Come out in the streets again! What has become of the bright look they

wore? There are no longer the _belles toilettes_ of the last Parisian

fashion--no gay dresses, or but a scanty, worn-out, tawdry show--none

of the ancient splendour of rich Paris. A few _élégants_, it is true,

familiar faces, may be still met upon their former lounging haunts on

the Boulevards; but they are few, and their varnished boots even have

a dull lustreless look, that is perfectly sympathetical with the

general gloom. Several, certainly, may be met in the uniform of the

National Guard, but with such an altered, any thing but "lion"-like

mien, that you do not recognise them at first, and cut half your best

acquaintances. The equipages which formerly dashed hither and thither

over the pavement, are now _raræ aves_ in the streets; and the few

who exhibit thus openly their superior wealth have, for the most part,

considered it advisable to have the armorial bearings upon the pannels

of their vehicles painted over. Most of the upper classes have put

down their carriages, and sold or sent away their horses. The

unfortunate "rich," however, are in sad straits; if they show

themselves _en voiture_, while their humbler neighbours walk on foot,

they may stand a chance, in the new realm of "_égalité_," of having

their ears saluted with the menacing cry of "_à bas les

aristocrates--à bas les riches!_" if they restrict their expenses and

reduce their establishments, they run the risk of being seriously

denounced as favourers of the "_conspiration de l`économie_," which

they are supposed to form in order to injure the republic by refusing

to spend their money. Where the people are lords and masters, the

upper classes have evidently a far harder game to play, and much less

tolerance to expect, than in the contrary rule. In the aspect of the

streets, then, there is not a trace of Paris as it was.

How looks the scene? There are plenty of ill-dressed men moving about

with anxious faces: they are the hungry crew from the provinces, come

to solicit places in the new order of things, and snatch what morsel

of the cake they can in the general scramble. They may be known by the

size of their tricolor cockades, and streaming ribbons at their

buttonhole; for they think it necessary to proclaim, as flauntingly as

they can, by symbol, the republican principles which, they suddenly

find out, always and from all times, although unknown to themselves,

animated their souls. And _blouses_ there are in plenty, as of course.

They are the kings of the day, and they are not yet chary of their

royal persons, or tired of exhibiting the consciousness of their

royalty in the streets. Some of these _braves citoyens_ have got far

beyond the comparison, "drunk as a lord"--they are "drunk as an

emperor:" and with their ideas of aristocratic power, and their maxim

of "all for us, and nothing for nobody else," why should they not be?

Besides, as they choose to have much pay and no work, how could they

better employ their time? The uniforms of the National Guards are now

almost more numerous than the frock-coat and round hat; and though so

fallen from their high estate before the frowning demonstration of the

people, these former _soi-disant_ defenders of the liberties of their

country assert a certain predominance in the aspect of the moving

scene. Where so lately arms were never seen, having been strictly

prohibited by orders of the police, now pass by you, at all times,

bands of armed men, in tolerably ragged attire, or _en blouse_, with

muskets on their arms, their white sword and cartouche belts crossing

their breasts, and little bits of card-paper stuck in their caps.

These are small battalions of the newly recruited _garde

mobile_--recruited chiefly from the idle refuse of the people; and as

they march hither and thither continually, they seem still to have a

faint idea that they are obeying orders from their officers: but how

long this fancy of obedience and discipline will be still entertained

among them, is a very ticklish question. Some of them are standing

sentinels at the gates of the government buildings and public offices,

in lieu of the soldiers of the line that formerly met your eye there.

Here again, before the Hotel de la Marine, are a few sturdy-looking

sailors, the most honest in physiognomy of most of the individuals you

meet; and with their blue dresses, and ribbon-bound glazed hats, give

a new feature, and not an unpicturesque one, to the street scene. A

few soldiers still roam about in desultory manner; the jealousy of the

people will not allow of any armed force but their own within the

walls of Paris; and they have a debauched demoralised look that they

wore not of old; for they no longer obey orders, wander about at will,

and return to their barracks only when they want to be fed. Without

seeking for any marked republican fashion, there may be thus found

sufficient change in the outward attire of the general throng to show

at once that you are in the streets of republican Paris, and not Paris

as it was. And yet, specimens of the fantastic republican attire of a

gone-by time, the recollections of which few, one would think, would

wish to recall, are not altogether wanting. A few _bonnets

rouges_,--the Phrygian caps of liberty,--with tricolor cockades on one

side, startle the eye sometimes: some adventurous female of the lower

classes crosses your path now and then with a similar _coiffure_, and

in a tricolor dress of red, blue apron, and white collar; and here and

there a tricolor-bedecked fellow, with a fanner in his hands, invites

you to witness his feats of republican jugglery. This, however, is the

mere child's play that mocks an old comedy,--an old tragedy, I should

have said. Little is as yet done to parody that fearful epoch of

French history: people do not even address each other as "_citoyen_"

and "_citoyenne_." The name appears only in public documents. What

King People may require, when it feels more fully its own

strength--what comedy, or what tragedy, of old times it may choose to

act again, remains to be seen upon the dark and gloomy page of the

future. The new-born giant only stretches his arms as yet, and crushes

a fly or two in sport; as yet he scarcely knows his awful power.

Now listen to the street-cries in the formerly orderly thoroughfares

of the capital. What an incessant screeching of voices,--rough,

shrill, clear, and husky--fills the air, and, if not deafens, tears

the ears. From an early hour of the morning until after midnight, the

hoarse screaming ceases not in the streets. Wo betide the nervous and

impressionable! they are sure to go to bed nightly with a headach. All

this eardrum-rending clamour has reference only to one object of

all,--that of the necessary daily food of republican Paris--of the

newspapers. Their name now is legion. With one ambitious exception,

all the old established newspapers are submerged in this deluge of

republican prints. We have now two or three "_Republiques_," "_La

Reforme_," "_La Liberté_," "_Le Salut Public_," "_La voix du Peuple_,"

and who can tell how many other "voices" besides, including "_La voix

des Femmes_;" for the milder sex already lifts its voice still more

fiercely if possible than the ruder. But it would be as difficult to

enumerate all the names of the demons in a fantastic poet's

"_inferno_," as all the titles of the new republican newspapers that

howl around one in the distracted streets of Paris. There is one, as

was before said, that is screeched more noisily, more assiduously,

more sturdily, than all the others; and the sounds of its hawking ring

long in the ears after the streets have been left, and even pursue the

bewildered street-wanderer to his bed, and in his dreams. It weighs in

weight of noise against all the other papers of Paris taken in the

mass. Listen! What do you hear? Nothing but "_Démandez la Presse!_"

"_La Patrie!_" "_Démandez la Presse!_" "_La voix des Clubs!_"

"_Démandez la Presse!_" "_La vrai Démocrate!_" "_Démandez la Presse!_"

and so on to the "crack of doom." It is the journal of an intriguing

man, of strong sense, and stronger ambition, who has not yet obtained

that power at which he grasps; but as the whole paper is for one

_sou_, it will be strange if, with this active system of living

puffing, he arrive not at some great pinnacle, or fall not into some

deep abyss. Ears, however, will get accustomed to the cannon of the

battlefield; but the harassed spirit gets not easily accustomed to the

bodily assaults of every moment. At every step newspaper-venders

obstruct your path, rushing down upon you like cab-drivers in the

streets of Naples: the thousand rival sheets of printed paper are

flared in your face, thrust into your hand, forced into your bosom,

ten at a time, with the accompanying howl of "only a _sou_!--only five

_centimes_!"

Suppose that, for a moment--a bold supposition!--you have escaped from

the attacks of these invading hordes of republican journalism, you

must not fancy that your future path is unobstructed. Of course, in

republican Paris, a street-police would be considered as the most

frightful of tyrannies; universal license is the order of the day.

Besides the politicising and haranguing crowds already mentioned, your

course is hemmed by countless others. Here is a juggler--there a

quack-doctor--there a monkey--here a pamphlet-vender; and each has its

thick encircling throng of idlers around it. And, alas! how many there

are who have now no business but to idle. The thickest crowd, perhaps,

is round a long-haired meagre fellow, who is crying "_Les crimes de

Louis Philippe, et les assassinats qu'il a commis--all for two

sous!_" to an admiring and applauding throng of the lowest classes.

Some better feelings murmur at this useless ass's kick at the dead

lion; but they are few. Move on! There is another obstructing crowd

before a host of caricatures on the walls; of course, they are all

directed against Louis File-vite," as he is termed, and his accolyte

"Cuit-sot." There is a rare lack of wit in them, be they allegorical,

typical, or fanciful; but they are sure to attract a gaping and a

laughing throng. Move on again, if you can! You find two or three

_hommes du peuple_, in _blouses_, planted before you, who cry,

authoritatively, and without budging themselves to the right or to the

left--"_Faites place, nom de Dieu!_" And you, of course, make room;

and if you are disposed to reverence, you will take off your hat to

them too; for these are your lords and masters,--what say I? your

kings! and no autocrat was ever more despotically disposed. Move on

again, if you can! You will stumble over the countless beggars

stretched across the pavement, or squatting in gipsy-like groups, or

thrusting wounds and sores into your face. Many there may be real

sufferers from the present misery, but the most are of the got-up

species. It is now the beggars' saturnalia; they keep high holiday in

the streets. The people have cried "_A bas les municipaux--à bas les

sergents de ville!_" Those execrable monsters, the agents of a

tyrannical power, have been driven away, if not massacred, in the last

"three glorious days:" and the people want no police,--"the great, the

magnanimous, the generous, the virtuous," as the Government calls it

in its proclamations.

Try to move on once more! Before the walls, all plastered with

handbills of every kind, are again throngs to read and comment. On

every vacant space of wall, at every corner, are posted countless

addresses and advertisements. The numerous white bills are decrees,

proclamations, addresses, and republican bulletins of the Provisional

Government, all headed with those awful words, "_Republique

Française_," which make many a soul sink, and sicken many a heart,

with the remembrance of a fearful time gone by. And decrees there are

which hurry on the subversion of all the previously existing social

edifice, without reorganising in the place, destroying and yet not

building anew;--and proclamations more autocratic and despotic, in the

announcement of the reign of republican liberty, than ever was

monarchic ordinance;--and addresses to the people, couched in vague

declamation, telling these rulers of the day, "_Oui, peuple! tu es

grand--oui, tu es brave--oui, tu es magnanime--oui, tu es

généreux--oui, tu es beau!_" with an odious flattering such as the

most slavering courtier never ventured to bestow upon the most

incensed despot;--and bulletins declaring France at the pinnacle of

glory, and happiness, and pride--the object of envy and imitation to

all people. Private addresses from individuals or republican bodies

there are also innumerable, in the same sense; until one expects to

see angels' wings growing behind the backs of every _blouse_, forming

harmonious contrast with the black unshaven faces. But we are far from

being at the end of the long lines of handbills, that give Paris the

look of a city built up of printed paper. Here we have announcements

of clubs--the _mille e tre_ noisy mistresses that court the

fascinating, seductive, splendid Don Juan of a Republic; there are

four or five in every quarter of the town, almost in every street. And

then come their _professions de foi_; and then _their_ addresses to

the people, and their appeals, and their counsels to the Government,

and their last resolutions, and their future intentions--say, their

future exactions. Most greet the fall of the social edifice with

triumph; but few, if any, let you know how they would reconstruct

anew: some boldly state their object to be "the enlightenment of a

well-intentioned but ignorant Government, which it is their duty to

instruct:" others call down "the celestial vengeance, and the thunders

of heaven, on their head, if ever they should deceive or lead astray

the people." Here again we have petitions to Government, and demands,

and remonstrances from individuals or small bodies--delegates, they

tell you, of the people's rights;--some wild and inflammatory, some

visionary to the very seventh heaven of political rhapsody, but all

flattering to the _Peuple Souverain_, whose voice is the _voix de

Dieu_! Here again we have whole newspapers pasted on the walls, with

articles calling upon the people to take arms again, since their first

duty to their country is "mistrust." Now a proposition to tax the

revenues of the rich in a progressive proportion of one per cent for

every fortune of a thousand francs, two for every two thousand, fifty

for every fifty thousand, "and so on progressively,"--without stating,

however, whether those who possess a revenue of a hundred thousand

francs are to pay a hundred per cent, or what is to become of those

who possess two hundred thousand. Now, a menacing call upon the

Government to perform their duty in exacting the disgorgement of that

vile spoliation of the nation, the indemnity granted to the emigrants

at the Restoration, as belonging to the people alone. Here again are

numerous addresses and appeals from and to all foreign democrats in

Paris--Germans, Belgians, Italians, Poles--calling for meetings, and

begging the "_braves Français_" to give them arms and money to go and

conquer the republics of their respective countries by force. Here

again, other notices from all trades, and companies, and employments,

appointing meetings for the consideration of the interests of their

_partie_; tailors, café-waiters, bootmakers, _choristes_ of theatres,

_gens de maisons_, (servants,) even to the wandering hawkers on the

public ways, and lower still, all wanting to complain to the

Provisional Government of the restraint laid on their free rights.

Here again, proposals for congratulatory addresses, and felicitations

to the Government, from all manner of various representatives of

nations resident in Paris. Here again, ten or twelve solitary voices

of _braves citoyens_, proposing infallible remedies for the doctoring

of the financial crisis. Here again, advertisements, in republican

phrase, recommending to the "_citoyennes_," "now that the hour is

come, to take up their carpets," some especial wax for their floors;

or reminding the "_Citoyens Gardes Nationaux_," that, "in this moment

of the awakening of a country's glory, when they watch over the

interests of France, and are indefatigable in patrolling the streets

of the capital," the _citoyen_ "so and so" will cut their corns with

cheapness and ease! And all these are pasted about in confused

pell-mell; all are headed with the necessary "_Vive la Republique!_"

Wonder then not, at the thick crowds about these documents, all

treating of a country's weal, all announcing some new and startling

design, all devoured by eager eyes. Wo betide, however, the _citoyen_

who may leave his house door closed for a whole day!--he will find it

barricaded with plastered paper from top to bottom on the morrow; or

the shopkeeper who may lie too long a-bed--it will be a difficult task

for him to take down his placarded shutters: and both will stand a

chance of getting hooted for venturing to displace a printed paper

headed with the talismanic words, proclaiming individual liberty of

person and opinion. No tyranny like a mob tyrant, I trow.

_Apropos_ of advertisements, the play-bills will no less startle the

ancient _habitué_ of Paris, were he now again to return to his old

haunts. The names, formerly so familiar to his eyes, are gone in many

instances. The old Académie de Musique is now the Théâtre de la

Nation; the Théâtre Français, the Théâtre de la Republique; the

Théâtre du Palais Royal, the Théâtre Montansier. In this confusion he

will be still more confounded by the composition of the bills: every

where the announcement of patriotic songs and chorusses, sung between

the acts--of _àpropos_ pieces, allegorical or historical--of titles

such as "_Les Barricades_," "_Les Trois Revolutions_," "_Les Filles de

la Liberté_," "_La Revolution Française_," and so forth, throughout

all the theatres in Paris. Even in the ex-Théâtre Français he will

scarcely trust his astonished eyes to see that "Mademoiselle Rachel

will sing the _Marseillaise_ between the acts." Oh! theatre-loving old

_habitué_ of Paris, you will think that your wits have gone astray,

and that your senses are deceiving you! The new names of streets will

no less bewilder your mind. All that smacked of royalty, or dynasty,

or monarchic history have already republicanised themselves, as is the

old wont of Paris streets under every change of government: there are

many that have long since forgotten all the hundred and one names that

they have already borne. Then you will know how to pity the

embarrassment of an unlucky man who lived in the Rue Royale St Honoré.

On going out in the morning of the 25th of February, he found

unexpectedly that he lived in the Rue de la Republique. Well, he made

up his mind to that; but the Rue Rambuteau had already claimed this

glorious title; so the Rue Royale had to make shift with that of the

Rue de la Revolution. But now came again another prior claim; and the

ex-Rue Royale was again despoiled. Now it has no name at all: and the

poor individual in question, as far as his direction goes, might as

well live in the ruins of Palmyra.

But to return to the outward aspect of republican Paris.

Hark! what a noise of awkward drumming! and see! a host of men of the

lower classes comes pouring down the street, in hundreds--nay, in

thousands. Several banners are borne among them: they shout "_Vive la

Republique!_" and sing with that utter bold disregard of time, which,

the French themselves would tell you, is peculiar only to supposed

unmusical England. The _Marseillaise_ or the now so popular _Mourir

pour la Patrie_, or the _Ca ira_ of fearful memory; and interlard

their discordant efforts at chorus with screams of "_à bas les

aristocrates!_" Scarcely has the horde rushed past you, than there

comes another, and another, and another, until your brain whirls with

the unceasing throngs. Now it is a troop of women, banners also at

their head; now again a long line of more orderly, and better dressed

men; but they cry "_Vive le Gouvernement Provisoire!_" Now again a

band of ruffian fellows, with the howl of "_à bas les riches!_" They

cross your path at every step, these marching bands. Sometimes they

are deputations of all the different trades, or subdivisions of

peculiar branches of handiwork--tailors, joiners, scavengers,

paviours, sign-painters, wet-nurses, cooks, and so forth, as far as

the imagination or the memory can reach in enumeration, and still

further; and they are all streaming to the Hotel de Ville, to harangue

the Provisional Government on their several rights and wrongs, desires

and demands. Sometimes they are mere bands promenading for the sake of

promenading, screeching for the sake of screeching, and making

demonstrations, because whatever is theatrical, whatever smacks of

show and parade, whatever gives them the opportunity of exhibition,

and with it the hope of admiration, is the ruling passion of the

people; or because they have nothing else to do, and will not work,

although the Government pays them daily with the country's money. Now

comes a troop of would-be Hungarian patriots, in their national dress,

their _attilas_, pelisses, braided pantaloons, singing a national

hymn--somewhat better than the French, by the way--flaring about

banners, and getting up all sorts of Quixotic theatrical

manifestations, lowering their banners in mere sport, flourishing them

upon others, and calling upon the manes of several of the "victims of

liberty murdered in their country's cause." These are specimens of the

Hungarian nation of the frantic description, who, after carrying

felicitations to the Provisional Government in the name of their

country, are now parading the streets to show themselves off. Now

comes again a long troop of young fellows in light-coloured _blouses_,

bound with lacquered leather belts around their waists: they have

broad white beavers on their heads, mounted by black, red, and yellow

cocks' feathers; and they bear banners of black, red, and gold--a more

picturesque throng than those you usually meet. The colours are the

colours of the German nationality: the young men are German patriots.

Poor deluded young fellows! their minds have been excited by designing

men; and they are about to march off to Germany "to conquer the

liberties of the German republic," expecting that all Germany is to

rise again at their puny call, and at the sound of that magical name

"republic." They have been begging for arms and ammunition, and money,

of all Paris; and now, with the slender succour they have obtained,

they go to meet their fates.

But now comes a fresh marching mass of many thousands, with the usual

accompanying drums and banners: there are women and children among the

throng--if children still there be in France, when every urchin

fancies himself a man. They distinguish themselves from the others by

the tall bare poplar stems they bear. These are great poetically and

symbolically-minded patriots of the lower classes, who are bent on

planting trees of liberty all over Paris. They protest that they are

fully earning the pay the country gives them, by enacting these

wonderful feats for the country's good. Their delegates knock at

house-doors, and thrust themselves into private dwellings, to beg--no!

to _demand_ contributions for the celebration of their _fête_; and

these republican _fêtes_ are of every day and every hour. The ancient

_habitué_ of Paris will not find his capital much embellished by the

aspect of these tall unsightly bare stems erected at every corner, on

every square, on every vacant space of ground, although they be all

behung with banners, and garlands, and tricolor streamers. Let us

follow some of these immense gangs. In some instances they have got a

priest among them to bless their patriotic _fête_: and the poor

ecclesiastic is dragged along with them, oft-times pale and trembling

at the thought of the unusual ceremony he is thus violently called

upon to perform. Now again they summon the whole clergy of some rich

parish church to come forth in cope and stole, and with incense and

banner, and all the hundred other rich accessories of the pomp of

Catholic ceremony, to bestow the blessing on these naked emblems of a

country's naked liberties, and pronounce a political sermon,

felicitating France on the awakening glories of the republic,

established by divine Providence and a people's might, before the poor

ragged pole. Sometimes again they come, fresh with triumphs, from the

Hotel de Ville, where they have constrained one or more of the members

of the Provisional Government to accompany them--some of them nothing

loth, when popular demonstrations are to be theatrically made--and to

give vent to wonderful speeches, flattering to this people, "_si

grand, si magnanime, si généreux, si beau!_" &c., &c., as before, as

every day, as in every word they are to hear; all which flattering

words teach them how their excellence is ill recompensed, and how it

ought to exact still more. They are now at work with more or less of

this pomp, and in the midst of a greater or lesser concourse of

spectators. The pavement is torn up: a hole is dug in the street; the

tree is planted, pulled up to its elevation, firmly fixed in the

ground--although, by the way, in many instances, the poor tree of

liberty looks in a very tottering state--and the havock committed in

the pavement more or less repaired. The acclamation is great: shouts,

shrieks, cries rend the air: the religious benediction is over: the

priests hurry away as quietly as they can: the members of the

Government retreat, escorted by a deputation of delegates, after an

oration: and now the _Marseillaise_, or the _Mourir pour la Patrie_,

are again screeched in discordant chorus, amidst the incessant firing

off of guns. All day the tumult lasts throughout the city: to a late

hour of night the firing in the air is incessant. A barricade of

stones and poles is erected round the precious emblem of liberty: the

surrounding houses are constrained by threats of window-breaking to

illuminate in honour of King-People: pitch fires are bright at each

corner of the barricade: and patriotic boys, who devote themselves for

their country's weal, are posted, with muskets on arm, to do

sentry-duty all night round the tree--lest any audacious enemy of the

country should compromise the safety of the republic by attempting to

pull down one of the many hundreds of its emblems that now disfigure

the streets of Paris. Again, who would recognise his old Paris in

these strange scenes, or in the night pictures, thus faintly sketched,

which meet his eye at every turn? When these mighty deeds for a

country's welfare and glory shall come to end--when Paris shall have

been all so beplanted that it will resemble a naked forest, what great

feats to prove their zeal in behalf of Republican France will they

next invent? "_Qui vivra verra_" is a favourite French proverb.

Heaven grant that it be not reversed, and that "_qui verra ne vivra

pas!_"

But see! they have already invented another great patriotic amusement.

Whence come those discordant howlings? A band of fellows is rushing up

and down the Boulevards, dragging along a bust of the ex-King, by

means of a rope round its neck; they have attached to it a label,

"_Louis Philippe à la lanterne!_" See! what a frantic delight they

express in their schoolboy amusement. How wonderfully their ferocious

faces picture forth "the grand, the generous, the magnanimous, the

beautiful!" They flourish sticks about at carriage windows, with the

cry of "_à bas les riches! à bas les aristocrates!_" and they

forcibly turn such equipages out of their royal way, if their path be

crossed by adventurous coachmen. But _as yet_ they do no real harm;

and the pacific majority is hopeful in its force to restrain, if the

time for restraint should come.

Now again comes pouring down from the Rue du Faubourg St Denis,

another host of men, women, and children, howling the "_Ca Ira_." They

have got a great placard among them, declaring, that if their

landlords do not remit to them their rents, for two quarters at least,

they will burn down their masters' houses over their heads: and,

unobstructed, this screeching mob invades the streets. But this is

rather too much, even amidst the license due to King People in

Republican Paris. To-morrow will be posted on the walls of the

capital, a notice from the Prefet de Police, appealing to the _good

sense_ of the mob not to burn houses, and containing a half-concealed

under-current, but an under-current only, of threat.

Now again you may be witness to a grotesque scene of a high

revolutionary tone. We are in the purlieus of one of the great public

schools of Paris--the _colléges_, as they are termed. Suddenly the

street is invaded by several hundred boys: they rush along uttering

hideous vociferations; before them flies a well-dressed middle-aged

man: he flies as if for his life, and is pursued by showers of stones

from the young revolutionary insurgents. This flying man, these

screaming and pursuing children--what a lesson there is in it! Let us

catch hold of one of the little urchins, and ask what all the uproar

means. He tells us that the object of all his schoolboy hate, is a

tyrant--a tyrant like Louis Philippe; and that, like Louis Philippe,

they are driving him forth with scorn. "What has he done then?" we

ask. "He was too strict," is the only reply; and on rushes again the

young revolutionist to join in the general pursuit, with a big oath,

and the cry of "_Vive la Republique! à bas les tyrans!_"

Now again, late in the evening, hurries past a detachment of National

Guards. We ask, what now is afloat in a city where every day something

new and startling crosses our life's path. We are told that the

citizen troops are hastening to the rescue of a newspaper editor, who

has ventured to write articles in opposition to the Government. His

house is being stormed by an angry and excited mob; they threaten to

break his presses, if not burn the whole establishment. In vain he

meets the mob with courage, and asserts the right of that "liberty of

opinion," which the republic has proclaimed as one of its first

benefits. He is not listened to. What is liberty of opinion, or any

liberty, in the sense of a mob, compared with its own liberty of doing

what it listeth? They advance upon the house with threatening

gesture--they pour in: the National Guards arrive, and a scuffle

ensues. With difficulty the mob is driven back, and sentinels are

posted. But now the crowds, in the dim night, grow thicker on the

Boulevards than ever; and violent declamation is still heard from the

midst against the man who, whatever be his real ends and aims, has the

courage to assert an opinion contrary to the mass. Partisans there

are, for and against: and high words arise, and threats are again

proffered: and along the damp night air comes ever the murmur of many

angry voices far and near: and the rumour ceases not, the crowd

disperse not. And in the distracted city, where was firing, and

shouting, and singing, and drumming, all day, there is still the

agitation and the tumult long and late into the night.

But let us take a turn to the neighbourhood of the Hotel de Ville, the

seat of the Government; other fresh scenes will there meet our eyes.

Daily and hourly pour up into the open space before the fine old

building, such troops of drumming, banner-bearing men and women as

have been before described. Sometimes they are deputations from the

various trades, full of all sorts of grievances, for which the members

of the Provisional Government are expected to find immediate

remedy;--sometimes they are bands of workmen, all couching, under

different expressions, the demand for much pay and little

work;--sometimes they bear addresses from various nations all speaking

in the name of their country, which probably would disavow

them;--sometimes they are delegates from the thousand and one clubs of

Paris, who all choose to lay their resolutions, however frantic and

impracticable they may be, before the Government, and expect to impose

upon it their distracted will;--sometimes they are a body of

individuals, who have got some fancy for a remedy of the financial

crisis, which, of course, unless it would offend them bitterly, the

Government is expected forthwith to adopt. Deputations, addresses,

counsels, demands, exactions,--they must all be admitted, they must

all be heard, they must all receive flattering promises, that probably

never will, and never can be fulfilled. See! they come streaming up

from all sides, from streets and quays, in noisy inundating floods;

and now the streams mingle and roar together, and struggle for

precedence. Generally, delegates are despatched to obtain audiences of

the persecuted members of the Government; but sometimes, again, some

tired minister or other is forced to appear in front, and harangue

their importunate petitioners, amidst cries of "_Vive la Republique!_"

For those who dwell upon this _place_, Paris must appear to be in a

state of constant revolution. The noise, the tumult, the drumming, the

shouting, the marching and the countermarching, never cease for a

moment.

See! to-day there is a tumult before the façade of the old building.

Battalions of National Guards have marched up, without arms, to

protest against a despotic and arbitrary ordinance of an ambitious and

reckless minister. They bring up their petition as thousands of other

deputations have brought up theirs; the square is filled for the most

part with long military-looking lines of their uniforms. But in a

sudden, they have come to a check. Before the long façade of the line

of building, are posted bodies of armed men, of the lower classes,

with muskets charged and bayonets fixed. The demonstration of the

National Guards, who dare to murmur at the will of their governors,

spite of the proclamation of the reign of liberty, is not to be

received. Anger and indignation is on the faces of all the

citizen-soldiers; their feelings are excited; they cry, "down with"

the obnoxious minister; they are met by cries from the armed people,

of "down with the National Guards! down with the aristocrats!" The

middling classes are now considered, then, as the aristocrats of the

day; and the people treat them, as _they_ have treated, in days gone

by, the titled _noblesse_--as enemies! But now they advance in rank

and file, determined to force an entrance to the Government palace:

and the people oppose them with pointed bayonets; and drive them back;

disperse them like sheep; pursue them down the quays; and the unarmed

mob, collected in countless crowds around, joins in the cry of "down

with the National Guards!" The National Guards are vanquished. They

were considered in the revolutionary days of combat as the heroes, and

allies, and defenders of the people. Only a few weeks are gone by

since then; and they, in turn, are overthrown in a bloodless

revolution. Their _prestige_ is lost for ever. The last barrier is

thrown down between the upper and the lower classes--the breakwater is

swept away: and when the day of storm and tempest shall come, when the

angry waters shall rise, when the inundation shall sweep on and on in

tumultuous tide, what shall there be now to oppose it?

On the morrow, what a scene! From a very early hour of the morning,

bands of hundreds and of thousands, in marching order, have poured

down upon Paris from all the suburbs. From north, south, east, and

west, they have come in countless hordes into the central streets and

squares of the capital. Along the Boulevards, from the Bastile, from

the heights of Montmartre, down the avenues of the Champs Elysées and

the quays--from beyond the water and the Faubourg St Martel, they have

come, sweeping on like so many mountain torrents. Every where as they

advanced they have proferred cries of "Down with the National Guards!

down with the aristocrats! down with the legitimists! down with the

enemies of the Republic!" Better dressed men in many instances have

marshalled them on their way; and among the inhabitants of Paris goes

forth a murmur, that they have been roused to this state of tumult by

the accolytes of the obnoxious minister, with the intention of

overawing his colleagues and displaying his own power. And if, in

truth, they shout "long live" any one, it is _his_ name they cry: his

noble-hearted and more moderate colleague, lately so popular, has lost

a people's favour. And now the hundred torrents have met upon the

quays, and before the Hotel de Ville; and hundreds of banners with

manifold inscriptions are waving in the air; and troop upon troop is

marshalled into some degree of order: but fearful is the mass: awful

is the demonstration of a people! And now the members of the

Government are compelled, one and all, to come down upon the elevated

terrace before the façade of the Hotel de Ville: they are behung with

tricolor scarfs, the ends of which stream with long gold fringes;

their heads are bared before their masters and the rulers of the land.

And now the host of people defiles before them; and they make

speeches, and cry "_Vive la Republique! Vive le peuple!_" And the

people, proud of its force, and rejoicing in its demonstration, that

shows its power over the _bourgeois_, answers with shouts that rend

the air. Heavens! what a scene! This is Republican Paris, indeed, I

trow!

But come quickly to the Boulevards: the mighty mass has passed away to

the column of liberty in the Place de la Bastile; and it will come

down the Boulevards in overwhelming tide, exulting in its triumph. And

now it comes. The long line, five abreast--there are nearly two

hundred thousand in this great army--stretches on and on, almost from

one end to the other of the immense central artery of the capital. It

comes, and the chorus of the _Marseillaise_ rolls like thunder along,

dying away but to burst forth again. Hark! how it peels along the

Boulevards! It comes, and the senses swim as the host goes by,

marching on, and on, and on--confusing the sight with the incessant

passing of such a stream of living beings, and its waving banners;

deafening the ears with the menacing cries of "Down with the

aristocrats!" and the discordant chorussing of confused patriotic

songs--for the _Marseillaise_ now gives way to the fearful _Ca Ira_.

It comes, and it seems as if it never would end. Awful, indeed, is the

display of a people's force, thus excited and inflamed by designing

leaders! At last the mighty procession passed away, leaving

consternation and alarm behind it. But think not that Paris resumes

its usual aspect. The various bands break up at last, but they still

parade the streets in several battalions: and the shouting and howling

and singing cease not during the day.

But the night of the same day is come, and all is not yet done. Not

content with its triumph, the people demands that all Paris should

honour it with a festival, whether it will or not. Down the Boulevards

come the hordes again, slowly, and pausing as they came on: they are

chanting, in measured notes, the words "_Des lampions! des lampions!_"

amidst the cries of "Illuminate, or we break your windows! Down with

the aristocrats!" Why all Paris should be illuminated, because it has

pleased King People to make a demonstration, it would be too insolent

to inquire. It is a fancy, a caprice--and autocrats will have fancies

and caprices. It is the people's will; and, however fantastic or

unreasonable, the will must be obeyed. "_Des lampions! des lampions!_"

The monotonous chant is impressed upon the ears with stunning force,

until you believe that you must retain it in your bewildered brain

until your dying day. And as they come along, see how readily the will

of the people is obeyed! There is no readiness so quick as the

readiness of fear. Up and down, from above and from below, right and

left, in long irregular lines, until the lines of light become more

general and more regular--see the illumination bursts forth from the

façades of all the houses. Windows are rapidly opened on every side,

in sixth stories as on first floors, on every terrace, on every

balcony; and lamps, lanterns, candles, pots of grease, all flaming,

are thrust out at every one. See! how the light darts up and down like

wildfire, dancing along the houses in the darkness of the night, with

an increasing phosphoric flicker. You may mark the progress of the

mob, as it goes farther on in dusky mass, and is lost to sight in the

gloom, not only by the eternal monotonous cry that bids the

inhabitants illuminate, coming from the distance, but by the gleaming

track it leaves behind it like a gigantic, broad tail of fire.

Presently all the Boulevards will be brightly lighted; and the gleams

of the many thousand points of light will illuminate a thickly moving

crowd of beings, that look like the uneasy spirits of some gloomy

pandemonium. Fairy-like, however, has the magical illumination sprung

forth at the people's bidding, and fairy-like does it flicker on all

sides in the night. All the other principal streets are burning also

on either side, like long bands of spangled stuff glittering in the

sun. The Faubourg St Germain, suspected of legitimacy, has long since

been the first to yield to threats, and demonstrate at its windows its

supposed sympathy in a people's triumph; and to-morrow we shall be

told by the republican papers, how Paris was in an ecstasy of joy--how

all the population strove in zeal, with one accord, to _fêter le

peuple généreux_--how spontaneous was this illumination of republican

enthusiasm. Spontaneous was the feeling that dictated it, certainly;

but it was the spontaneity of fear--the fear of the quietly-disposed

in the face of a reckless and all-powerful mob!

Let us turn now from the glittering illuminated streets.

What is that unusual light, streaming dimly, and in blurred rays,

across the damp night air, from the windows of the chapel of St

Hyacinthe, attached to the church of the Assumption in the Rue St

Honoré? In such a place, at such an hour, it has something ghastly and

unearthly in its nature. And hark! from within there comes a noise of

hoarse murmuring, which swells sometimes suddenly into discordant

shouts, that are almost groans. The impression conveyed by both sight

and sound is little like any that Paris, even on its murkiest nights,

and under its most dismal veil, ever bestowed on you before. The

unwary wanderer in Paris streets by night, in search of romance, may

have had visions of theft, assassination, misery, crime, before his

eyes, in the dark silent thoroughfares, but always visions of a most

positive earthly nature; now he cannot help fancying himself

transported into some old town of mystic Germany, with some fantastic,

mysterious, unearthly, Hoffmannish deed going on near him. Are the

headless dead, among the victims of a prior revolution, risen from

their bloody vaults, to beckon unto their ghastly crew new victims of

another? or are demons rejoicing in that once sanctified building,

that the reign of men's most evil passions should have begun again in

that disturbed and fermenting city? Such is the first impression the

dim scene conveys. Do you ever remember such in other days? Let us

follow those dark forms that are gliding across the court of the

church, and mounting the steps of the illumined chapel. We enter; and

the scene, although neither ghastly nor demoniac, is scarcely less

strange than if spectres and demons had animated the interior. Faintly

lighted by a few dripping candles is the long dismantled chapel; and

damp, dreary, funereal-looking, is the whole scene. A dim crowd, in

this "darkness visible," is fermenting, thronging, struggling, and

pushing in the aisle. At the further end, in that vaulted semicircle

where once stood the altar of the Lord, rises a complicated

scaffolding behung with black cloth. With your imagination already

excited, you may fancy the dark construction a death-scaffold for the

execution of a criminal--it is only the death-scaffold of the social

state of France. We are in the midst of a republican club. On the

highest platform, occupying the space where was the altar, sit

president and secretaries of the society--the new divinities of the

consecrated building. Yes! the new divinities; for they arrogate to

themselves the same right against which they declaimed as blasphemy in

kings--the "right divine." You will not listen long before they tell

you so; besides, their first maxim is, "_La voix du peuple est la voix

de Dieu_." On the lower platform before them stand the orators. Hark

to the doctrines that they promulgate for the subversion of all

existing order in the country, amidst shouts and screams, and cries of

violent opposition sometimes, but generally of applause. See! the

haggard, lanky-haired republican youths, who have shouted out all

their fury, give way to a quiet, respectable-looking old man, whose

gray hairs glimmer faintly in the candle-light. A feeling of greater

calm comes over you: you imagine, after all this "sound and fury,

signifying nothing," his old head will pacify the hot, maddened blood

of frantic boys. What does he say?--"Yes, the republic is one and

indivisible--it is more than indivisible--it is GOD!" You shrink back

disgusted. Can the rhapsody of republican fanaticism go further? Are

these Christian men? or are they really evil unearthly beings in a

human form? The confused scene around you is almost enough to make you

think so. But real enough is the eternal clatter of the president's

hammer on his table. He rolls his eyes furiously; he browbeats every

orator who may not be of his own individual opinion, and dares to be

"moderate" when he is "_exalté_;" and when your head aches--your heart

has ached long ago--with the furious noise of the president's hammer,

which you expect every moment to smash the table to pieces, you edge

your way out of the dark fermenting crowd, and hurry forth, glad to

breathe the purer air of heaven.

Ferment there is ever enough now in the streets of Paris by night: it

ceases not. There are throngs pouring in and out of all the various

thousand-and-one republican clubs of Paris, like wasps about their

nest; but it is in the dim night air, and not in the bright sunlight

of day--in dirty coats and smocks, and not with bright wings and

variegated bodies. The wasp, too, stings only when he is attacked--the

republican wasps seek to attack that they may sting. The _al fresco_

clubs also crowd the Boulevards, in the chance medley confusion of all

men and all principles. But see! there is here again, in the Rue du

Faubourg du Roule, a confusion of a still more complicated nature--the

swarming in and out of the small district school-house is even more

virulent than is usual. It is another night-scene, such as the old

_habitué_ of Paris never witnessed, certainly. What is occurring? Let

us crowd in with the others. What a scene of frantic confusion! A

crowd springing upon benches, howling, screeching, yelling. At the

further end of the low room is a ruined gallery, in which stands,

surrounded by his friends, a man dressed in a red scarf, with the red

cap of liberty on his head: he has a pike in his hand, and he vainly

endeavours to make himself heard by the excited crowd. For some time

you will be unable to comprehend the nature of the scene: at last you

discover that an _ultra_ republican, of the most inflamed ideas, wants

to establish a Jacobin club. A "Jacobin club!" There is terror in the

very word, and in all the fearful recollections it conveys. But here

the good sense of the artisans and small tradespeople of the district

is against so appalling a reminiscence of a fatal time. "Down with the

_bonnet rouge_!" they cry. "Down with the red scarf! No Jacobins! no

Jacobins! their day is gone. No terror!" Thank God! there is some good

sense still among the people. "Down with the president--away with

him!" they cry. He doffs at last his blood-red Phrygian cap--they are

not content: he doffs his blood-red scarf--they are not content: he

lays aside his red cravat--they are not content: the pike--all--his

very principles, probably, if they would have them. But no. They make

a rush at last up into the "tribune;" they drive the would-be Jacobin

and his friends down. In vain a small minority declares them all

"aristocrats--paid agents of legitimacy"--I know not what republican

names of reproach. The honest workmen thrust the party forth from

their district school-house. They escort these objects of their

contempt with ironical politeness to a side-door, bearing the candles

they have seized from the tribune in their hands. The door is closed

over the Jacobin party--a shout of triumph resounds. But in the

street, before the school, is long a noisy throng. The good moon,

although now and then obscured by passing clouds, shines kindly on it.

She seems to smile more kindly upon those who have done a good deed,

although a deed of suppressed violence, than on most of the distracted

throngs she illumines in her course over the disturbed city. Good

moon! would we could accept thy augury, and hope for holy calm! The

scenes thou shinest upon cannot continue thus, 'tis true. A change

must come--a change for the better _or the worse_. Heaven grant that

our foreboding prove not true--that, when thou comest forth in thy

fulness again, another month, thou mayest smile on better order, on

calmer groups!

Before we part company, old _habitué_ of Paris, we must cast a glance

at all the public buildings we pass. On all--public offices, columns,

fountains, monuments, churches, dismantled palaces--on all alike

floats the republican banner--on _all_ are painted in broad characters

the words, "LIBERTÉ, EGALITÉ, FRATERNITÉ!" "_Fraternité!_" Vain word,

when each man grows day by day more and more bitterly his neighbour's

enemy. "_Egalité!_" Vain word again, and vain word ever, spite of the

efforts of the rulers of France to bring down to one level all the

intelligence, the talent, the feelings, and passions of human nature,

that Providence, in its holy wisdom, has made so different and so

unequal. "_Liberté!_" Vainest word of all! In the present state of

things, there is constraint in every scheme, tyranny in every

tendency, despotism in every doctrine.

But enough. We will not begin to discuss and speculate upon the

destinies of France. All this sketch would strive to do, is to convey

an idea, however vague, of the present outward state of Republican

Paris.

THE SPANIARD IN SICILY.[5]

[5] _Histoire de la Conquête de Naples par Charles d'Anjou, frère de

St Louis._ Par le Comte ALEXIS DE ST PRIEST, Pair de France. 4 vols.

8vo. Paris, 1848. Vol. iv.

The insatiable spider, who, after securing in her gossamer meshes

ample store of flies for the day's consumption, again repairs, with

unwarrantable greed, to the outer circles of the delicate network, in

quest of fresh and superfluous victims, must not wonder if, on return

to the heart of the citadel, she finds a rival Arachne busy in the

larder, and either is expelled from her own cobweb, or suffers

seriously in ejecting the intruder. At risk of offending his admiring

biographer by so base a parallel, we compare Charles of Anjou to the

greedy spider, and think him justly punished for his rash cupidity by

the evils it entailed. This French count, who, although a king's

brother, had no chance of a crown save through aggressive conquest,

found himself, whilst still in the vigour of life, and as the result

of papal favour, great good fortune, and of his own martial energy,

sovereign of an extensive and flourishing realm. King of Southern

Italy, Protector of the North, Count of Provence, Vicar of Tuscany,

Senator of Rome, all-powerful with the Pope--whose word had then such

weight that his friendship was worth an army, whilst from his malison

men shrunk as from the dreaded and inextinguishable fire of

Greece--Charles of Anjou was still unsatisfied. The royal spider had

cast his web afar; it embraced wide possessions, with whose enjoyment

he might well have been content, whose administration claimed his

undivided attention. But on their verge an object glittered from which

he could not avert his eyes, whose acquisition engrossed his every

thought. "'Twas the clime of the East, 'twas the land of the sun," the

gorgeous and romantic region so attractive to European conquerors.

Doubtless, crusading zeal had some share in his oriental cravings; but

ambition was his chief motor. He was willing enough to wrest Palestine

from the infidel, but his plan of campaign led first to

Constantinople. His notion was to seek at St Sophia's mosque the key

of Christ's sepulchre.

Whilst thus looking abroad and meditating distant conquest, Charles

treated too lightly the projects of a prince, less celebrated, but

younger and more crafty than himself, who silently watched the

progress of events, and skilfully devised how best he might derive

advantage from them. Pedro of Arragon, who had married Mainfroy's

daughter, Constance, cherished pretensions to the crown of the

Sicilies; and, ever since the year 1279, he had been intriguing with

the chiefs of the Ghibellines, with a view to an invasion of Charles's

dominions. He spoke publicly of Sicily as the inheritance of his

children, and did not dissimulate his animosity to its actual ruler.

Whilst Charles prepared a fleet for his Eastern expedition, Don Pedro

assembled another in the harbour of Portofangos, and kept it in

constant readiness to sail, but none knew whither. Its destination was

suspected, however, by some; and the Pope, who entertained no doubt

concerning it, demanded to know Pedro's intentions, whilst Philip III.

of France, at the request of his uncle, Charles of Anjou, sent

ambassadors to the Arragonese monarch to make a similar inquiry. The

answer given is variously stated by the archives and chronicles of the

time, as evasive, prevaricatory, and even as a direct falsehood. It

left no doubt upon Charles's mind that mischief was meant him by the

Spaniard. "I told you," he wrote to Philip, "that the Arragonese was a

contemptible wretch." Unfortunately, he carried his contempt of his

wily foe rather too far; he would not believe that so small a

potentate, "_un si petit prince_," would dare attack him in Italy,

but took for a strategem the avowal of his intentions that appears to

have escaped Pedro, and thought his views were directed in reality to

Provence, whither he accordingly despatched his eldest son. Meanwhile,

Don Pedro lingered in port, in hopes of an insurrection in Sicily,

which John of Procida and others of his Sicilian adherents were

fomenting by every means in their power, until his position became

positively untenable, so pressed was he with questions by different

European powers, and even by his own great vassals. One of these, a

_rico hombre_, by name the Count of Pallars, having publicly asked

him, in the name of the Arragonese nobility, the object of his voyage,

and whither it would lead, Don Pedro replied: "Count, learn that if my

left hand knew what my right was about to do, I would instantly cut it

off." And still he clung to the Catalan coast, always on the eve of

departure, but never lifting an anchor, until the tidings, so long and

ardently desired, at last reached his car. They were unaccompanied,

however, by the popular summons and proffered sceptre he had

sanguinely and confidently anticipated. But we are outstripping

events, and must revert to the eloquent opening of M. de St Priest's

fourth volume.

"The name of Sicily is illustrious in history. If the reputation of a

people had for sole foundation and measure the number of inhabitants,

the extent of its territory, the duration of its influence, the

Sicilians, impoverished by continual revolutions, decimated by

sucessive tyrannies, more isolated from the general progress by their

internal organisation, than from the mainland by their geographical

position, would hold, perhaps, in the annals of the world, no more

room than their island occupies on the map of Europe. But they need

not fear oblivion: they have known glory,--and what glory touches,

though but transitorily, for ever retains the mark. For individuals as

for nations, it suffices that their lot be cast in those rare and

splendid epochs whose contact ennobles every thing, which illuminate

all things by their brilliancy, and stamp themselves indelibly upon

the memory of the remotest generations. Happy who then lives, for he

shall never die! Vast kingdoms, boundless regions, peopled by numerous

races, powerful by material force, but intellectually vulgar, then

yield in dignity and grandeur to the least nook of land, to some petty

peninsula or remote island. Such was Greece, such also was Sicily, her

rival, her competitor, and the asylum of her illustrious exiles.

"In the middle ages there was no vestige of the ancient Trinacria--of

that land of art and learning, the home of every branch of human

knowledge--of that politic and warlike power which yielded to Rome and

Carthage only when she had made them dearly pay a long-disputed

victory--of that Sicily, in short, which Plato taught and Timoleon

governed--which Archimedes defended and Theocritus sang. Formerly the

whole island was covered with cities. In the thirteenth century, most

of these had disappeared. Agrigentum could boast but the ruins of its

colossus and temples. Syracuse still retained some shadow of past

greatness: she was not yet reduced, as now, to the quarries whence she

sprung; she had not yet become less than a ruin; but her splendour was

extinct. Catania, overthrown by earthquakes, found it difficult again

to rise. Nevertheless other Sicilian towns preserved their importance,

and Christendom could not boast cities handsomer and more

populous--more abounding in wealth and embellished by monuments--than

commercial Messina and kingly Palermo."

These two cities were at the time referred to the abode of luxury and

pleasure. Messina, at once the market and the arsenal of the island,

"_portus et porta Siciliæ_," as Charles of Anjou called it, was the

principal posting-house upon the road from Europe to Asia, and was

enriched by the constant passage of pilgrims and crusaders. Sumptuary

laws were deemed necessary to repress the extravagance of a population

whose women wore raiment of silk, then more precious than silver and

gold, with tiaras upon their heads, encrusted with pearls and

diamonds and other precious stones. Asia and Europe were there

united; Catholics and Mussulmans lived side by side in peace and

amity. In the streets, the Arab's burnous and the turban of the Moor

moved side by side with priestly robe and cowl of monk. The pleasures

there in vogue were no longer the simple and innocent ones vaunted by

Virgil and Theocritus. It was a hotbed of debauchery, frequented by

pirates, gamblers, and courtesans--a mart of commerce, whither traders

of all nations repaired. Palermo, on the other hand, was the residence

of kings. The Normans established there the seat of their power,

inhabiting it constantly; and although the wandering life of Frederick

of Swabia denied him a fixed abode, he loved Palermo the Happy, and

dwelt there whenever able. Very different were the predilections of

Charles of Anjou. He disliked Sicily as much as he loved Naples. By an

effect, perhaps, of that love of contrast often found implanted in the

human breast, his stern and sombre gaze took pleasure in the bright

and joyous scenery of his continental dominions, which it could not

derive from the more sad and serious beauties of the opposite island.

Moreover, he held the Sicilians disaffected to his rule, and his hand

was heavy upon them. Heavier still, doubtless, were those of his

delegates and officers, who presumed upon his known dislike, and upon

his preoccupation with schemes of foreign aggrandisement, to exceed

the measure of oppression he prescribed and authorised. A very

different course should have been adopted with a nation already

abundantly prepared to detest their French masters. The antagonism of

character was alone sufficient cause for mutual aversion. There was no

point of sympathy between conquerors and conquered--nothing that could

lead to friendly amalgamation. On the one hand, reserve,

dissimulation, silence; on the other, an indiscreet frankness,

vivacity, and noise. On both sides, a strong attachment to their

native country, and conviction of its superiority over all others--a

strong partiality for its language, usages, and customs--a sincere

contempt for all differing from them. M. de St Priest, who strives

earnestly, but not very successfully, to vindicate the memory of his

countrymen of the thirteenth century, is still too veracious a

historian not to admit that they treated with shameful insolence and

rudeness a people whom the kindest treatment would with difficulty

have induced to look kindly upon their conquerors. He is painfully

anxious to make out a good case for those he calls his "brothers,"

(very old brothers by this time,) but succeeds so little to his

satisfaction, that he is fain to throw himself on the mercy of his

readers, by asking the rather illogical question, whether the crime of

a few individuals is to be imputed to a nation, or _even to a part of

a nation_? Then he enumerates some of the grievances which brought on

the massacre known as the Vespers. "It is certain," he says, "that

Charles of Anjou, not by himself, but by military chiefs, to whom he

abandoned himself without reserve, abused of the means necessary to

retain in subjection a people hostile to his cause, and whom that very

excess of oppression might drive to shake off an iron yoke. He abused

of the feudal prerogative which gave him right of controlling the

marriages of the vassals of the crown, by compelling rich heiresses to

marry his Provençal adherents, or by retaining in forced celibacy

noble damsels whose inheritance the royal exchequer coveted." This is

pretty well for a beginning, and enough to stir the bile of a more

patient race than the Sicilians, even in an age when such acts of

feudal tyranny were less startling and odious than they now would

seem. But this is merely the first item. Charles also abused of an old

law that existed both in Sicily and Spain, and which has been but

recently abolished in the latter country. The law of the _mesta_ gave

the sheep of the royal domain right of range of all the pastures in

the country, no matter who the proprietors. With this vexatious

privilege Charles combined exorbitant monopolies. He compelled the

rich landholders to take on lease his horses, flocks, cattle, bees,

and fruit-trees, and to account to him for them every year at a fixed

rate, even when disease decimated the animals, and the sirocco had

withered and uprooted the trees and plants. And nothing was less rare,

M. de St Priest acknowledges, than the personal ill-treatment of those

who delayed to pay the impost, often twice levied upon the same

persons, under pretence of chastising their unwillingness.

Imprisonment, confiscation, and the bastinado, punished their

indigence. The nefarious tricks played with the currency completed the

measure of misery poured out upon the unhappy Sicilians. Like Alphonso

X. of Castile, and most of the potentates of the period, Charles

coined pieces of money with much alloy, which he named, after himself,

_Carlini d'oro_, and exchanged them by force against the augustales,

an imperial coinage of the purest gold. The public voice was loud

against such tyranny and abuse, but it reached not the arrogant ears

of the Beaumonts, the Morhiers, and other haughty Frenchmen who

successively governed Sicily. The Bishop of Patti and brother John of

Messina, complained to the Pope in presence of Charles himself. The

king heard them in silence, but, after the pontifical audience, he had

his accusers seized. Brother John was thrown into a dungeon, and the

bishop only escaped prison by flight.

Besides the heavy griefs above stated, other grounds of complaint,

more or less valid, were alleged against Charles I. Amongst these, he

was accused of persecuting highwaymen and banditti with overmuch

rigour. The nations of southern Europe have ever had a sneaking

tenderness for the knights of the road. He was also reproached with

the abolition of certain dues, unjustly exacted in the ports of Patti,

Cefalu, and Catania, by the bishops of those towns. M. de St Priest

brands the Sicilians as barbarians for thus quarrelling with their own

advantage. But it is a fair query how far Charles made the diminution

of episcopal exactions a pretext for the increase of royal ones, and

whether the draconic system adopted for the repression of evil-doers,

may not have been occasionally availed of for the oppression of the

innocent. Then the Sicilian nobles, lovers of pomp, show, and external

distinctions, grumbled at the absence of a court; and this was in fact

so weighty a grievance, that its removal might perhaps have saved

Sicily for Charles, or at any rate have retarded the revolt, and given

him time to prosecute his designs on the East. Palermo might have been

conciliated by sending the Prince of Salerno to live there. A gay

court, and the substitution of the heir to the throne for obscure and

detested governors, would have made all the difference. Charles did

not think of this, and moreover he had no great affection for his

eldest son, "a prince of monkish piety, timid and feeble, although

brave; a dull and pale copy of his uncle Louis IX., and whose faults

and virtues were not altogether of a nature to obtain his father's

sympathy. When speaking of the Prince of Salerno, the King of Naples

sometimes called him '_That Priest!_'" The strongest motive of

discontent, however, the most real, and which placed the nobility and

higher classes amongst the foremost of the disaffected, was the

bestowal of all public offices upon foreigners. At the beginning of

his reign Charles had left to Neapolitans and Sicilians all fiscal and

judicial posts, lucrative to the holders and productive to him; the

strangers who accompanied him, ignorant of the country, would not have

known how to squeeze it properly, as did Gezzolino della Marra, Alaimo

de Lentini, Francesco Loffredo, and other natives. In these he reposed

confidence, and, even after the defeat of Conradin, he still left

Sicilians in the places of _Maestri razionali_, _Segreti_,

_Guidizieri_, &c. But about 1278, we find Italian names disappearing

from the list, and replaced almost entirely by those of Provençals and

Frenchmen. At that date there seems to have been a clean sweep made of

the aborigines. Such a measure was sure to cause prodigious

dissatisfaction and hatred to the government. Those who depended on

their places were reduced to beggary, and those who had private

fortunes regretted a state of things which swelled these, besides

giving them influence and power.

To the latter class belonged Alaimo de Lentini, one of the richest and

best born of the Sicilian barons, possessed of great political and

military talents. He had served Mainfroy, had quarrelled with and

been proscribed by him, and then, espousing the interests of Charles,

had shown himself an implacable persecutor of his countrymen. His good

qualities were frequently clouded and neutralised by his versatility

and evil passions; his life was a mingled yarn of noble actions and

frequent treachery. Left to himself, he might have bequeathed a higher

reputation to his descendants, but he was led astray by the evil

influence of his wife. He was already in the decline of life when he

married this woman, who was of plebeian birth and Jewish origin, but

the widow of Count Amico, one of the principal nobles of Sicily. Her

name was Maccalda Scaletta, and soon she obtained complete empire over

Alaimo. Of dissolute morals, ironical wit, and of an insolent and

audacious character, that feared nothing and braved every thing,

Maccalda's youth had been more adventurous than reputable, and amongst

other pranks she had rambled over all Sicily in the disguise of a

Franciscan monk. Her love of pleasure was not more insatiable than her

vanity, and she eagerly desired to figure in the first rank at a

court. So long as Alaimo retained the high office of chief magistrate

of Sicily, her gratified pride allowed him to remain a faithful

subject: but towards the year 1275, Charles of Anjou suspected and

dismissed him, and thenceforward Alaimo, instigated by his wife, was

the mortal enemy of the French. He joined the intrigue set on foot by

John of Procida in favour of the King of Arragon, and laboured

efficiently in the cause of his new patron.

M. de St Priest does not himself narrate the oft-told tale of the

Sicilian Vespers, but gives the accounts of Saba Malaspina and

Bartolomeo de Neocastro, asserting that of the former writer to be the

most correct, as it is certainly the most favourable to the French. He

then enters into a long argument on points of no great importance; his

logic being principally directed to show that if the French fell an

easy prey to the infuriated Sicilians, it was through no lack of

courage on their part, but because they were unarmed, surprised, and

overmatched. He also takes some useless trouble to upset the story

generally accredited of the immediate cause of the massacre, namely,

an insult offered to a bride of high birth. The spirit of exaggerated

nationality, apparent in this part of his book, stimulates his

ingenuity to some curious hypotheses. It is a French failing, from

which the best and wisest of that nation are rarely quite exempt,

never to admit a defeat with temper and dignity. There must always

have been treachery, or vastly superior numbers, or some other

circumstance destructive to fair play. Not a Frenchman from Strasburg

to Port Vendres, but holds, as an article of faith, that, on equal

terms, the "_grande nation_" is unconquered and invincible. M. de St

Priest seems to partake something of this spirit, so prevalent amongst

his countrymen, and actually gets bitter and sarcastic about such a

very antiquated business as the Sicilian Vespers. "Who does not

recognise in this story (that of the insulted lady) an evident desire

to exalt the deed of the Sicilians of the thirteenth century by

assimilating it to analogous traits, borrowed from Roman history? Who

does not here distinguish a Lucretia, or, better still, a Virginia; a

Tarquin, or an Appius? The intention is conspicuous in the popular

manifestos that succeeded the event. In these, reminiscences of

antiquity abound. The heroes of the Vespers sought to make themselves

Romans as quickly as possible, lest they should be taken for

Africans." And so on in the same strain. "It is clearly seen," says

the French historian in another place, "that the first outrage upon

that day was perpetrated by the Sicilians, and not by the French; we

behold brave and unsuspicious soldiers, inspired by good-humoured

gaiety and deceitful security, barbarously stricken, in consequence of

demonstrations, very indiscreet certainly, but whose inoffensive

character is deposed to by a contemporary, hostile to the French and

to their chief." The facts of the case are told in ten words. By a

long course of injustice and oppression the French had dug and

charged, beneath their own feet, a mine which a spark was sufficient

to ignite. It is immaterial what hand applied that spark. Enough that

the subsequent explosion involved the aggressors in universal

destruction, and freed Sicily from its tyrants. The statement of Saba

Malaspina is not, however, altogether so exculpatory of the French, on

the unimportant point of ultimate provocation, as might be inferred

from some of M. de St Priest's expressions. "When the Signor Aubert

(Herbert) d'Orleans governed Sicily," says the chronicler, "several

citizens of Palermo, of both sexes, went out of the town to celebrate

the festival of Easter. Some young strangers joined them, and perhaps

amongst those were many who carried weapons, concealing them on

account of the edict forbidding them to be borne under very severe

penalties. Suddenly some French varlets, probably servants of the

justiciary of the province, associated themselves with the public

rejoicings, less, however, to share than to trouble them. Would to

heaven they had never been born, or had never entered the kingdom! At

sight of all this crowd which danced and sang, they joined the

dancers, took the women by the hands and arms, (more, perhaps, than

was decent and proper,) ogling the handsomest, and provoking, by

significant words, those whose hands or feet they could not press. At

these excessive familiarities, which may be said, however, to have

been inspired only by gaiety, several young men of Palermo, and

certain exiles from Gaéta, lost their senses so far as to assail the

foreigners with injurious words, such as the French do not easily

suffer. Then said the latter amongst themselves, 'It is impossible but

that these pitiful _Patarins_[6] have arms about them, otherwise they

would never venture such insolent language; let us see if some of them

have not concealed swords, or, at any rate, poignards or knives.' And

they began to search the Palermitans. Then these, very furious, threw

themselves upon the French with stones and weapons, for a great number

came up who were armed. The varlets fell for the most part stoned and

stabbed to death. Thus does play engender war. The entire island

revolted, and every where was heard the cry, 'Death to the French!'"

The details of the ensuing massacre are as horrible as they are well

known; and M. de St Priest passes lightly over them. Men, women, and

children, soldiers and priests, all fell before the vengeful steel of

the insurgents. The little fortress of Sperlinga alone afforded

shelter to the fugitive Frenchmen, giving rise to the proverb still

current in Sicily, "_Sperlinga negó_."[7] Messina, however, at first

took no part in the movement, and continued tranquil in the possession

of a French garrison. This was cause for great alarm to the

Palermitans, already somewhat embarrassed with their rapid victory and

sudden emancipation. Messina hostile, or even neuter, nothing was

done, and Sicily must again fall into the vindictive hands of Charles

of Anjou. As usual, in Sicilian revolutions, Palermo had given the

impulse, but a satisfactory result depended on the adhesion of

Messina. Flattering overtures were made by the insurgents to the

Messinese; but the latter still hesitated, and, far from joining the

massacre, sent six galleys to blockade Palermo, and armed two hundred

cross-bowmen to reduce the fortress of Taormine. The effort was in

vain. Instead of attacking Taormine, the bowmen re-entered Messina,

and pulled down the _fleurs-de-lis_, whilst the inhabitants of

Palermo, upon the appearance of the galleys, hoisted the Messinese

cross beside their own flag, and fraternised with the fleet that came

to block their port. This completed the revolution, and Messina also

had its massacre. The viceroy, Herbert of Orleans, finding it

impossible to hold out longer in his fortress of Mattagriffone,

capitulated, and embarked for Calabria with five hundred Frenchmen,

amidst the menacing demonstrations of a furious mob. Sicily was

declared a republic, and a deputation was sent to the Pope, to place

it under his protection. An attempt made by the Arragonese party to

obtain the preference for Don Pedro was premature, and consequently

failed.

[6] "Is it true that virgins, torn from their mothers' arms, were the

habitual victims of the conqueror's brutality?... Is it true that,

when a Frenchman met a Sicilian on horseback, he made him dismount,

and forced him to follow upon foot, however long the road? Is it true,

that the foreigners could not find themselves with the people of the

country without insulting them with the odious name of _Patarins_, an

insult which the Sicilians repaid with usury, by styling them

_Ferracani_?"--_St Priest_, vol. iv. pp. 23, 24.

[7] Since augmented into the Latin line--

"Quod placuit Siculis, sola Sperlinga negavit."

Charles of Anjou was with the Pope at Montefiascone, when news reached

him of the revolt and massacre at Palermo. His first emotion was a

sort of religious terror, which expressed itself in the following

singular prayer, recorded by Villani and all the historians:--"Lord!"

he said, "you who have raised me so high, if it be your will to cast

me down, grant at least that my fall be gradual, and that I may

descend step by step." Although he as yet knew nothing but the

insurrection of a single town, he seems to have beheld the shadow cast

before by the evil day at hand. He left Montefiascone, having obtained

from Martin IV., whose indignation equalled his own, a bull of

conditional interdiction against the Sicilians, should they not return

to their allegiance. The Pope also sent Cardinal Gerard of Parma to

Sicily, to bring about the submission of the rebels. But at Naples

Charles learned the insurrection of Messina, and his fury knew no

bounds. Neocastro and other chroniclers represent him as roaring like

a lion; his eyes full of blood, and his mouth of foam, whilst he

furiously bit the baton he bore in his hand--a favourite practice of

his when angry and excited. After writing to his nephew, Philip of

France, for a subsidy and five hundred men, he set sail himself with

his queen, Margaret of Burgundy, at the head of the formidable

armament fitted out for the conquest of the East. There were two

hundred vessels bearing an army composed of French and Provençals, of

Lombards and Tuscans, including fifty young knights of the noblest

families in Florence, and (a strange spectacle in the host of

Mainfroy's conqueror) a thousand Lucera Saracens. The total was

fifteen thousand cavalry and sixty thousand infantry, and the

rendezvous was at Catona, a Calabrian town opposite Messina, where, by

the king's orders, forty galleys already awaited him.

Undaunted by the formidable array, the Messinese prepared a vigorous

defence, repairing their walls, barricading their port with beams, and

even assuming the offensive with their galleys, which chased some of

the King's into the port of Scylla. Yet a bold and sudden assault

would probably have taken the town, and the reduction of all Sicily

must necessarily have followed. This course was urged by Charles's

principal officers; but he preferred the advice of the Count of

Acerra, who, from cowardly or perfidious motives, urged him to wait

the result of the legate's negotiations with the rebels. This was a

fatal error. Delay was destruction. At the very moment it would well

have availed him, Charles abdicated his usual fiery impetuosity in

favour of temporising measures. Encamping four leagues to the south of

Messina, he lost precious time in idle skirmishes. Whilst he burned

their woods and vines, the Messinese raised fortifications, and named

Alaimo de Lentini captain of the people, the chief office in the new

republic. Whilst Alaimo took charge of the defence of Messina, his

wife Maccalda, with helm on head and cuirass upon breast, armed and

valiant like another Pallas, marshalled the garrison of Catania.

Hostilities were about to commence when Cardinal Gerard of Parma

reached Messina. Alaimo received him with the greatest respect, and

offered him the keys of the town in token of liege homage to the holy

see. The Cardinal replied by a vague offer of pardon if they submitted

to the King. "At the word submission, Alaimo snatched the keys from

the legate's hand, and exclaimed in a voice of thunder, 'Sooner death

than a return to the odious French yoke!' After this theatrical burst,

probably a piece of mere acting on the part of a man who had served

under so many banners, serious negotiations began." It was impossible

to agree. The exasperation of the Messinese reached a height that

terrified the legate, who made his escape, after placing the city

under interdict. The proposals he took to Charles were "the immediate

raising of the siege, and return of the army to the Continent; taxes

as in the time of William the Good; and, finally, a formal engagement

that the island should no longer be garrisoned by French or

Provençals, but by Italians or Latins. "If these conditions are

refused," said the bold Messinese, "we will resist till death, though

we should eat our children!" The Cardinal admonished Charles of the

prudence of accepting these terms, hinting that it might be less

necessary to observe them, when the island was again in his hands.

Charles was too angry and too honourable to listen to the jesuitical

insinuation, and war was the word. The legate returned to Rome, in

despair at the hot-headed monarch's intractability. Charles's knights

and officers were clamorous for an instant assault; but he preferred a

blockade, not wishing, he said, to punish the innocent with the

guilty. M. de St Priest discredits the motive, and attributes such

unusual forbearance on the part of the Lion of Anjou to the fear of

losing, by the indiscriminate pillage that would follow a successful

assault, the great riches Messina was known to contain.

The foe's decision published, Messina threw away the scabbard. A life

of freedom, or a glorious death, was the unanimous resolve of its

heroic inhabitants. Every man became a warrior; the very women gave

example of the purest patriotism and sublimest devotedness. "Matrons

who, the preceding day, clothed themselves in gold and purple, young

girls, brought up in the lap of luxury and ease--all, without

distinction of rank or riches, with bare feet and dresses tucked up to

the knee, bore upon their shoulders stones and fascines, and heavy

baskets of bread and wine. They helped the labourers, supplied them

with food, attended to all that could increase their physical and

moral strength. From the summit of the ramparts they hurled missiles

on the besiegers. They held out their children to their husbands,

bidding them fight bravely, and save their sons from slavery and

death. _Oh! it was a pity_, says a song still popular in Sicily,

_great pity was it to see the ladies of Messina carrying chalk and

stones._"

"Deh com' egli é gran pictate

Delle donne di Messina,

Veggiendo iscapighate,

Portando pietre e calcina."

Not long ago a wall was still shown, built by these heroines. The

names of two of them, Dina and Clarentia, have been handed down to

posterity. Whilst Dina upset whole squadrons by hurling stones from

warlike engines, Clarentia, erect upon the ramparts, sounded the

charge with a brazen trumpet. Such incidents gave a fine field to the

superstitious and imaginative; and persons were not wanting who

affirmed they had seen the Virgin Mary hover in white robes above the

city, whilst others maintained she had appeared to Charles of Anjou's

Saracens.

The great assault was on the 14th September 1282. "You have no need to

fight with these boors and burgesses," said Charles to his knights;

"you have merely to slaughter them." He undervalued his foe. In vain

did his chivalry advance against the town like a moving wall of steel;

in vain did his fleet assail the port. Beams and chains, hidden under

water, checked and destroyed his shipping; men and horses fell beneath

the missiles of the besieged. One of these would have killed Charles,

had not two devoted knights saved him. They covered the King with

their bodies, and fell crushed and lifeless at his feet. On the side

of the Sicilians, Alaimo displayed great military talents and personal

courage. He was every where to be seen, animating his men by his

example. When the French were finally repulsed with terrible loss, and

compelled to raise the siege, Charles tried to corrupt Alaimo by

immense offers, and went so far as to send him his signature upon a

blank paper. The Sicilian resisted the temptation--rejecting treasures

and dignities, to yield, at a later period, to the influence of a

treacherous woman.

Meanwhile the deputation charged to offer Sicily to the Pope, returned

with a refusal. Martin IV. would have nothing to say to them. He would

have better served Charles by acceptance. Subsequently he might have

restored the island to the King. As it was, he drove the Sicilians

into the snares of the aristocratic league that supported Pedro of

Arragon. The republican government was unequal to the task it had

undertaken, and the Pope's rejection of the protectorate threw them

into great perplexity. A meeting was held to debate the course to be

adopted; and the Spanish party, schooled by former failure, achieved a

decisive triumph. Its leaders remained mute; but an old man, of such

obscure condition that his name was not exactly known, harangued the

assemblage, recalled the memory of the house of Swabia, reminded his

countrymen that Constance was the legitimate heiress to the crown, and

proposed to offer it to her husband, the King of Arragon, then at the

port of Collo, on the coast of Africa, near Constantina. The words

were scarcely spoken, when a thousand voices extolled the wisdom of

the speaker, and ambassadors were immediately named from the people of

Palermo to the King of Arragon. Don Pedro had lingered at Portofangos,

in expectation of such a summons, for more than a month after the

insurrection at Palermo; but finding the secret negotiations of John

of Procida with the chiefs of the Sicilian aristocracy less

immediately successful than he had hoped, he had sailed for the coast

of Africa, on pretext of interfering in a quarrel between the King of

Constantina and two of his brothers, but in reality to be nearer the

stage on which he hoped soon to play an important part. He affected

surprise at the arrival of the Sicilian envoys, who threw themselves

at his feet, bathed in tears and dressed in deep mourning, and in a

studied harangue implored him to reign over Sicily, and relieve them

from the intolerable yoke of the Count of Provence. They said nothing

of Conradin's glove,--the anecdote, M. de St Priest says, not having

been yet invented.

Don Pedro delayed reply till he should have consulted his principal

vassals. Most of them urged him not to engage in a hazardous

enterprise, that would draw upon him the displeasure of the King of

France; "but to be content with what he already possessed, without

seeking to acquire what would assuredly be valiantly defended. Don

Pedro heard their objections in silence, and broke up the council,

merely announcing that the fleet would sail next day, without saying

whether for Catalonia or Sicily. According to one account, scarcely

credible, and bearing strong resemblance to a popular report, he

declared the wind should decide his destination. The wind blew for

Sicily, much to the discontent of some of the barons, and to the

secret and profound joy of the King. After a prosperous voyage of only

three days' duration, Don Pedro landed at the port of Trapani. The

inhabitants received him as a liberator, and he proceeded to Palermo,

where his stay was one unbroken triumph." He did not remain there

long. He was as active and indefatigable as Charles of Anjou; like him

sleeping little, and rising before the sun. He resolved to march to

the succour of Messina, and to intercept the French army's

communications with Calabria. He sent forward two noble Catalan

knights to warn the King of Naples off the island, with the

alternative of war should he refuse. A judge from Barcelona

accompanied them,--it being the custom of the time to compose such

embassies partly of military men, and partly of persons learned in the

law. The envoys were courteously received in the French camp, but

their lodging did not correspond with their reception. Either through

contempt or through negligence, they were quartered in a church,

without bed or chair, and had to sleep upon straw. At night they

received two jugs of black wine, six loaves equally dark coloured, two

roasted pigs, and an enormous quantity of bacon-soup. Coarse fare and

hard couch did not, however, prevent their sleeping soundly, and

repairing next morning to the royal presence, richly attired in fine

cloth lined with vair. Charles, who was unwell, received them

reclining under curtains of magnificent brocade, and with a little

stick between his teeth, according to his habit. He listened patiently

whilst the chief of the embassy summoned him to evacuate the island,

and replied, after a few minutes' reflection, that Sicily belonged

neither to him nor to the King of Arragon, but to the holy see. "Go

then," he said, "to Messina, and bid the people of that city declare

an eight days' truce, for the discussion of necessary things." This

the ambassadors agreed to do, but got a rude reception from Alaimo,

who would not credit their quality of Arragonese envoys, when he heard

them advocate a truce. Don Pedro was no longer at liberty to treat

with Charles, even had he wished it: the Sicilians, at least that

party of them that had invoked his aid, had done so for their own

ends, and would permit no transaction. The ambassadors returned to

Charles and announced their ill success, and the King bade them repose

till next morning, when he would speak further with them. But the next

morning they learned that he and the Queen had left the camp during

the night, and had embarked for Calabria. Many historians have

severely blamed this retreat; M. de St Priest vindicates its wisdom

and propriety. Defection was increasing in Charles's army, weary of a

fruitless siege that had lasted seventy-four days, and he was in

danger of being cut of from Calabria; for although he still had his

fleet, it consisted of heavy, unwieldy transports, and was very

unmanageable. Soon after his departure from Sicily it was destroyed

and captured by the Arragonese fleet. He began also to form a juster

estimate of his formidable adversary, whose politic and generous

conduct contrasted with his own severity, often pushed to barbarity.

He resolved to try a system of conciliation with the Sicilians; and,

being too proud and stiff-necked to adopt it in person, he sent his

son Charles, Prince of Salerno, to carry it out. "It was necessary to

find a pretext in order honourably to absent himself. The customs of

the time furnished him with one. He did not show himself their slave,

as has often been said, but made them serve his purpose, and skilfully

used them to mask the difficulties of his position. It was not, then,

from a Quixotic and foolish impulse, unbecoming at his age, but with a

political object,--in order to escape from the scene of his

disappointments and defeats, and to draw his enemy from that of his

victories and triumphs,--that he took the resolution to challenge

Pedro of Arragon to single combat." A friar bore the cartel; Pedro

accepted it; and this strange duel between two powerful kings was

fixed to take place in a plain near Bordeaux, an English town, as the

chroniclers call it, Bordeaux then belonging to Edward I. of England.

Pending the preliminary negotiations and arrangements for this combat,

hostilities continued, and the results were all in favour of Don

Pedro. His natural son, Don Jaime Pâris, or Peres, admiral of the

Catalan fleet, made a night excursion from Messina to Catona, upon the

opposite coast, surprising and massacring five hundred French

soldiers. Carried away by youthful ardour, he then pushed on to

Reggio; but fell into an ambush, and lost a dozen men. Although the

final result of the enterprise was highly satisfactory, Pâris

returning victor with a rich booty, his father, indignant that his

orders had been overstepped, spared his life only at the entreaties of

his courtiers, degraded and banished him, and gave the command of the

fleet to Ruggiero de Lauria. This was a lucky hit. Lauria, although

violent and perfidious by character, was of courage as great as his

good fortune was invariable. Once at the head of the Arragonese fleet,

the success of Don Pedro ceased to be doubtful.

The conditions of the projected duel being arranged and agreed to by

both parties, Charles left Reggio, the Prince of Salerno remaining

there at the head of an army brought in great part from France. The

war was now transported in great measure into Calabria. There every

thing was favourable to the Arragonese. His soldiers found themselves

in a climate, and amongst mountains, reminding them of their native

country. The Almogavares, hardy and reckless guerillas, lightly

equipped, and with sandalled feet, were more than a match for the

French knights and men-at-arms, with their heavy horses and armour.

"One day, whilst the Prince of Salerno was at Reggio, an Almogavare

came alone to his camp to defy the French. At first they despised the

challenge of the ill-clad savage, but finally a handsome young knight

left the ranks, and accepted the defiance. He was conquered by his

opponent, who, after bringing him to the ground, buried his knife in

his throat. The Prince of Salerno, true to the laws of chivalry,

dismissed the conqueror with rich guerdon. The King of Arragon would

not be surpassed in courtesy, but sent in exchange ten Frenchmen, free

and without ransom, declaring that he would always be happy to give

the same number for one Arragonese." This piece of Spanish rodomontade

was backed, however, by deeds which proved Pedro no impotent boaster;

and the Prince of Salerno was compelled to retire from Reggio--whose

inhabitants, favourable to his rival, hypocritically affected grief at

his departure--to an adjacent level, known as the _pianura di San

Martino_.

Charles of Anjou was now at Rome, whose Pope he found friendly and

supple as ever. A crusade was promulgated, the usurper of Sicily was

excommunicated, and his Arragonese crown was declared forfeit and

given to Charles de Valois, second son of Philip the Bold, whom the

Italians called _Carlo Senza Terra_, because he tried many crowns but

could never keep one. To cloak his manifest partiality, Martin IV.

strove to make Charles give up the duel, and, failing to do so,

declared himself openly against a project which he treated as mad and

impious. He declared null and void the agreement and conditions fixed

between the champions, and exhorted the King of England to forbid the

encounter of the two sovereigns upon his territory. Edward I. was not

the man to spoil sport of this kind; he neither made nor meddled in

the matter. On the appointed day, (25th May 1283,) Charles, coming

from Paris, where his intended duel had excited the enthusiasm of the

French youth, entered Bordeaux, armed cap-à-pie, at the head of a

hundred knights, established himself with them in the lists, and

waited from sunrise till sundown. Then, the King of Arragon not

appearing, he sent for Jean de Grailly, seneschal of Guienne, had a

certificate of his presence at Bordeaux drawn up in due form, and set

out for his county of Provence. Various causes have been assigned for

Pedro's non-appearance. It is certain that he left Sicily, after

having summoned thither his queen and all his children, excepting the

eldest, Alphonso, who remained in Arragon. The only distinct cause

assigned by M. de St Priest, for his defalcation in the lists, is the

Arragonese version. "Don Pedro had gone from Valentia to Collioure,

and already the hundred chevaliers he had chosen to accompany him were

assembled at Jaca, on the frontier, ready to enter Guienne, when he

was suddenly informed that, at the request of Charles of Anjou, Philip

of France had accompanied his uncle to Bordeaux, and lay near that

town with twenty thousand men. Warned by the King of England that the

King of France was in ambush for him, Pedro decided not to show

himself publicly at Bordeaux; but being at the same time fully

resolved to acquit his promise by going thither, he disguised himself

as a poor traveller, and took with him two gentlemen dressed with less

simplicity, all three mounted on good horses, and without other

baggage than a large bag full of provisions, that they might not be

obliged to stop any where. The King acted as servant to his

companions, waiting on them at table, and giving the horses their

corn. In this manner they arrived very quickly at Bordeaux, where Don

Pedro was received and concealed by an old knight, a friend of one of

the two gentlemen. Upon the morrow, which was the day appointed for

the duel, Pedro repaired to the lists, with the seneschal, who was

devoted to him, before the sun rose, consequently earlier than Charles

of Anjou. There he caused his presence to be certified by a notarial

act, then fled precipitately, and put an interval of several hours

between his departure and the pursuit of the Kings of France and

Sicily." This is rather an improbable story, as M. de St Priest justly

remarks; and, even if true, it is a sort of evasion that does little

credit to the King of Arragon's chivalry. It appears likely that

Pedro, standing upon his well-established reputation of personal

bravery, thought himself justified for once in consulting prudence,

and felt little disposed to stake his life and crown upon the goodness

of his lance and charger. Abandoning to his rival the honours of the

tourney, he gained, with his fleet and army, more solid advantages.

Soon after Charles's return to Provence, twenty-nine galleys

despatched by him from Marseilles to the succour of Malta were

attacked and destroyed by Ruggiero de Lauria, in spite of the valiant

efforts of the Provençal admiral, William Cornut.

"In the heat of a terrible and prolonged combat, and seeing himself

about to be vanquished, Cornut jumped upon Lauria's galley and

attacked the admiral, axe in one hand and lance in the other. The

lance point pierced Ruggiero's foot, and, nailing him to the deck,

broke off from the pole; the Provençal raised his axe, when the

Sicilian, active and furious as a tiger, snatched the iron from his

bleeding wound, and, using it as a dagger, stabbed his enemy to the

heart." The sea was the real field of battle, and, unfortunately for

Charles of Anjou, the French lacked the naval skill and experience of

the Catalans. Pedro was detained in Arragon by some turbulent

proceedings of his nobility, but he was ably replaced by his wife.

Queen Constance was no ordinary woman. Adored by the Sicilians, who

persisted in regarding her as the rightful descendant of their kings,

her influence exceeded that of Pedro himself. Surrounded by her

children, and followed by her Almogavares, she traversed the island in

all directions, going from Palermo to Messina, from Messina to

Catania, encouraging the people by kind and valiant words, giving

bread to the necessitous, and followed by the blessings and admiration

of her new subjects. By the advice of John of Procida, she resolved to

anticipate the Prince of Salerno, who only awaited his father's

arrival to make a descent upon Sicily. "She sent for Ruggiero de

Lauria, who was the son of Madonna Bella, her nurse, and spoke to him

thus: 'Friend Ruggiero, you know that you have been brought up, from

your earliest infancy, in my father's house and in mine; my lord the

King of Arragon has loaded you with favours, making you first a good

knight and then an admiral, such confidence has he in your valour and

fidelity. Now, do better still than heretofore; I recommend to you

myself, my children, and all my family.' When the Queen had spoken,

the admiral put knee on ground, took the hands of his good mistress in

his in sign of homage, kissed them devoutly, and replied: '_Madonna_,

have no fear; the banner of Arragon has never receded, and still shall

conquer. God gives me confidence that I shall again work to your

satisfaction, and that of my lord the King.' Then the Queen made the

sign of the cross over the admiral, who quitted her to put himself at

the head of thirty galleys, and of a host of light vessels armed at

Messina. With these he entered the gulf of Salerno." The son of

Charles of Anjou had no suspicion of the sortie of the Arragonese

fleet, and an officer whom he sent to reconnoitre brought back a false

account of the enemy's strength, diminishing the number of their

vessels. Thereupon the Prince of Salerno resolved to give battle,

being urged to do so by the Count of Acerra, the same who had formerly

advised Charles to postpone the assault of Messina. The count's

advice, whether treacherous or sincere, proved fatal in both

instances. The Sicilian fleet, which had advanced to the very Molo of

Naples, passed under the windows of the Castello Nuovo, insulting the

Prince of Salerno by words injurious to his nation, his father, and

himself. Too angry to be prudent, and forgetting Charles's orders on

no account to stir before his arrival, the prince, covered with new

and brilliant armour, bravely embarked, lame though he was, on board

the royal galley, followed by the flower of the French chivalry.

Lauria, cunning as skilful, feigned to fly at his approach. Riso, the

Messinese, and other Sicilian exiles, showed chains to Lauria, calling

out, "Brave admiral, here is what awaits you; turn and look!" Lauria

obeyed their order, turned about, and fell furiously upon the

Neapolitan fleet, which was defeated by the very first shock. The

Prince of Salerno and the French knights defended themselves with the

courage of despair. The royal galley alone held out, until at last

the Prince, seeing it about to sink with the weight of combatants, and

having bravely fought and dearly sold his liberty, gave up his sword

to Ruggiero, who offered him his hand to conduct him on board the

admiral's galley. "Sir Prince," said the Arragonese, "if you do not

covet the fate of Conradin, order your captive, the Infanta Beatrix,

sister of our Queen, and daughter of King Mainfroy, to be instantly

delivered up to us." With the fierce Lauria it was unsafe to trifle or

delay. The Prince wrote to his wife, Mary of Hungary, that, vanquished

and a prisoner, his life depended on the release of Beatrix. On

receiving his letter, the Princess of Salerno hurried to the prison of

Mainfroy's daughter, embraced her, clothed her in her richest apparel,

and instantly gave her up to Lauria's envoy.

At the news of the Prince's capture, the Neapolitans were on the point

of revolt. An incident occurred that did not leave him the least doubt

of their sentiments. When seated on the deck of Ruggiero's galley, in

the midst of a circle of knights who kept respectful silence, he saw

approach a number of boats filled with peasants, who asked permission

to come on board. They brought baskets of those large figs called

_palombale_, and also a present of gold augustales. Taking the Prince,

on account of his magnificent armour, and of the respect of those

around him, they knelt before him and said, "Admiral, accept this

fruit and this gold; the district of Sorrento sends them you as an

offering, and may you take the father as you have taken the son!"

Notwithstanding his misfortunes, the young man could not help smiling,

as he said, "Truly these are very faithful subjects of my lord the

King." He was taken to Sicily and landed at Messina, where Queen

Constance and the Infante Don Jaime then resided.

When Charles of Anjou learned the double disaster that had befallen

him in the capture of his fleet and son, his first expression was one

of bitter irony. "The better," he exclaimed, "that we are quit of that

priest, who spoiled our affairs and took away our courage!" Bitter

grief succeeded this factitious gaiety. He shut himself up in a

private chamber of the _Castel Capuano_, sent away the attendants and

torches, repulsing even the tender caresses of his queen, and groaned

and lamented in solitude and darkness. When day appeared he forgot his

sorrow to think of vengeance. In his absence, Naples had nearly

escaped him. From Pausilippo to the Molo, shouts for Pedro of Arragon

had been heard. Naples must expiate the crime. Charles prepared to

shed an ocean of blood, but the Pope's legate interceded; and the

enraged sovereign contented himself with hanging a hundred and fifty

of the most guilty from the battlements of the Castel Nuovo. Then,

with his usual impetuous activity, he armed a fleet, and sailed for

Messina, but was met by a message from Constance, that if he touched

the shore of Sicily his son's head should roll upon the scaffold. What

could the murderer of Conradin reply to this threat? Trembling with

fury, he returned to Calabria. The position of his son justified great

anxiety. A large majority of the Sicilians were clamorous for his

death, as an expiatory sacrifice to the manes of Conradin. Queen

Constance, who had nobly resolved to save him, was compelled so far to

yield to public clamour that a parliment was assembled to deliberate

on his fate. With the exception of Alaimo de Lentini, all the members

voted for the Prince's death. But Constance would not ratify the

sentence till she heard from Don Pedro, to whom she had already

despatched intelligence of the important capture. As she had foreseen,

Pedro ordered the Prince, and the chief amongst his companions, to be

sent immediately to Arragon. This was done, and Sicily seemed

guaranteed for a long time from the aggressions of the house of Anjou.

To foreign warfare internal strife succeeded. The Sicilian nobles, the

same men who had entreated Pedro of Arragon to reign over them, now

repented of their choice. They had found a master where they had

intended a crowned companion. Already the failure of a rebellion had

cost several of them their heads, when a second plot was got up, in

which Alaimo de Lentini took a prominent part. The rank, influence,

and services of this man, the first in Sicily, rendered Pedro uneasy,

and excited the jealousy of his two ministers, John of Procida and

Ruggiero de Lauria. Alaimo's indulgent vote upon the trial of the

Prince of Salerno, although conformable to the wishes of the King, yet

had increased suspicions he for some time had entertained. These,

however, would not have broken out but for the imprudent audacity of

Maccalda, Alaimo's wife, who had flattered herself she should be able

to govern Pedro of Arragon. During the siege of Messina, she presented

herself before him in her Amazonian garb, a silver mace in her hand;

but this warlike equipment could not restore her youth, and,

notwithstanding the King's passionate admiration of the fair sex, he

passed the night in talking to her of his ancestors, and finally fell

asleep. Irritated by this contempt of her charms, Maccalda vowed

hatred to Queen Constance. Although of very low origin, the insolent

matron pretended herself at least the equal of the daughter of

Mainfroy the bastard. She refused her the title of queen, and never

spoke of her but as the mother of the Infante Don Jaime. Every advance

made by Don Pedro's wife was insolently rejected by her. The Queen

wished to become godmother to one of her children; Maccalda

disdainfully declined the honour. The Queen had a litter made to take

air in Palermo, a piece of luxury unprecedented in Sicily. Maccalda

immediately rambled about the island in a litter twice the size,

eclipsing her sovereign by her presumptuous splendour. In short, the

court of Arragon could not endure this incessant struggle, and soon

serious grounds for vengeance were found. All powerful with her

husband, Maccalda excited him to revolt. He corresponded with Charles

of Anjou, then in Calabria; one of his letters, in which he promised

to deliver Sicily to the King of Naples, fell into the hands of John

of Procida. Don Pedro, informed of Alaimo's treason, dissimulated and

wrote him an affectionate invitation to Spain, under pretence of

conferring with him on the affairs of Sicily. Resistance and obedience

were equally dangerous; but the latter left most time to turn in, so

Alaimo obeyed. He no sooner reached Arragon than he was thrown into a

dungeon. At the same time Maccalda, stripped of her husband's

possessions, was put in prison in Sicily. There she preserved her

courage and gaiety, and passed her time in laughing at Queen

Constance, and in playing at chess with a Moorish king, prisoner like

herself.

Sixty French knights were massacred in the prison of Matagrifone, at

the instigation of the ferocious Ruggiero de Lauria, so soon as he

learned the treason of Alaimo and Maccalda. For these a tragical end

was reserved. At the commencement of the following reign, the defender

of Messina was thrown into the sea, a halter round his neck; and it

was conjectured that Maccalda Scaletta, also met a violent death in

the obscurity of her dungeon.

Charles was not more fortunate in military operations than in secret

plottings. In vain did he besiege Reggio; for want of provisions he

was compelled to return to Naples. But although fortune proved so

fickle, his bold spirit remained unbroken, and he conceived a gigantic

plan, which was to avenge all his disasters. He resolved to fall upon

Sicily at the head of considerable forces, whilst a powerful French

army entered Arragon. But death nullified his schemes. Whilst upon the

road from Naples to Brindes, to prepare the new armament, he was

compelled by the violent attacks of ague, from which he suffered

continually since his misfortunes, to stop at Foggia. His hour had

come. By his will, made upon the day of his death, he left the kingdom

of the Two Sicilies and the county of Provence to his son Charles

prince of Salerno; and, failing him, to his grandson Charles Martel,

then twelve years old. His testamentary dispositions completed, he

turned his thoughts to things spiritual. Margaret of Burgundy,

summoned in all haste to her husband's side, arrived but just in time

to receive his last adieu. He expired in her arms, the victim of grief

as much as of disease, overtaken by premature old age, but full of

faith in his good right and in divine justice. Upon his deathbed he

was untormented by remorse; he beheld neither the threatening shade of

Conradin nor the rivers of blood with which he had inundated Sicily;

his eyes and lips were fixed with love upon the cross, whose most

faithful defender he esteemed himself. At the supreme hour, and with

his last breath, he made a final and impious manifestation of the

overweening pride and self-confidence that were amongst his most

prominent qualities during his life. "He confessed himself, and

demanded the last sacrament, sat up in his bed to receive it worthily,

fixed his eyes upon the redoubtable mystery, and, speaking directly to

the body and blood of Christ, addressed to them these words of

audacious conviction: '_Sire Dieu_, as I truly believe you to be my

Saviour, I pray you show mercy to my soul. Since it is certain that I

undertook the affair of Sicily more to serve the holy church than for

my own advantage, you ought to absolve me of my sins.'"[8]

[8] The death of Cardinal Richelieu offers a singular resemblance with

that of Charles of Anjou. Having demanded the Viaticum: "Here is my

Lord and my God," he exclaimed; "before him I protest that in all I

have undertaken, I have had nothing in view but the good of religion

and of the state."--ST PRIEST, vol. iv. p. 165.

The body of Charles was transported to Naples, and buried in the

cathedral, under a pompous mausoleum. His heart was taken to Paris,

and deposited in the church of the _Grands Jacobins_, with this

inscription:--

"LI COER DI GRAND ROY CHARLES QUI CONQUIT SICILE."

Upon her husband's death Margaret retired to her county of Tonnerre,

where she had founded an hospital, and passed the rest of her life in

pious and charitable exercises. "The first chevalier in the world has

ceased to live," exclaimed Pedro of Arragon, on learning the death of

Charles of Anjou. He himself survived his great rival but a few

months. After conquering Philip III. of France in the defiles of

Arragon, a victory which procured the fortunate Arragonese the

_soubriquet_ of _Pedro de los Franceses_, he died very penitent,

restoring his possessions to the church, whose liegeman he

acknowledged himself, and putting under the protection of the holy see

his two kingdoms of Arragon and Sicily, which he bequeathed to his

sons, Alphonso III. and Jaime II. About the same time Martin IV. ended

his days, full of grief for the loss of Charles of Anjou, to whom he

was devotedly and blindly attached,--"An attachment," says M. de St

Priest, "which excites interest, so rare is friendship upon thrones,

and especially in old age. Thus was Charles of France, brother of St

Louis, followed to the tomb by the most remarkable of his

contemporaries. A new epoch began; the age of Philip le Bel, of

Boniface VIII., and of Dante. The great poet, so severe to the living

Capétiens, has treated them better in the invisible world. Whilst he

has precipitated Frederick II. and the most illustrious Ghibellines

into the depths of the eternal chasms, he shows us--not in torture,

but awaiting a better destiny--not in the flames of purgatory, but in

the bosom of monotonous repose, in the shade of a peaceful forest, in

a valley strewed with unknown flowers--Charles of Anjou and Pedro of

Arragon, seated side by side, reconciled by death, and uniting their

grave and manly voices in hymns to the praise of the Most High."