbol of brute force, of false glory, an encouragement of military spirit, a denial of international rights, a permanent insult offered by the conquerors to the conquered, a perpetual conspiracy against one of the great principles of the French Republic, namely: Fraternity,“Decrees:“Sole article.—The Colonne Vendôme is to be demolished.”
Now I must tell you plainly, you are absurd, contemptible, and odious! This sorry farce outstrips all one could have imagined, and all that the Versailles papers said of you must have been true; for what you are doing now is worse than anything they could ever have dared to imagine. It was not enough to violate the churches, to suppress the liberties,—the liberty of writing, the liberty of speaking, the liberty of free circulation, the liberty of risking one’s life or not. It was not enough that blood should be recklessly spilled, that women should be made widows and children orphans, trade stopped and commerce ruined; it was not enough that the dignity of defeat—the only glory remaining—should be swallowed up in the shameful disaster of civil war; in a word, it was not sufficient to have destroyed the present, compromised the future; you wish now to obliterate the past! Funereal mischief! Why, the Colonne Vendôme is France, and a trophy of its past greatness,—alas, at present in the shade—is not the monument, but the record of a victorious race who strode through the world conquering as they went, planting the tricolour everywhere. In destroying the Colonne Vendôme, do not imagine that you are simply overthrowing a bronze column surmounted by the statue of an emperor; you disinter the remains of your forefathers to shake their fleshless bones, and say to them, “You were wrong in being brave and proud and great; you were wrong to conquer towns, to win battles; you were wrong to astound the universe by raising the vision of France glorified. It is scattering to the wind the ashes of heroes! It is telling those aged soldiers, seen formerly in the streets (where are they now? Why do we meet them no longer? Have you killed them, or does their glory refuse to come in contact with your infamy?) It is telling the maimed soldiers of the Invalides, “You are but blockheads and brigands. So you have lost a leg, and you an arm! So much the worse for you idle scamps. Look on these rascals crippled for their country’s honour!” It is like snatching from them the crosses they have won, and delivering them into the hands of the shameless street urchins, who will cry, “A hero! a hero!” as they cry “Thief! thief!” There is certainly purer and less costly grandeur than that which results from war and conquests. You are free to dream for your country a glory different to the ancient glory; but the heroic past, do not overthrow it, do not suppress it, now especially, when you have nothing with which to replace it, but the disgraces of the present. Yet, no! Complete your work, continue in the same path. The destruction of the Colonne Vendôme is but a beginning, be logical and continue; I propose a few decrees:
“The Commune of Paris, considering that the Church of Notre Dame de Paris is a monument of superstition, a symbol of divine tyranny, an affirmation of fanaticism, a denial of human rights, a permanent insult offered by believers to atheists, a perpetual conspiracy against one of the great principles of the Commune, namely, the convenience of its members,“Decrees:“The Church of Notre Dame shall be demolished.”
What say you to my proposition? Does it not agree with your dearest desire? But you can do better and better: believe me you ought to have the courage of your opinions.
“The Commune of Paris, considering that the Museum of the Louvre contains a great number of pictures, of statues, and other objects of art, which, by the subjects they represent, bring eternally to the mind of the people the actions of gods, and kings, and priests; that these actions indicated by flattering brush or chisel are often delineated in such a way as to diminish the hatred that priests, kings, and gods should inspire to all good citizens; moreover, the admiration excited by the works of human genius is a perpetual assault on one of the great principles of the Commune, namely, its imbecility,“Decrees:“Sole article.—The Museum of the Louvre shall be burned to the ground.”
Do not attempt to reply that in spite of the recollections of religion and despotism attached to these monuments you would leave Notre Dame and the Museum of the Louvre untouched for the sake of their artistic importance. Beware of insinuating that you would have respected the Colonne Vendôme had it possessed some merit as a work of art. You! respect the masterpieces of human art! Wherefore? Since when, and by what right? No, little as you may have been known before you were masters, you were yet known enough for us to assert that one of you—whom I will name: M. Lefrançais—wished in 1848 to set fire to theSalon Carré; there is another of you—whom I will also name: M. Jules Vallès—asserts that Homer was an old fool. It is true that M. Jules Vallès is Minister of Public Instruction. If you have spared Notre Dame and the Museum of the Louvre up to this moment, it is that you dared not touch them, which is a proof, not of respect but of cowardice.
Ah! our eyes are open at last! We are no longer dazzled by the chimerical hopes we nourished for a moment, of obtaining, through you communal liberties. You did but adopt those opinions for the sake of misleading us, as a thief assumes the livery of a house to enter his master’s room and lay hands on his money. We see you now as you are. We had hoped that you were revolutionists, too ardent, too venturous perhaps, but on the whole impelled by a noble intention: you are nothing but insurgents, insurgents whose aim is to sack and pillage, favoured by disturbances and darkness. If a few well-intentioned men were among you, they have fled in horror. Count your numbers, you are but a handful. If there still remain any among you, who have not lost all power of discriminating between justice and injustice, they look towards the door, and would fly if they dared. Yet this handful of furious fools governs Paris still. Some among us have been ordered to their death, and they have gone! How long will this last? Did we not surrender our arms? Can we not assemble, as we did a month ago near the Bank, and deal justice ourselves without awaiting an army from Versailles? Ah I we must acknowledge that the deputies of the Seine and the Maires of Paris, misled like ourselves, erred in siding with the insurrectionists. They wished to avert street fighting. Is the strife we are witnessing not far more horrible than that we have escaped? One day’s struggle, and it would have ended. Yes, we were wrong to lay down our arms; but who could have believed—the excesses of the first few days seemed more like the sad consequences of popular effervescence than like premeditated crimes—who could have believed that the chiefs of the insurrection lied with such impudence as is now only too evident, and that before long the Commune would be the first to deprive us of the liberties it was its duty to protect and develope? The “Rurals” were right then,—they who had been so completely in the wrong in refusing to lend an attentive ear to the just prayers of a people eager for liberty, they were right when they warned us against the ignorance and wickedness of these men. Ah! were the National Assembly but to will it, there would yet be time to save Paris. If it really wished to establish a definite Republic, and concede to the capital of France the right, free and entire, of electing an independent municipality, with what ardour should we not rally round the legitimate Government! How soon would the Hôtel de Ville be delivered from the contemptible men who have planted themselves there. If the National Assembly could only comprehend us! If it would only consent to give Paris its liberty, and France its tranquillity, by means of honourable concessions!
The delegates of the League of the Republican Union of the Rights of Paris returned from Versailles to-day, the 14th April, and published the following reports:—
“CITIZENS,—The undersigned, chosen by you to present your programme to the Government of Versailles, and to proffer the good offices of the League to aid in the conclusion of an armistice, have the honour of submitting you an account of their mission.“The delegates, having made known to Monsieur Thiers the programme of the League, he replied that as chief of the sole legal government existing in France he had not to discuss the basis of a treaty, but notwithstanding he was quite ready to treat with such persons whom he considered as representing Republican principles, and to acquaint them with the intentions of the chief of the executive power.“It is in accordance with these observations, which denote, in fact, the true character of our mission, that Monsieur Thiers has made the following declarations on different points of our programme.“Respecting the recognition of the Republic, Monsieur Thiers answers for its existence as long as he remains in power. A Republican state was put into his hands, and he stakes his honour on its conservation.”
Ay! it is precisely that which will not satisfy Paris—Paris sighing for peace and liberty. We have all the most implicit faith in Thiers’ honour. We are assured that the words, “French Republic” will head the white Government placards as long as he remains in power. But when Thiers is withdrawn from power—National Assemblies can be capricious sometimes—what assures us that we shall not fall victims to a monarchical or even an imperial restoration? Ghosts can appear in French history as well as in Anne Radcliffe’s novels. To attempt to consider the elected members who sit at Versailles as sincere Republicans is an effort beyond the powers of our credulity. You see that Thiers himself dares not speak his thoughts on what might happen were he to withdraw from power. Thus we find ourselves, as before, in a state of transition, and this state of transition is just what appals us. We address ourselves to the Assembly, and ask of it, “We are Republican; are you Republican?” And the Assembly pretends to be deaf, and the deputies content themselves with humming under their breaths, some the royal tune of “The White Cockade,” and others the imperial air of “Partant pour la Syrie.” This does not quite satisfy us. It is true that Thiers says he will maintain the form of government established in Paris as long as he possibly can; but he only promises for himself, and it results clearly from all this that we shall not keep the Republic long, since its definite establishment depends in fact on the majority in the Assembly, while the Assembly is royalist, with a slight sprinkle of imperialism here and there. But let us continue the reading of the reports.
“Respecting the municipal franchise of Paris, Monsieur Thiers declares that Paris will enjoy its franchise on the same conditions as those of the other towns, according to a common law, such as will be set forth by the Assembly of the representatives of all France. Paris will have the common right, nothing less and nothing more.”
This again is little satisfactory. What will this common right be? What will the law set forth by the representatives of all France be worth? Once more we have the most entire confidence in Thiers. But have we the right to expect a law conformable to our wishes from an assembly of men who hold opinions radically opposed to ours on the point which is in fact the most important in the question—on the form of government?
“Concerning the protection of Paris, now exclusively confided to the National Guards, Monsieur Thiers declares that he will proceed at once to the organization of the National Guard, but that cannot be to the absolute exclusion of the army.”
In my personal opinion, the President is perfectly right here; but from the point of view which it was the mission of the delegates of the Republican Union to take, is not this third declaration as evasive as the preceding?
“Respecting the actual situation and the means of putting an end to the effusion of blood, Monsieur Thiers declares that not recognising as belligerents the persons engaged in the struggle against the National Assembly, he neither can nor will treat the question of an armistice; but he declares that if the National Guards of Paris make no hostile attack, the troops of Versailles will make none either, until the moment, yet undetermined, when the executive power shall resolve upon action and commence the war.”
Oh, words! words! We are perfectly aware that Thiers has the right to speak thus, and that all combatants are not belligerents. But what! Is it as just as it is legal to argue the point so closely, when the lives of so many men are at stake; and is a small grammatical concession so serious a thing, that sooner than make it one should expose oneself to all the horrible feelings of remorse that the most rightful conqueror experiences at the sight of the battle-field?
“Monsieur Thiers adds: ‘Those who abandon the contest, that is to say, who return to their homes and renounce their hostile attitude, will be safe from all pursuit.’”
Is Thiers quite certain that he will not find himself abandoned by the Assembly at the moment when he enters upon this path of mercy and forgiveness?
“Monsieur Thiers alone excepts the assassins of General Lecomte and General Clément Thomas, who if taken will be tried for the crime.”
And here he is undoubtedly right. We must have been blind indeed the day that this double crime failed to open our eyes to the true characters of the men who, if they did not commit it or cause it to be committed, made at least no attempt to discover the criminals!
“Monsieur Thiers, recognising the impossibility for a great part of the population, now deprived of work, to live without the allotted pay, will continue to distribute that pay for several weeks longer. “Such, citizens, is, etc., etc.”
This report is signed by A. Dessonnaz, A. Adam, and Donvallet. Alas! we had foreseen what the result of the honourable attempt made by the delegates of the Republican Union would be. And this result proves that not only is the National Guard at war with the regular troops, but that a persistent opposition is also made by the National Assembly of Versailles to the most reasonable portion of the people of Paris. And yet the Assembly represents France, and speaks and acts only as she is commissioned to speak and act. The truth then is this,—Paris is republican and France is not republican; there is division between the capital and the country. The present convulsion, brought about by a group of madmen, has its source in this divergence of feeling. And what will happen? Will Paris, once more vanquished by universal suffrage, bend her neck and accept the yoke of the provincials and rustics? The right of these is incontestable; but will it, by reason of superiority of numbers, take precedence of our right, as incontestable as theirs? These are dark questions, which hold the minds of men in suspense, and which, in spite of our desire to bring the National Assembly over to our side, the greater part of whose members could not join us without betraying their trust, cause us to bear the intolerable tyranny of the men of the Hôtel de Ville, even while their sinister lucubrations inspire us with disgust.
During this time the walls resound with fun. Paris of the street and gutter—Paris, Gavroche and blackguard, rolls with laughter before the caricatures which ingenious salesmen stick with pins on shutters and house doors. Who designed these wild pictures, glaringly coloured and common, seldom amusing and often outrageously coarse? They are signed with unknown names—pseudonyms doubtless; their authors, amongst whom it is sad to think that artists of talent must be counted, are like women, high born and depraved, mixing with their faces masked in hideous orgies.
These vile pictures with their infamous calumnies keep up and even kindle contempt and hatred in ignorant minds. Laughter is often far from innocent. But the passers-by think little of this, and are amused enough when they see Jules Favre’s head represented by a radish, or theembonpointof Monsieur Picard by a pumpkin. Where will all this unwholesome stuff be scattered in a few days? Flown away and dispersed. Eccentric amateurs will tear their hair at the impossibility of obtaining for their collections these frivolous witnesses of troubled times. I will make a few notes so as to diminish their despair as far as I am able.
A green soil and a red sky—In a black coffin is a half-naked woman, with a Phrygian cap on her head, endeavouring to push up the lid with all her might. Jules Favre, lean, small, head enormous, under lip thick and protruding, hair wildly flying like a willow in a storm, wearing a dress coat, and holding a nail in one hand and a hammer in the other, with his knee pressed upon the coffin-lid, is trying to nail it down, in spite of the very natural protestations of the half-naked woman. In the distance, and running towards them, is Monsieur Thiers, with a great broad face and spectacles, also armed with a hammer. Below is written: “If one were to listen to these accursed Republics, they would never die.” Signed, Faustin. Same author—Same woman. But this time she lies in a bed hung with red flags for curtains. Her shoulders a little too bare, perhaps, for a Republic, but she must be made attractive to her good friends the Federals. At the head of the bed a portrait of Rochefort; Rochefort is the favoured one of this lady, it seems. Were I he, I should persuade her to dress a little more decently. Three black men, in brigands’ hats, their limbs dragging, and their faces distorted, approach the bed, singing like the robbers in Fra Diavolo: “Ad.... vance ... ad ... vance ... with ... pru ... dence ...!” The first, Monsieur Thiers, carries a heavy club and a dark lantern; Jules Favre, the second, brandishes a knife, and the third, carries nothing, but wears a peacock’s feather in his hat, and.... I have never seen Monsieur Picard, but they tell me that it is he.
The young Republic again, with shoulders bare and the style of face of apetite dameof the Rue Bossuet. She comes to beg Monsieur Thiers, cobbler and cookshop-keeper, who “finds places for pretenders out of employ, and changes their old boots for new at the most reasonable prices,” to have her shoes mended. “Wait a bit! wait a bit!” says the cobbler to himself, “I’ll manage ’em so as to put an end to her walking.”
Here is a green monkey perched on the extreme height of a microscopic tribune. At the end of his tail he wears a crown; on his head is a Phrygian cap. It is Monsieur Thiers of course. “Gentlemen,” says he, “I assure you that I am republican, and that I adore the vile multitude.” But underneath is written: “We’ll pluck the Gallic cock!” The author of this is also Monsieur Faustin. I have here a special reproach to add to what I have already said of these objectionable stupidities. I do not like the manner in which the author takes off Monsieur Thiers; he quite forgets the old and well-known resemblance of the chief of the executive power to Monsieur Prud’homme, or what is the same thing, to Prud’homme’s inventor, Henri Monnier. One day Gil Perez the actor, met Henri Monnier on the Boulevard Montmartre. “Well, old fellow!” cried he, “are you back? When are you and I going to get at our practical jokes again?” Henri Monnier looked profoundly astonished; it was Monsieur Thiers!
The next one is signed Pilotel. Pilotel, the savage commissioner! He who arrested Monsieur Chaudey, and who pocketed eight hundred and fifteen francs found in Monsieur Chaudey’s drawers. Ah! Pilotel, if by some unlucky adventure you were to succumb behind a barricade, you would cry like Nero: “Qualis artifex pereo!” But let us leave the author to criticise the work. A Gavroche, not the Gavroche of theMisérables, but the boy of Belleville, chewing tobacco like a Jack-tar, drunk as a Federal, in a purple blouse, green trousers, his hands in his pockets, his cap on the nape of his neck; squat, violent, and brutish. With an impudent jerk of the head he grumbles out: “I don’t want any of your kings!” This coarse sketch is graphic and not without merit.
Horror of horrors! “Council of Revision of the Amazons of Paris,” this next is called. Oh! if the brave Amazons are like these formidable monstrosities, it would be quite sufficient to place them in the first rank, and I am sure that not a soldier of the line, not a guardian of the peace, not agendarmewould hesitate a moment at the sight, but all would fly without exception, in hot haste and in agonised terror, forgetting in their panic even to turn the butt ends of their muskets in the air. One of these Amazons—but how has my sympathy for the amateurs of collections led me into the description of these creatures of ugliness and immodesty?—one of them.... but no, I prefer leaving to your imagination those Himalayan masses of flesh, and pyramids of bone—these Penthesileas of the Commune of Paris that are before me.
Ah! Here is choleric old “Father Duchesne” in a towering passion, with short legs, bare arms, and rubicund face, topped with an immense red cap. In one hand he holds a diminutive Monsieur Thiers and stifles him as if he were a sparrow. Here, the drawing is not only vile, but stupid too.
This time we have the nude, and it is not the Republic, but France that is represented. If the Republic can afford to bare her shoulders, France may dispense with drapery entirely. She has a dove which she presses to her bosom. On one side is a portrait of Monsieur Rochefort. Again! Why this unlovely-looking journalist is a regular Lovelace. Finally, two cats (M. Jules Favre and M. Thiers) are to be seen outside the garret window with their claws ready for pouncing. “Poor dove!” is the tame inscription below the sketch.[56]
Next we find a Holy Family, by Murillo. Jules Favre, as Joseph, leads the ass by the reins, and a wet-nurse, who holds the Comte de Paris in her arms instead of the infant Jesus, is seated between the two panniers, trying to look at once like Monsieur Thiers and the Holy Virgin. The sketch is called “The Flight.... to Versailles.” Oh! fie! fie! Messieurs the Caricaturists, can you not be funny without trenching on sacred ground?
We might refer to dozens more. Some date from the day when Paris shook off the Empire, and are so infamous that, by a natural reaction of feeling, they inspire a sort of esteem for those they try to make you despise; others, those which were seen by everyone during the siege, are less vile, because, of the patriotic rage which originated them, and excused them; but they are as odious as they can be nevertheless. But the amateurs of collections who neglected to buy fly-sheets one by one as they appeared, must be satisfied with the above.
NOTES:
[56]As a power for the encouragement of virtue and the suppression of vice, caricature cannot be too highly estimated, though often abused. It is doubtful which exercises the greater influence, poem or picture. In England, perhaps, picture wields the greater power; in France, song. Yet, “let me write the ballads and you may govern the people,” is an English axiom which was well known before pictures became so plentiful or so popular, or the refined cartoons of Mr. Punch were ever dreamt of. In Paris, where art-education is highly developed, fugitive designs seems to have, with but few exceptions, descended into vile abuse and indecent metaphor, the wildest invective being exhausted upon trivial matters—hence the failure.The art advocates of the Commune, with but few exceptions, seem to have been of the most humble sort, inspired with the melodramatic taste of our Seven Dials or the New Out, venting itself in ill-drawn heroic females, symbols of the Republic, clad in white, wearing either mural crowns or Phrygian caps, and waving red flags. They are the work of aspiring juvenile artists or uneducated men. I allude to art favourable to the Commune, and not that coëval with it, or the vast mass of pictorial unpleasantly born of gallic rage during the Franco-Prussian war, including such designs as the horrible allegory of Bayard, “Sedan, 1870,” a large work depicting Napoleon III. drawn in a calèche and four, over legions of his dying soldiers, in the presence of a victorious enemy and the shades of his forefathers’, and the well-known subject, so popular in photography, of “The Pillory,” Napoleon between King William and Bismarck, also set in the midst of a mass of dead and dying humanity. Paper pillories are always very popular in Paris, and under the Commune the heads of Tropmann and Thiers were exhibited in a wooden vice, inscribed Pantin and Neuilly underneath. And, again, in another print, entitled “The Infamous,” we have Thiers, Favre, and MacMahon, seen in a heavenly upper storey, fixed to stakes, contemplating a dead mother and her child, slain in their happy home, the wounds very sanguine and visible, the only remaining relict being a child of very tender years in an overturned cradle; beneath is the inscription “Their Works.” Communal art seems also to have been very severe upon landlords, who are depicted with long faces and threadbare garments, seeking alms in the street, or flying with empty bags and lean stomachs from a very yellow sun, bearing the words “The Commune, 1871.” Whilst as a contrast, a fat labourer, with a patch on his blouse, luxuriates in the same golden sunshine.As a sample of the better kind of French art, we give two fac-similes, by Bertal, fromThe Grelot, a courageous journal started during the Commune; it existed unmolested, and still continues. We here insert a fac-simile of a sketch called “Paris and his Playthings.”“What destruction the unhappy, spoiled, and ill-bred child whose name is Paris has done, especially of late!“France, his strapping nurse, put herself in a passion in vain, the child would not listen to reason. He broke Trochu’s arms, ripped up Gambetta, to see what there was inside. He blew out the lantern of Rochefort; as to Bergeret himself, he trampled him under foot.“He has dislocated all his puppets, strewed the ground with thedébrisof his fancies, and he is not yet content,—‘What do you want, you wretched baby?’—‘I want the moon!’ The old woman called the Assembly was right in refusing this demand,—‘The moon, you little wretch, and what would you do with it if you had it?’—‘I would pull it to bits, as I did the rest.’”Further on will be found “Paris eating a General a day” (Chapter LXXVIII). Early in June, 1871 there appeared in the same journal “The International Centipede,” “John Bull and the Blanche Albion.” The Queen of England, clad in white, holding in her hands a model of the Palace of Westminster, and sundry docks, resists the approach of an interminable centipede, on which she stamps, vainly endeavouring to impede the progress of the coil of fire and blood approaching to soil and fire her fair robe; beside her stands John Bull, in a queer mixed costume, half sailor, with the smalls and gaiters of a coalheaver. He bears the Habeas Corpus Act under his arm, but stands aghast and paralysed, it never seeming to have occurred to the artist that this “Monsieur John Boule, Esquire,” was well adapted by his beetle-crushers to stamp out the vermin. Perhaps, it is needless to add, that the snake-like form issues from a hole in distant Prussia, meandering through many nations, causing great consternation, and that M. Thiers is finishing off the French section in admirable style.
Illustration:Little Paris and his Playthings. Nurse. Mais! Sacré mille noms d’un moutard! what will you want next?—PETIT PARIS: I’ll have the moon!
Little Paris and his Playthings. Nurse. Mais! Sacré mille noms d’un moutard! what will you want next?—PETIT PARIS: I’ll have the moon!
What has Monsieur Courbet to do among these people? He is a painter, not a politician. A few beery speeches uttered at the Hautefeuille Café cannot turn his past into a revolutionary one, and an order refused for the simple reason that it is more piquant for a man to have his button-hole without ornament than with a slip of red ribbon in it, when it is well known that he disdains whatever every one else admires, is but a poor title to fame. To your last, Napoleon Gaillard![57]To your paint-brushes, Gustave Courbet! And if we say this, it is not only from fear that the meagre lights of Monsieur Courbet are insufficient, and may draw the Commune into new acts of folly,—(though we scarcely know, alas! if there be any folly the Commune has left undone,)—but it is, above all, because we fear the odium and ridicule that the false politician may throw upon the painter. Yes! whatever may be our horror for the nude women and unsightly productions with which Monsieur Courbet[58]has honoured the exhibitions of paintings, we remember with delight several, admirably true to nature, with sunshine and summer breezes playing among the leaves, and streams murmuring refreshingly over the pebbles, and rocks whereon climbing plants cling closely; and, besides these landscapes, a good picture here and there, executed, if not by the hand of an artist—for the word artist possesses a higher meaning in our eyes—at least by the hand of a man of some power, and we hate that this painter should be at the Hôtel de Ville at the moment when the spring is awakening in forest and field, and when he would do so much better to go into the woods of Meudon or Fontainebleau to study the waving of the branches and the eccentric twists and turns of the oak-tree’s huge trunk, than in making answers to Monsieur Lefrançais—iconoclast in theory only as yet—and to Monsieur Jules Vallès, who has read Homer in Madame Dacier’s translation, or has never read it at all. That one should try a little of everything, even of polities, when one is capable of nothing else, is, if not excusable, at any rate comprehensible; but when a man can make excellent boots like Napoleon Gaillard, or good paintings like Gustave Courbet, that he should deliberately lay himself open to ridicule, and perhaps to everlasting execration, is what we cannot admit. To this Monsieur Courbet would reply: “It is the artists that I represent; it is the rights and claims of modern art that I uphold. There must be a great revolution in painting as in politics; we must federate too, I tell you; we’ll decapitate those aristocrats, the Titians and Paul Veroneses; we’ll establish, instead of a jury, a revolutionary tribunal, which shall condemn to instant death any man who troubles himself about the ideal—that king whom we have knocked off his throne; and at this tribunal I will be at once complainant, lawyer, and judge. Yes! my brother painters, rally around me, and we will die for the Commune of Art. As to those who are not of my opinion, I don’t care the snap of a finger about them.” By this last expression the friends of Monsieur Gustave Courbet will perceive that we are not without some experience of his style of conversation. Courbet, my master, you don’t know what you are talking about, and all true artists will send you to old Harry, you and your federation. Do you know what an artistic association, such as you understand it, would result in? In serving the puerile ambition of one man—its chief, for there will be a chief, will there not, Monsieur Courbet?—and the puerile rancours of a parcel of daubers, without name and without talent. Artist in our way we assert, that no matter, what painter, even had he composed works superior in their way to Courbet’s “Combat de Cerfs” and “Femme au Perroquet,” who came and said, “Let us federate,” we would answer him plainly: “Leave us in peace, messieurs of the federation, we are dreamers and workers; when we exhibit or publish and are happy enough to meet with a man who will buy or print a few thousand copies of our work without reducing himself to beggary, we are happy. When that is done, we do not trouble ourselves much about our work; the indulgence of a few friends, and the indignation of a few fools, is all we ask or hope for. We federate? Why? With whom? If our work is bad, will the association with any society in the world make it good? Will the works of others gain anything by their association with ours? Let us go home,messieurs les artistes, let us shut our doors, let us say to our servants—if we have any—that we are at home to no one, and, after having cut our best pencil, or seized our best pen, let us labour in solitude, without relaxation, with no other thought than that of doing the best we can, with no higher judge than that of our own artistic conscience; and when the work is completed, let us cordially shake hands with those of our comrades who love us; let us help them, and let them bring help to us, but freely, without obligation, without subscriptions, without societies, and without statutes. We have nothing to do with these free-masonries, absurd when brought into the domain of intelligence, and in which two or three hundred people get together to do that, which some new-comer, however unknown his budding fame, would accomplish at a blow, in the face of all the associations in the world.” This is what I should naïvely reply to Monsieur Courbet if he took it into his head to offer me any advice or compact whatsoever to sign.
Illustration:The Modern “Erostrate” Courbet. In progress of removal. June 1871.
The Modern “Erostrate” Courbet. In progress of removal. June 1871.
The artists have done still better than we should; they have not answered at all, for one cannot call the “General Assembly of all the Artists in Design,” presided over by Monsieur Gustave Courbet, and held on the 13th of April, 1871, in the great amphitheatre of the Ecole de Médecine, a real meeting of French artists. We know several celebrated painters, and we saw none of them there. The citizens Potier and Boulaix had been named secretaries. We congratulate them; for this high distinction may, perhaps, aid in founding their reputation, which was in great want of a basis of some kind. But there were some sculptors there, perhaps? We saw some long beards, beards that were quite unknown to us, and their owners may have been sculptors, perhaps. For Paris is a city of sculptors. But if artists were wanting, there were talkers enough. Have you ever remarked that there are no orators so indefatigable as those who have nothing to say? And the interruptions, the clamour, the apostrophising, more highly coloured than courteous! Such an overwhelming tumult was never heard:—
“No more jury!”“Yes! yes! a jury! a jury!”“Out with the reactionist!”“Down with Cabanel!”“And the women? Are the women to be on the jury?”“Neither the women, nor the infirm.”
And all the time there is Monsieur Gustave Courbet, the chairman, desperately ringing his bell for order, and launching some expressive exclamation from time to time. And the result of all this? Absolutely nothing at all! No! stop! There were a few statutes proposed—and every one amused himself immensely. “Well! so much the better,” said one. “Every one laughed, and no harm was done to anybody.”
We beg your pardon! There was a great deal of harm done—to Monsieur Courbet.
NOTES:
[57]Gaillard Senior (a sort of Odger), cobbler of Belleville and democratic stump orator. Appointed, April 8, to the Presidency of the Commission of Barricades.
[58]As a painter Courbet has been very diversely judged. He was the chief of the ultra-realistic school, and therefore a natural subject for the contempt and abuse of the admirers of “legitimate art.” But his later use of the political power entrusted to him has drawn down upon him the wrath of an immense majority of the French public, which his artistic misdemeanours had scarcely touched. On the sixteenth of April he was elected a member of the Commune by the 6th arrondissement of Paris, and forthwith appointed Director of the Beaux Arts. Until this time his life had been purely professional, and consequently of mediocre interest for the general public. He was born at Ornans, department of the Doubs, in 1819, and received his primary instructions from the Abbé Gousset, afterwards Archbishop of Rheims. He first applied himself to the study of mathematics, painting the while, and apparently aiming at a fusion of both pursuits. He subsequently read for the bar for a short time, and, finally, adopting art as his sole profession, threw himself heart and soul into a Rénaissance movement as the apostle of a new style. The peculiarities of his manner soon brought him into notoriety, and a school of imitators grouped itself around him. His pride became a proverb. In 1870 he was offered the cross of the Legion of Honour, and refused it, arrogantly declaring that he would have none of a distinction given to tradesmen and ministers. The part he took in the destruction of the Colonne Vendôme is familiar to all readers of the English press. Three weeks after the fall of the Commune he was denounced by a Federal officer, and discovered at the house of a friend hiding in a wardrobe, and in September was condemned by the tribunal at Versailles to six months’ imprisonment and a fine of 600 francs—a slight penalty that astonished everyone.
It is forbidden to cross the Place Vendôme, and naturally, walking there is prohibited too. I had been prowling about every afternoon for the last few days, trying to pass the sentinels of the Rue de la Paix, hoping that some lucky chance might enable me to evade the military order; all I got for my pains was a sharply articulated “Passes au large!” and I remained shut out.
To-day, as I was watching for a favourable opportunity, apetite damewho held up her skirts to show her stockings, which were as red as the flag of the Hôtel de Ville—out upon you for a female Communist!—approached the sentinel and addressed him with her most gracious, smile. And oh, these Federals! The man in office forgot his duty, and at once began with the lady a conversation of such an intimate description, that for discretion’s sake I felt myself obliged to take a slight turn to the left, and a minute later I had slipped into the forbidden Place.
A Place?—no, a camp it might more properly be called. Here and there, are seen a crowd of little tents, which would be white if they were washed, and littered about with straw. Under the tents lie National Guards; they are not seen, but plainly heard, for they are snoring. You remember the absurd old bit of chop-logic often repeated in the classes of philosophy? One might apply it thus: he sleeps well who has a good conscience; the Federals sleep well; ergo, the Federals have a good conscience. Guards walk to and fro with their pipes in their mouths. If I were to say that these honourable Communists show by their easy manner, gentlemanly bearing, and superior conversation, that they belong to the cream of Parisian society, you would perhaps be impertinent enough not to believe one word of what I said. I think it, therefore, preferable in every way to assert the direct contrary. There is a group of them flinging away their pay at the usual game ofbouchon. “The Soldier’s Pay and the Game of Cork” is the title that might be given by those who would write the history of the National Guard from the beginning of the siege to the present time. And if to the cork they added the bottle, they might pride themselves upon having found a perfect one. This is how it comes to pass. The wife is hungry, and the children are hungry, but the father is thirsty, and he receives the pay. What does he do? He is thirsty, and he must drink; one must think of oneself in this world. When he has satisfied his thirst, what remains? A few sous, the empty bottle, and the cork. Very good. He plays his last sou on the famous game, and in the evening, when he returns home, he carries to his family—what?—the empty bottle!
On the Place two barricades have been made, one across the Rue de la Paix, and the other before the Rue Castiglione. “Two formidable barricades,” say the newspapers, which may be read thus: “A heap of paving stones to the right, and a heap of paving stones to the left.” I whisper to myself that two small field-pieces, one on the place of the New Opera-house, and the other at the Rue de Rivoli, would not be long before they got the better of these two barricades, in spite of the guns that here and there display their long, bright cylinders.
The Federals have decidedly a taste for gallantry. About twenty women—I say young women, but not pretty women—are selling coffee to the National Guards, and add to their change a few ogling smiles meant to be engaging.
As to the Column, it has not the least appearance of being frightened by the decree of the Commune which threatens it with a speedy fall. There it stands like a huge bronze I, and the emperor is the dot upon it. The four eagles are still there, at the four corners of the pedestal, with their wreaths of immortelles, and the two red flags which wave from the top seem but little out of place. The column is like the ancient honour of France, that neither decrees nor bayonets can intimidate, and which in the midst of threats and tumult, holds itself aloft in serene and noble dignity.
Who would think it? They are voting. When I say “they are voting,” I mean to say “they might vote;” for as for going to the poll, Paris seems to trouble itself but little about it. The Commune, too, seems somewhat embarrassed. You remember Victor Hugo’s song of the Adventurers of the Sea:
“En partant du golfe d’OtrenteNous étions trente,Mais en arrivant à CadixNous n’étions que dix.”[59]
The gentlemen of the Hôtel de Ville might sing this song with a few slight variations. The Gulf of Otranto was not their starting point, but the Buttes Montmartre; though to make up for it they were eighty in number. On arriving at C——, no, I mean, the decree of the Colonne Vendôme, they were a few more than ten, but not many. What charming stanzas in imitation of Victor Hugo might Théodore de Banville and Albert Glatigny write on the successive desertions of the members of the Commune. The first to withdraw were themairesof Paris, frightened to death at having been sent by the votes of their fellow-citizens into an assembly which was not at all, it appears, their ideal of a municipal council. And upon this subject Monsieur Desmarest, Monsieur Tirard, and theiradjointswill perhaps permit me an unimportant question. What right had they to persuade their electors and the Friends of Order, to vote for the Commune of Paris if they were resolved to decline all responsibility when the votes had been given them? Their presence at the Hôtel de Ville, would it not have infused—as we hoped—a powerful spirit of moderation even in the midst of excesses that could even then be foretold? When they have done all they can to persuade people to vote, have they the right to consider themselves ineligible? In a word, why did they propose to us to elect the Commune of Paris if the Commune were a bad thing? and if it were a good thing, why did they refuse to take their part in it? Whatever the cause, no sooner were they elected than they sent in their resignations. Then the hesitating and the timid disappeared one after another, not having the courage to continue the absurdity to the end. Add to all this the arrests made in its very bosom by the Assembly of the Hôtel de Ville itself, and you will then have an idea of the extent of the dilemma. A few days more and the Commune will come to an end for want of Communists, and then we shall cry, “Haste to the poll, citizens of Paris!” And the white official handbills will announce supplementary elections for Sunday, 16th of April.
But here comes the difficulty; there may be elections, but not the shadow of an elector. Of candidates there are enough, more than enough, even to spare; Toting lists where the electors’ names are inscribed; ballot-urns-no, ballot-boxes this time-to receive the lists; these are all to be found, but voters to put the lists into the ballot-boxes, to elect the candidates, we seek them in vain. The voting localities may be compared to the desert of Sahara viewed at the moment when not a caravan is to be seen on the whole extent of the horizon, so complete is the solitude wherever the eager crowd of voters was expected to hasten to the poll. Are we then so far from the day when the Commune of Paris, in spite of the numerous absentees, was formed—thanks to the strenuous efforts of the few electors left to us? Alas! At that time we had still some illusions left to us, whilst now.... Have you ever been at the second representation of a piece when the first was a failure? The first day there was a cram, the second day only the claque remained. People had found oat the worth of the piece, you see. Nevertheless, though the place is peopled only with silence and solitude, the claque continues to do its duty, for it receives its pay. For the same reason one sees a few battalions marching to the poll, all together, in step, just as they would march to the fighting at the Porte Maillot; and as they return they cry, “Oh! citizens, how the people are voting! Never was such enthusiasm seen!” But behind the scenes,—I mean in the Hôtel de Ville,—authors and actors whisper to each other: “There is no doubt about it, it is a failure!”
NOTES:
[59]On leaving the gulf of OtrantoThere were thirty of us there,But on arriving at CadizThere were no more than ten.
And what has become of the Bourse? What are the brokers and jobbers saying and doing now? I ask myself this question for the first time, as in ordinary circumstances, the Bourse is of all sublunary things that which occupies me the least. I am one of those excessively stupid people, who have never yet been able to understand how all those black-coated individuals can occupy three mortal hours of every day, in coming and going beneath the colonnade of the “temple of Plutus.” I know perfectly well that stockbrokers and jobbers exist; but if I were asked what these stockbrokers and jobbers do, I should be incapable of answering a single word. We have all our special ignorances. I have heard, it is true, of theCorbeille,[60]but I ingeniously imagined, in my simple ignorance, that this famous basket was made in wicker work, and crammed with sweet-scented leaves and flowers, which the gentlemen of the Bourse, with the true gallantry of their nation, made up into emblematical bouquets to offer to their lady friends. I was shown, however, how much I was deceived by a friend who enlightened me, more or less, as to what is really done in the Bourse in usual times, and what they are doing there now.
I must begin by acknowledging that in using the worn metaphor of the “temple of Plutus” just now, I knew little of what I was talking about.
The Bourse is not a temple; if it were it would necessarily be a church or something like one, and consequently would have been closed long ago by our most gracious sovereign, the Commune of Paris.
The Bourse, then, is open; but what is the good of that? you will say, for all those who haunt it now, could get in just as well through closed doors and opposing railings; spectres and other supernatural beings never find any difficulty in insinuating themselves through keyholes and slipping between bars. ‘Poor phantoms! Thanks to the weakness of our Government, which has neglected to put seals on the portals of the Bourse, they are under the obligation of going in and coming out like the most ordinary individuals; and a Parisian, who has not learned, by a long intimacy with Hoffmann and Edgar Poë, to distinguish the living from the dead, might take these ghosts of the money-market for simpleboursiers. Thank heaven! I am not a man to allow myself to be deceived by specious appearances on such a subject, and I saw at once with whom I had to do.
On the grand staircase there were four or five of them, spectres lean as vampires who have not sucked blood for three months; they were walking in silence, with the creeping, furtive step peculiar to apparitions who glide among the yew-trees in church-yards. From time to time one of them pulled a ghost of a notebook from his ghost of a waistcoat-pocket, and wrote appearances of notes with the shadow of a pencil. Others gathered together in groups, and one could distinctly hear the rattling of bones beneath their shadowy overcoats. They spoke in that peculiar voice which is only understood by theconfrèresof the magi Eliphas Levy, and they recall to each other’s mind the quotations of former days, Austrian funds triumphant, Government stock at 70 (quantum mutata ab illâ), bonds of the city of Paris 1860-1869, and the fugitive apotheosis of the Suez shares. They said with sighs: “You remember the premiums? In former times there were reports made, in former times there were settling days at the end of the month, and huge pocket-book’s were so well filled, that they nearly burst; but now, we wander amidst the ruins of our defunct splendour, as the shade of Diomedes wandered amid the ruins of his house at Pompeii. We are of those who were; the imaginary quotations of shares that have disappeared, are like vain epitaphs on tombs, and we, despairing ghosts, we should die a second time of grief, if we were not allowed to appear to each other in this deserted palace, here to brood over our past financial glories!” Thus spoke the phantoms of the money market, and then added: “Oh! Commune, Commune, give us back our settling days?” From time to time a phantom, which still retains its haughty air, and in which we recognise a defunct of distinction, passes near them. In the days of Napoleon the Third and the Prussians this was a stockbroker; it passed along with a mass of documents under its arm,—as the father of Hamlet, rising from the grave, still wore his helmet and his sword. It enters the building, goes towards theCorbeille, shouts out once or twice, is answered only by an echo in the solitude, and then returns, saluted on his passage by his fellow-ghost. And to think that a little bombardment, followed by a successful attack, seven or eight houses set on fire by the Versailles shells, seven or eight hundred Federals shot, a few women blown to pieces, and a few children killed, would suffice to restore these desolate spectres to life and joy. But, alas! hope for them is deferred; the last circular of Monsieur Thiers announces that the great military operations will not commence for several days. They must wait still longer yet. The people who cross the Place de la Bourse draw aside with a sort of religious terror from the necropolis where sleep the three per cents and the shares of theCrédit Foncier; and if the churches were not closed, more than one charitable soul would perhaps burn a candle to lay the unquiet spirits of these despairing jobbers.
NOTES:
[60]A circular space in the great hall of the Bourse, enclosed with a railing, and in which the stockbrokers stand to take bids. It is nicknamed the basket (corbeille).
The game is played, the Commune isau complet. In the first arrondissement 21260 electors, are inscribed, and there were 9 voters! Monsieur Vésinier had 2 votes, and Monsieur Vésinier was elected. Monsieur Lacord—more clever still—has no votes at all, and, triumphing by the unanimity of his electors, Monsieur Lacord will preside over the Commune of Paris in future. A very logical arrangement. It must be evident to all serious minds that the legislators of the Hôtel de Ville have promulgatedin pettoa law which they did not think it necessary to make known, but which exists nevertheless, and most be couched somewhat in the following terms:—“Clause 1st. The elections will not be considered valid, if the number of voters exceed a thousandth part of the electors entered.—Clause 2nd. Every candidate who has less than fifteen votes will be elected; if he has sixteen his election will be a matter of discussion.” The poll is just like the game called, “He who loses gains, and he who gains loses!” and the probable advantages of such an arrangement are seen at once. Now let us do a bit of Communal reasoning. By whom was France led within an inch of destruction? By Napoleon the Third. How many votes did Napoleon the Third obtain? Seven millions and more. By whom was Paris delivered into the hands of the Prussians? By the dictators of the 4th September. How many votes did the dictators of the 4th September get for themselves in the city of Paris? More than three hundred thousand.Ergo, the candidates who obtain the greatest number of votes are swindlers and fools. The Commune of Paris cannot allow such abuses to exist; the Commune maintains universal suffrage—the grand basis of republican institutions—but turns it topsy-turvy. Michon has only had half a vote,—then Michon is our master!
Ah! you do not only make us tremble and weep, you make us laugh too. What is this miserable parody of universal suffrage? What is this farce of the will of the people being represented by a half a dozen electors? The unknown individual, who owes his triumph to the kindness of his concierge and his water-carrier, becomes a member of the Commune. I shall be governed by Vésinier, with Briosne and Viard as supporters. Do you not see that the few men, with any sense left, who still support you, have refused to present themselves as candidates, and that even amongst those who were mad enough to declare themselves eligible, there are some who dispute the validity of the elections? No; you see nothing of all this, or rather it suits you to be blind. What are right and justice to you? Let us reign, let us govern, let us decree, let us triumph. All is contained in that. Rogeard pleases us, so we’ll have Rogeard. If the people won’t have Rogeard, so much the worse for the people. Beautiful! admirable! But why don’t you speak out your opinion frankly? There were some honest brigands (par pari refertur) in the Roman States who were perhaps no better than you are, but at least they made no pretension of being otherwise than lawless, and followed their calling of brigands without hypocrisy. When, by the course of various adventures, the band got diminished in numbers, they stuck no handbills on the walls to invite people to elect new brigands to fill up the vacant places; they simply chose among the vagabonds and such like individuals those, who seemed to them, the most capable of dealing a blow with a stiletto or stripping a traveller of his valuables, and the band, thus properly reinforced, went about its usual occupations. The devil!Messieurs, one must say what is what, and call things by their names. Let us call a cat a cat, and Pilotel a thief. The time of illusions is past; you need not be so careful to keep your masks on; we have seen your faces. We have had the carnival of the Commune, and now Ash-Wednesday is come. You disguised yourselves cunningly,Messieurs; you routed out from the old cupboards and corners of history the cast-off revolutionary rags of the men of ’98; and, sticking some ornaments of the present fashion upon them,—waistcoats à la Commune and hats à la Federation,—you dressed yourselves up in them and then struck attitudes. People perceived, it is true, that the clothes that were made for giants, were too wide for you pigmies; they hung round your figures like collapsed balloons; but you, cunning that you were, you said, “We have been wasted by persecution.” And when, at the very beginning, some stains of blood were seen upon your old disguises; “Pay no attention,” said you, “it is only the red flag we have in our pockets that is sticking out.” And it happened that some few believed you. We ourselves, in the very face of all our suspicions, let ourselves be caught by the waving of your big Scaramouche sleeves, that were a great deal too long for your arms. Then you talked of such beautiful things: liberty, emancipation of workmen, association of the working-classes, that we listened and thought we would see you at your task before we condemned you utterly. And now we have seen you at your task, and knowing how you work, we won’t give you any more work to do. Down with your mask, I tell you! Come, false Danton, be Rigault again, and let Sérailler’s[61]face come out from behind that Saint Just mask he has on. You, Napoléon Gaillard, though you are a shoemaker, you are not even a Simon. Drop the Robespierre, Rogeard! Off with the trappings borrowed from the dark, grand days! Be mean, small, and ridiculous,—be yourselves; we shall all be a great deal more at our ease when you are despicable and we are despising you again.
Paris said to you yesterday just what I am telling you now. This almost general abstention of electors, compared with the eagerness of former times, is but the avowal of the error to which your masquerade has given rise. And what does it prove but the resolution to mix in your carnival no more? We see clearly through it now, I tell you, that the saturnalia is wearing to its end. In vain does the orchestra of cannon and mitrailleuses, under the direction of the conductor, Cluseret, play madly on and invite us to the fête. We will dance no more, and there is an end of it!
But it will be fatal to Paris if, after saying this, she sit satisfied. Contempt is not enough, there must be abhorrence too, and actual measures taken against those we abhor. It is not sufficient to neglect the poll, one abstains when one is in doubt, but now that we doubt no longer it is time to act. While wrongful work is being done, those that stand aside with folded arms become accomplices. Think that for more than a fortnight the firing has not ceased; that Neuilly and Asnières have been turned into cemeteries; that husbands are falling, wives weeping, children suffering. Think that yesterday, the 18th of April, the chapel of Longchamps became a dependance—an extra dead-house—of the ambulances of the Press, so numerous were that day’s dead. Think of the savage decrees passed upon the hostages and the refractory, those who shunned the Federates; of the requisitions and robberies; of the crowded prisons and the empty workshops, of the possible massacres and the certain pillage. Think of our own compromised honour, and let us be up and doing, so that those who have remained in Paris during these mournful hours, shall not have stood by her only to see her fall and die.
NOTES:
[61]Sérailler, a member of the International, intrusted with a commission to London on behalf of the Central Committee to borrow cash for the daily pay of thirty sous to the National Guard.
Paris! for once I defy you to remain indifferent. You have had much to bear, during these latter days; it has been said to you, that you should kneel in your churches no more, and you have not knelt there; that the newspapers that pleased you, should be read no more, and you have not read them. You have continued to smile—with but the tips of your lips, it is true—and to promenade on the boulevards. But now comes stalking on that which will make you shudder indeed! Do you know what I have just read in theIndépendance Belge? Ah! poor Paris, the days of your glory are past, your ancient fame is destroyed, the old nursery rhyme will mock you, “Vous n’irez plus au Bois, vos lauriers sont coupés.”[62]This is what has happened; you are supplanted on the throne of fashion. The world, uneasy about the form of bonnet to be worn this sorrowful year, and seeing you occupied with your internal discords, anxiously turned to London for help, and London henceforth dictates to all the modistes of the universe. City of desolation, I pity you! No more will you impose your sovereign laws, concerningSuivez-moi-jeune-homme[63]and dog-skin gloves. No more will your boots and shirt-collars reach, by the force of their reputation, the sparely-dressed inhabitants of the Sandwich Islands. And, deepest of humiliations, it is your old rival, it is your tall and angular sister, it is the black city of London, who takes your glittering sword and transforms it into a policeman’s baton of wood! You are destined to see within your walls—if any walls remain to you—your own wives and daughters clog their dainty tread with encumbrances of English leather, flatten their heads beneath mushroom-shaped hats, surround themselves with crinoline and flounces, and wear magenta, that abominable mixture of red and blue which always filled your soul with horror. Then, to increase the resemblance of your Parisian women with the Londoners or Cockneys (for it is time you learnt the fashionable language of England), your dentists will sell them new sets of teeth, called insular sets, which can be fitted over their natural front teeth, and will protrude about a third of an inch beyond the upper lip. And they will have corsets offered them whose aim is to prolong the waist to the farthest possible limits and compress the fairest forms—a fact, for report says they lace in London, whilst here we have nearly abandoned the corset. Well, my Paris, do you tremble and shiver? Oh! when those days of horror come to pass! when you see that not only have you forfeited your pride, but your vanity too; when you are convinced that the Commune has not only rendered you odious, but ridiculous as well; ah! then, when you wear bonnets that you have not invented, how deeply will you regret that you did not rebel on that day, when some of the best of your citizens were putau secretin the cells of Mazas prison![64]
NOTES:
[62]The refrain of a nursery song,—“Go no more to the wood, for all the laurels are cut.”
[63]The long floating ends of the neck ribbons.
[64]The Parisian play-writer’s English exhibits all the typical peculiarities noted above. We have our ideal, if not typical, Frenchman, little less truthful perhaps—taken from refugees and excursionists, from the close-cropped, dingy denizen of Leicester Square; our tourist suits, heavy pedestrian toots, “wide-awakes,” and faded fashions, used up in travel—all these things are put down to insular peculiarities.