CHAPTER XXXVIII.

I remember one morning, when a boy, loitering by an old wall, to watch

the operations of a garden spider, whose web seemed to be in great

request. When I first stopped, she was engaged very quietly with a fly

of the domestic species, whom she managed with ease and dignity. But

just when she was most interested in that absorbing employment, came a

couple of May-flies, and then a gnat, and then a blue-bottle,--all at

different angles of the web. Never was a poor spider so distracted by

her good fortune! She evidently did not know which godsend to take

first. The aboriginal victim being released, she slid half-way towards

the May-flies; then one of her eight eyes caught sight of the

blue-bottle! and she shot off in that direction;--when the hum of the

gnat again diverted her; and in the middle of this perplexity, pounce

came a young wasp in a violent passion! Then the spider evidently lost

her presence of mind; she became clean demented; and after standing,

stupid and stock-still, in the middle of her meshes, for a minute or

two, she ran off to her hole as fast as she could run, and left her

guests to shift for themselves. I confess that I am somewhat in the

dilemma of the attractive and amiable insect I have just described. I

got on well enough while I had only my domestic fly to see after. But

now that there is something fluttering at every end of my net, (and

especially since the advent of that passionate young wasp, who is

fuming and buzzing in the nearest corner!) I am fairly at a loss which

I should first grapple with--and, alas! unlike the spider, I have no

hole where I can hide myself, and let the web do the weaver's work.

But I will imitate the spider as far as I can; and while the rest hum

and struggle away their impatient, unnoticed hour, I will retreat into

the inner labyrinth of my own life.

The illness of my uncle, and my renewed acquaintance with Vivian, had

naturally sufficed to draw my thoughts from the rash and unpropitious

love I had conceived for Fanny Trevanion. During the absence of the

family from London, (and they stayed some time longer than had been

expected,) I had leisure, however, to recall my father's touching

history, and the moral it had so obviously preached to me; and I

formed so many good resolutions, that it was with an untrembling hand

that I welcomed Miss Trevanion at last to London, and with a firm

heart that I avoided, as much as possible, the fatal charm of her

society. The slow convalescence of my uncle gave me a just excuse for

discontinuing our rides. What time Trevanion spared me, it was natural

that I should spend with my family. I went to no balls or parties. I

even absented myself from Trevanion's periodical dinners. Miss

Trevanion at first rallied me on my seclusion with her usual lively

malice. But I continued worthily to complete my martyrdom. I took care

that no reproachful look at the gaiety that wrung my soul should

betray my secret. Then Fanny seemed either hurt or disdainful, and

avoided altogether entering her father's study; all at once, she

changed her tactics, and was seized with a strange desire for

knowledge, which brought her into the room to look for a book, or ask

a question, ten times a-day. I was proof to all. But, to speak truth,

I was profoundly wretched. Looking back now, I am dismayed at the

remembrance of my own sufferings: my health became seriously affected;

I dreaded alike the trial of the day and the anguish of the night. My

only distractions were in my visits to Vivian, and my escape to the

dear circle of home. And that home was my safeguard and preservative

in that crisis of my life. Its atmosphere of unpretending honour and

serene virtue strengthened all my resolutions; it braced me for my

struggles against the strongest passion which youth admits, and

counteracted the evil vapours of that air in which Vivian's envenomed

spirit breathed and moved. Without the influence of such a home, if I

had succeeded in the conduct that probity enjoined towards those in

whose house I was a trusted guest, I do not think I could have

resisted the contagion of that malign and morbid bitterness against

fate and the world which love, thwarted by fortune, is too inclined of

itself to conceive, and in the expression of which Vivian was not

without the eloquence that belongs to earnestness, whether in truth or

falsehood. But, somehow or other, I never left the little room that

contained the grand suffering in the face of the veteran soldier,

whose lip, often quivering with anguish, was never heard to murmur;

and the tranquil wisdom which had succeeded my father's early trials,

(trials like my own,) and the loving smile on my mother's tender face,

and the innocent childhood of Blanche, (by which name the Elf had

familiarised herself to us,) whom I already loved as a sister,--without

feeling that those four walls contained enough tosweeten the world, had

it been filled to its capacious brim with gall and hyssop.

Trevanion had been more than satisfied with Vivian's performance--he

had been struck with it. For though the corrections in the mere

phraseology had been very limited, they went beyond verbal

amendments--they suggested such words as improved the thoughts; and,

besides that notable correction of an arithmetical error, which

Trevanion's mind was formed to over-appreciate, one or two brief

annotations on the margin were boldly hazarded, prompting some

stronger link in a chain of reasoning, or indicating the necessity for

some further evidence in the assertion of a statement. And all this

from the mere natural and naked logic of an acute mind, unaided by the

smallest knowledge of the subject treated of! Trevanion threw quite

enough work into Vivian's hands, and at a remuneration sufficiently

liberal to realise my promise of an independence. And more than once

he asked me to introduce to him my friend. But this I continued to

elude--heaven knows, not from jealousy, but simply because I feared

that Vivian's manner and way of talk would singularly displease one

who detested presumption, and understood no eccentricities but his

own.

Still Vivian, whose industry was of a strong wing, but only for short

flights, had not enough to employ more than a few hours of his day,

and I dreaded lest he should, from very idleness, fall back into old

habits, and reseek old friendships. His cynical candour allowed that

both were sufficiently disreputable to justify grave apprehensions of

such a result; accordingly, I contrived to find leisure in my evenings

to lessen his _ennui_, by accompanying him in rambles through the

gas-lit streets, or occasionally, for an hour or so, to one of the

theatres.

Vivian's first care, on finding himself rich enough, had been bestowed

on his person; and those two faculties of observation and imitation

which minds so ready always eminently possess, had enabled him to

achieve that graceful neatness of costume peculiar to the English

gentleman. For the first few days of his metamorphosis, traces indeed

of a constitutional love of show, or vulgar companionship, were

noticeable; but one by one they disappeared. First went a gaudy

neckcloth, with collars turned down; then a pair of spurs vanished;

and lastly, a diabolical instrument that he called a cane--but which,

by means of a running bullet, could serve as a bludgeon at one end,

and concealed a dagger in the other--subsided into the ordinary

walking-stick adapted to our peaceable metropolis. A similar change,

though in a less degree, gradually took place in his manner and

conversation. He grew less abrupt in the one, and more calm, perhaps

more cheerful, in the other. It was evident that he was not insensible

to the elevated pleasure of providing for himself by praiseworthy

exertion--of feeling for the first time that his intellect was of use

to him, _creditably_. A new world, though still dim--seen through mist

and fog, began to dawn upon him.

Such is the vanity of us poor mortals, that my interest in Vivian was

probably increased, and my aversion to much in him materially

softened, by observing that I had gained a sort of ascendency over his

savage nature. When we had first met by the roadside, and afterwards

conversed in the churchyard, the ascendency was certainly not on my

side. But I now came from a larger sphere of society than that in

which he had yet moved. I had seen and listened to the first men in

England. What had then dazzled me only, now moved my pity. On the

other hand, his active mind could not but observe the change in me;

and, whether from envy or a better feeling, he was willing to learn

from me how to eclipse me, and resume his earlier superiority--not to

be superior chafed him. Thus he listened to me with docility when I

pointed out the books which connected themselves with the various

subjects incidental to the miscellaneous matters on which he was

employed. Though he had less of the literary turn of mind than any one

equally clever I have ever met, and had read little, considering the

quantity of thought he had acquired, and the show he made of the few

works (chiefly plays) with which he had voluntarily made himself

familiar, he yet resolutely sate himself down to study; and though it

was clearly against the grain, I augured the more favourably from

tokens of a determination to do what was at the present irksome for a

purpose in the future. Yet, whether I should have approved the

purpose--had I thoroughly understood it--is another question! There

were abysses, both in his past life and in his character, which I

could not penetrate. There was in him both a reckless frankness and a

vigilant reserve. His frankness was apparent in his talk on all

matters immediately before us; in the utter absence of all effort to

make himself seem better than he was. His reserve was equally shown in

the ingenious evasion of every species of confidence that could admit

me into such secrets of his life as he chose to conceal: where he had

been born, reared, and educated; how he came to be thrown on his own

resources; how he had contrived, how he had subsisted, were all

matters on which he seemed to have taken an oath to Harpocrates, the

god of silence. And yet he was full of anecdotes of what he had seen,

of strange companions, whom he never named, but into whose society he

had been thrown. And, to do him justice, I remarked that, though his

precocious experience seemed to have been gathered from the holes and

corners, the sewers and drains of life, and though he seemed wholly

without dislike to dishonesty, and to regard virtue or vice with as

serene an indifference as some grand poet who views them both merely

as ministrants to his art, yet he never betrayed any positive breach

of honesty in himself. He could laugh over the story of some ingenious

fraud that he had witnessed, and seem insensible to its turpitude; but

he spoke of it in the tone of an unreproving witness, not of an actual

accomplice. As we grew more intimate, he felt gradually, however, that

_pudor_, or instinctive shame, which the contact with minds habituated

to the distinctions between wrong and right unconsciously

produces,--and such stories ceased. He never but once mentioned his

family, and that was in the following odd and abrupt manner,--

"Ah!" cried he one day, stopping suddenly before a print-shop, "how

that reminds me of my dear, dear mother."

"Which?" said I eagerly, puzzled between an engraving of Raffaelle's

"Madonna," and another of "The Brigand's Wife."

Vivian did not satisfy my curiosity, but drew me on in spite of my

reluctance.

"You loved your mother, then?" said I, after a pause.

"Yes, as a whelp may a tigress."

"That's a strange comparison."

"Or a bull-dog may the prizefighter, his master! Do you like that

better?"

"Not much; is it a comparison your mother would like?"

"Like!--she is dead!" said he, rather falteringly.

I pressed his arm closer to mine.

"I understand you," said he, with his cynic repellant smile. "But you

do wrong to feel for my loss. I feel for it; but no one who cares for

me should sympathise with my grief."

"Why?"

"Because my mother was not what the world would call a good woman. I

did not love her the less for that--and now let us change the

subject."

"Nay; since you have said so much, Vivian, let me coax you to say on.

Is not your father living?"

"Is not the Monument standing?"

"I suppose so,--what of that?"

"Why, it matters very little to either of us; and my question answers

yours!"

I could not get on after this, and I never did get on a step farther.

I must own that, if Vivian did not impart his confidence liberally,

neither did he seek confidence inquisitively from me. He listened with

interest if I spoke of Trevanion, (for I told him frankly of my

connexion with that personage, though you may be sure that I said

nothing of Fanny,) and of the brilliant world that my residence with

one so distinguished opened to me. But if ever, in the fulness of my

heart, I began to speak of my parents, of my home, he evinced either

so impertinent an _ennui_, or assumed so chilling a sneer, that I

usually hurried way from him, as well as the subject, in indignant

disgust. Once especially, when I asked him to let me introduce him to

my father--a point on which I was really anxious, for I thought it

impossible but that the devil within him would be softened by that

contact--he said with his low, scornful laugh--

"My dear Caxton, when I was a child, I was so bored with 'Telemachus,'

that, in order to endure it, I turned it into travesty."

"Well."

"Are you not afraid that the same wicked disposition might make a

caricature of your Ulysses?"

I did not see Mr Vivian for three days after that speech; and I should

not have seen him then, only we met, by accident, under the Colonnade

of the Opera-House. Vivian was leaning against one of the columns, and

watching the long procession which swept to the only temple in vogue

that Art has retained in the English Babel. Coaches and chariots,

blazoned with arms and coronets--cabriolets (the brougham had not then

replaced them) of sober hue, but exquisite appointment, with gigantic

horses and pigmy "tigers," dashed on and rolled off before him. Fair

women and gay dresses, stars and ribbons--the rank and the beauty of

the patrician world--passed him by. And I could not resist the

compassion with which this lonely, friendless, eager, discontented

spirit inspired me--gazing on that gorgeous existence in which it

fancied itself formed to shine, with the ardour of desire and the

despair of exclusion. By one glimpse of that dark countenance, I read

what was passing within the yet darker heart. The emotion might not be

amiable, nor the thoughts wise, yet, were they unnatural? I had

experienced something of them--not at the sight of gay-dressed people,

of wealth and idleness, pleasure and fashion; but when, at the doors

of parliament, men who have won noble names, and whose word had weight

on the destinies of glorious England, brushed heedlessly by to their

grand arena; or when, amidst the holiday crowd of ignoble pomp, I had

heard the murmur of fame buzz and gather round some lordly labourer in

art or letters. That contrast between glory so near, and yet so far,

and one's own obscurity, of course I had felt it--who has not? Alas,

many a youth not fated to be a Themistocles, will yet feel that the

trophies of a Miltiades will not suffer him to sleep! So I went up to

Vivian, and laid my hand on his shoulder.

"Ah!" said he, more gently than usual, "I am glad to see you--and to

apologise--I offended you the other day. But you would not get very

gracious answers from souls in purgatory, if you talked to them of the

happiness of heaven. Never speak to me about homes and fathers!

Enough, I see you forgive me. Why are you not going to the opera?

_You_ can!"

"And you too, if you so please. A ticket is shamefully dear, to be

sure; still, if you are fond of music, it is a luxury you can afford."

"Oh, you flatter me if you fancy the prudence of saving withholds me!

I did go the other night, but I shall not go again. Music!--when you

go to the opera, is it for the music?"

"Only partially, I own: the lights, the scene, the pageant, attract me

quite as much. But I do not think the opera a very profitable pleasure

for either of us. For rich idle people, I dare say, it may be as

innocent an amusement as any other, but I find it a sad enervator."

"And I just the reverse--a horrible, stimulant! Caxton, do you know

that, ungracious as it will sound to you, I am growing impatient of

this 'honourable independence!' What does it lead to?--board, clothes,

and lodging,--can it ever bring me any thing more?"

"At first, Vivian, you limited your aspirations to kid gloves and a

cabriolet--it has brought you the kid gloves already, by-and-by it

will bring the cabriolet!"

"Our wishes grow by what they feed on. You live in the great

world--you can have excitement if you please it--I want excitement, I

want the world, I want room for my mind, man! Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly--and sympathise with you, my poor Vivian; but it will all

come. Patience! as I preached to you while dawn rose so comfortless

over the streets of London. You are not losing time--fill your mind,

read, study, fit yourself for ambition. Why wish to fly till you have

got your wings? Live in books now: after all, they are splendid

palaces, and open to us all, rich and poor."

"Books, books!--ah, you are the son of a bookman! It is not by books

that men get on in the world, and enjoy life in the meanwhile."

"I don't know that; but, my good fellow, you want to do both--get on

in the world as fast as labour can, and enjoy life as pleasantly as

indolence may. You want to live like the butterfly, and yet have all

the honey of the bee; and, what is the very deuce of the whole, even

as the butterfly, you ask every flower to grow up in a moment; and as

a bee, the whole hive must be stored in a quarter of an hour!

Patience, patience, patience!"

Vivian sighed a fierce sigh. "I suppose," said he, after an unquiet

pause, "that the vagrant and the outlaw are strong in me; for I long

to run back to my old existence, which was all action, and therefore

allowed no thought."

While he thus said, we had wandered round the Colonnade, and were in

that narrow passage that runs from Piccadilly into Charles Street, in

which is situated the more private entrance to the opera; and close by

the doors of that entrance, two or three young men were lounging. As

Vivian ceased, the voice of one of these loungers came laughingly to

our ears.

"Oh!" it said, apparently in answer to some question, "I have a much

quicker way to fortune than that; I mean to marry an heiress!"

Vivian started, and looked at the speaker. He was a very good-looking

fellow. Vivian continued to look at him, and deliberately, from head

to foot; he then turned away with a satisfied and thoughtful smile.

"Certainly," said I gravely, (construing the smile,) "you are right

there; you are even better-looking than that heiress-hunter!"

Vivian coloured; but before he could answer, one of the loungers, as

the group recovered from the gay laugh which their companion's easy

coxcombry had excited, said,--

"Then, by the way, if you want an heiress, here comes one of the

greatest in England; but instead of being a younger son, with three

good lives between you and an Irish peerage, one ought to be an earl

at least to aspire to Fanny Trevanion!"

The name thrilled through me--I felt myself tremble--and, looking up,

I saw Lady Ellinor and Miss Trevanion, as they hurried from their

carriage towards the entrance of the opera. They both recognised me,

and Fanny cried,--

"You here! How fortunate! You must see us into the box, even if you

run away the moment after."

"But I am not dressed for the opera," said I, embarrassed.

"And why not?" asked Miss Trevanion; then, dropping her voice, she

added, "Why do you desert us so wilfully?"--and, leaning her hand on

my arm, I was drawn irresistibly into the lobby. The young loungers at

the door made way for us, and eyed me, no doubt, with envy.

"Nay!" said I, affecting to laugh, as I saw Miss Trevanion waited for

my reply. "You forget how little time I have for such amusements

now,--and my uncle--"

"Oh, but mamma and I have been to see your uncle to-day, and he is

nearly well--is he not, mamma? I cannot tell you how I like and admire

him. He is just what I fancy a Douglas of the old day. But mamma is

impatient. Well, you must dine with us to-morrow--promise!--not

_adieu_, but _au revoir_," and Fanny glided to her mother's arm. Lady

Ellinor, always kind and courteous to me, had good-naturedly lingered

till this dialogue, or rather monologue, was over.

On returning to the passage I found Vivian walking to and fro; he had

lighted his cigar, and was smoking energetically.

"So this great heiress," said he smiling, "who, as far as I could

see--under her hood--seems no less fair than rich, is the daughter, I

presume, of the Mr Trevanion whose effusions you so kindly submit to

me. He is very rich, then? You never said so, yet I ought to have

known it: but you see I know nothing of your _beau monde_--not even

that Miss Trevanion is one of the greatest heiresses in England."

"Yes, Mr Trevanion is rich," said I, repressing a sigh--"very rich."

"And you are his secretary! My dear friend, you may well offer me

patience, for a large stock of yours will, I hope, be superfluous to

you."

"I don't understand you."

"Yet you heard that young gentleman as well as myself; and you are in

the same house as the heiress."

"Vivian!"

"Well, what have I said so monstrous?"

"Pooh! since you refer to that young gentleman,--you heard, too, what

his companion told him,--'one ought to be an earl, at least, to aspire

to Fanny Trevanion!'"

"Tut! as well say that one ought to be a _millionnaire_ to aspire to a

million!--yet I believe those who make millions generally begin with

pence."

"That belief should be a comfort and encouragement to you, Vivian. And

now, good-night,--I have much to do."

"Good-night, then," said Vivian, and we parted.

I made my way to Mr Trevanion's house, and to the study. There was a

formidable arrear of business waiting for me, and I sate down to it at

first resolutely; but, by degrees, I found my thoughts wandering from

the eternal blue-books, and the pen slipped from my hand, in the midst

of an extract from a Report on Sierra Leone. My pulse beat loud and

quick; I was in that state of nervous fever which only emotion can

occasion. The sweet voice of Fanny rang in my ears; her eyes, as I had

last met them, unusually gentle--almost beseeching--gazed upon me

wherever I turned; and then, as in mockery, I heard again those

words,--"One ought to be an earl, at least, to aspire to"--Oh! did I

aspire? Was I vain fool so frantic?--household traitor so consummate?

No, no! Then what did I under the same roof?--why stay to imbibe this

sweet poison, that was corroding the very springs of my life? At that

self-question, which, had I been but a year or two older, I should

have asked long before, a mortal terror seized me; the blood rushed

from my heart, and left me cold--icy cold. To leave the house! leave

Fanny!--never again to see those eyes--never to hear that

voice!--better die of the sweet poison than of the desolate exile! I

rose--I opened the windows--I walked to and fro the room: I could

decide nothing--think of nothing; all my mind was in an uproar. With a

violent effort at self-mastery, I approached the table again. I

resolved to force myself to my task, if it were only to re-collect my

faculties, and enable them to bear my own torture. I turned over the

books impatiently, when, lo! buried amongst them, what met my

eye--archly, yet reproachfully? the face of Fanny herself! Her

miniature was there. It had been, I knew, taken a few days before, by

a young artist whom Trevanion patronised. I suppose he had carried it

into his study to examine it, and so left it there carelessly. The

painter had seized her peculiar expression--her ineffable smile--so

charming, so malicious; even her favourite posture,--the small head

turned over the rounded Hebe-like shoulder--the eye glancing up from

under the hair. I know not what change in my madness came over me; but

I sank on my knees, and, kissing the miniature again and again, burst

into tears. Such tears! I did not hear the door open--I did not see

the shadow steal over the floor; a light hand rested on my shoulder,

trembling as it rested. I started--Fanny herself was bending over me!

"What is the matter?" she asked tenderly. "What has happened?--your

uncle--your family--all well? Why are you weeping?"

I could not answer; but I kept my hands clasped over the miniature,

that she might not see what they contained.

"Will you not answer? Am I not your friend?--almost your sister? Come,

shall I call mamma?"

"Yes--yes; go--go."

"No, I will not go yet. What have you there?--what are you hiding?"

And innocently, and sister-like, those hands took mine; and so--and

so--the picture became visible! There was a dead silence. I looked up

through my tears. Fanny had recoiled some steps, and her cheek was

very flushed, her eyes downcast. I felt as if I had committed a

crime--as, if dishonour clung to me; and yet I repressed--yes, thank

Heaven! I repressed the cry that swelled from my heart, that rushed to

my lips--"Pity me, for I love you!" I repressed it, and only a groan

escaped me--the wail of my lost happiness! Then, rising, I laid the

miniature on the table, and said, in a voice that I believe was firm--

"Miss Trevanion, you _have_ been as kind as a sister to me, and

therefore I was bidding a brother's farewell to your likeness; it _is_

so like you--this!"

"Farewell!" echoed Fanny, still not looking up.

"Farewell--_sister_! There--I have boldly said the word; for--for"--I

hurried to the door, and, there turning, added, with what I meant to

be a smile--"for they say at home that I--I am not well; too much for

me this; you know mothers will be foolish; and--and--I am to speak to

your father to-morrow; and--good-night--God bless you, Miss

Trevanion!"

REPUBLICAN FIRST-FRUITS.[10]

[10] _Jérome Paturot à la Recherche de la Meilleure des Républiques._

Par LOUIS REYBAUD. Volumes 1 to 3. Paris: 1848.

_Monsieur Bonardin, ou les Agrémens de la République--Proverbe en

plusieurs Décades._ Paris: 1848.

When reviewing, in last month's Magazine, the accumulated French

novels of the summer, we reserved two, partly on account of

incompleteness and tardy arrival, but chiefly as worthy of a separate

notice. They belong to a branch of literature not much cultivated in

France of late years, but which revives and flourishes by favour of

recent convulsions, and of the present feverish political atmosphere

of the country. Political satire, even in the gay disguise of fiction,

was not quite a safe venture during the reign of Louis Philippe the

king. Bearing in mind certain arbitrary infractions of the liberty of

the press, it might well have proved a dangerous one under the rule of

Cavaignac the dictator. Nevertheless, here are two books of sharp

jests, that must be caustic to the cuticle of the heroes and votaries

of the republican regime. In style different, their aim is identical:

it is nothing less than an exposure of the faults, follies, and

deceptions of the French republic. One is comedy, the other broad

farce; whilst the latter plunges into burlesque, the former rarely

oversteps the limits of polished satire, and often but faithfully

depicts--with altered names, but with scarcely a touch of

caricature--scenes and personages in the great serio-comic drama

enacting in France since February last. There can be no dispute as to

the comparative merits of the books, nor, indeed, can a comparison be

instituted between them. _Jérome Paturot_ has, in some parts, almost

the weight of history, and it would not be surprising to see it

hereafter so referred to. It is the work of a man of acknowledged

talent, an esteemed and experienced writer, a member of the

legislative chamber both before and since the expulsion of the King of

the French. If occasionally rather diffuse, M. Louis Reybaud is always

witty and shrewd: he is an acute observer; and, to crown our praise,

he is evidently of stanch Tory principles. There is a strong good

sense, a calm contempt of cant and of pseudo-liberalism, a stripping,

whipping, and pickling of humbug, in his _Jérome Paturot_, at any time

agreeable to behold, but peculiarly refreshing just now, by its

contrast with the folly, hypocrisy, and fanaticism of many of his

countrymen. We are glad to find there still are Frenchmen capable of

thinking and writing so soundly and sensibly--a fact which, with every

disposition to judge the nation favourably, recent events have almost

made us doubt. "_Jérome Paturot in quest of the best possible

Republic_" is more than witty, spirited, and amusing. Its strong good

sense and sledge-hammer truths may and must influence, in a right

direction, the minds of many of its French readers. Should any of

these be so obtuse as not fully to appreciate Jérome's sly wit and

pungent epigrams, to them _Monsieur Bonardin_ addresses himself,

secure of comprehension: him every one will understand. The dramatised

narrative of his misadventures, commencing on the morrow of the

republic's proclamation, and comprised in thirteen decades, was

doubtless suggested by the perusal of _Paturot_, and this the

anonymous author tacitly acknowledges, rather than attempts to

conceal. He chooses his hero in the same respectable trade to which

Jérome devoted his time and industry, when the ambitious cravings of

his restless youth had subsided, and before increasing wealth, the

epaulets of a captain of nationals, and the glitter of a

citizen-king's court, turned him from the paths of commerce, to climb

an eminence whence he finally got a fall. Paturot and Bonardin are

both _bonnetiers_, or hosiers--venders of unpoetical white nightcaps,

pointed and tasselled, and of other wares woven of cotton. Either on

account of the prosaic associations suggested by these useful

manufactures, or for some other reason, to us unknown, the _bonnetier_

is a favourite character with French writers when they wish to portray

a good, simple-hearted, steady-going, pusillanimous Parisian burgess.

Bonardin is all this: a bachelor and an epicure, he leads a monotonous

but happy existence in the society of Babet and Criquet, his

housekeeper and clerk; loves his dinner, his bed, and his ease; and,

although a corporal in the national guard, has attained the mature age

of fifty-five in profound ignorance of the process of loading and

firing a musket. In short, he is the last man in the world to make or

meddle with the revolution, whose passive victim, from the mere fact

of his lot being cast in Paris, he unfortunately becomes. Paturot is

another sort of character. Originally simple enough, his wit has been

sharpened by deceptions and reverses. Although to many of our readers

M. Reybaud's former works[11] are already well known, we briefly

sketch, for the use of those who have not met with them, the career of

Jérome Paturot previously to the advent of the republic. Aspiring, as

a young man, to higher occupations than the sale of cottons, he

refused a partnership with his uncle, a thriving hosier, to dabble in

literature, art, journalism, and various unlucky speculations.

Reclaimed at last, he settled down to stockings; married Malvina, a

warm-hearted, ready-witted, high-spirited grisette, who had long

shared his precarious fortunes; throve apace, went to court, was

elected deputy, and at last, by extravagance and mismanagement, found

himself ruined, and was fain to retire into a provincial nook, to

vegetate upon the wretched salary of a petty government appointment.

Here, soured by misfortune, he grumbled himself into republicanism.

But when the republic came, he, the only pure and genuine "republican

of the eve" in the town, was elbowed aside by mushroom "republicans of

the morrow," and deprived of his place; whereupon his wife sent him to

Paris, to recover it or get a better one, and followed him herself,

after bringing about, by an active canvass and clever manœuvres,

the election to the National Assembly of one Simon--an honest,

ignorant miller, with a strong arm, a thick head, and a sonorous

voice--at whose house the Paturots had occasionally paused for

refreshment in their country walks, and through whom Malvina reckons

on advancing her husband's interests, and on commanding a vote in the

Chambers.

[11] Mill's _Principles of Political Economy_, vol. i. p. 393.

At Paris, Paturot meets an old friend, Oscar, an artist, remarkable

for a large beard and a small talent, and for a vanity that nothing

can intimidate. In his society, and in the intervals of his

place-hunting--to all appearance a fruitless chase--Jérome begins a

course of "Life under the Republic," his rambles and adventures

serving as pegs whereon to hang cutting satire of the anomalies and

absurdities of the new order of things. At first he is greatly struck

by the gay aspect of the town.

"Paris was in continual festival--its busy life exchanged for complete

idleness. Eager for amusement, the crowd quitted the workshop, to pick

and choose amongst the pastimes offered them. These were abundant;

archery, games at the ring, lotteries in the open air--a perpetual

fair. It seemed a new Cocaigne, and a people exempt from all cares for

the future. Happy shepherds! fortunate sheep! Theological

divertisements for those; for these a free field and plenteous

pasture. Thus were the parts distributed in this eclogue worthy of

Gessner. Now and then, it is true, there were a few more fireworks

than were ordered, and some of the illuminations were not quite

spontaneous; but these were imperceptible blemishes in a glorious

picture. In pursuit of an idea, I was tempted to think I had found it

realised on my path without trouble or effort, and as a gift of

circumstances.

"Nevertheless I had my doubts, my fears, that this apparent joy was a

mask to mysterious sufferings. In these joyous cries and bursts of

enthusiasm, there was a something harsh and artificial, which roused

my suspicions. At the bottom of this feverish activity, I sought

labour, serious labour--the health of the soul and the bread of the

body--and I found it not. These men, so ardent in their rejoicings,

daily borrowed from the commonwealth a portion of its substance,

giving nothing in return. Could this last? Did they themselves think

it could? The inquiry was worth making. I addressed myself to persons

of all ranks and classes. The problem was simple enough. If the

republic was really the joy and pride of France, it of course insured

the happiness of individuals."

The result of Jérome's inquiries was that the joy was on the surface,

not in the heart. The spectacle he had before him was the pitiable one

of a people getting drunk upon its own acclamations, raising a

senseless clamour to drown the fiend of misery, which approached their

door with swift and certain step. Already the bony foot of the monster

was on many a threshhold. Paturot questioned a banker. "Alas!" was the

reply,--"see you not what occurs? Twenty first-class banking-houses

unable to meet their engagements; others will follow. Those who

continue to pay decline business and announce their winding up. Before

two months there will be no cashing a bill in all Paris. Every body is

suspected--you, I, the bank, the treasury. Credit is lost, confidence

extinguished." This was discouraging; but Jérome, not satisfied with

one testimony, passed on to a manufacturer. "Manufactures!" said this

man, a republican of the very first water--"you ask the state of

manufactures, citizen! you might as well ask after a dead man's

health. I employed two thousand workmen; now I employ one hundred, and

only for humanity's sake do I keep them. Our country asked us to make

her a present of two hours' work a-day. We sacrificed our interest to

a principle, and did so. But two hours' work is a loss of ten per

cent, and as my average gain was only five, you understand I am

obliged to stop my looms. If the public would pay a better price for

our stuffs, well and good; but there seems little chance of that. Poor

customers, citizen,--a parcel of ruined men. For half-nothing I would

be off to America, with my foremen and my patents." The fundholder's

account of the matter was no better. "Buy my stock?" said he to his

interrogator--"shall have it cheap. My fives cost me 122, and my

threes 84: I had confidence, sir--the word explains every thing. Now

the threes are at 34, and the fives at 50. I have railway shares of

all the lines--Orleans, North, Rouen, &c. God knows the hard cash I

paid for them! To-day they are worth the paper: here they are, blue,

green, and red. I would as soon have shares in the Mississippi. I had

treasury bonds--cash lent, payable at will; I reckoned on it. Door

shut. Come another day, my good man, and we will see what we can do.

If you are in a hurry, go on 'Change. You will get 500 francs for

1000." Heart-sick, Paturot descended the social scale, but the song

was every where the same. "I fought in July and in February," said the

shopkeeper; "I helped to take the Louvre and the Tuileries; I was seen

upon the barricades, musket in hand. What is my reward? a shop full of

goods, and an empty till. For two months past, not a purchaser.

Debtors will not pay, and creditors will be paid." As a last forlorn

hope, Jérome accosted an artisan. "You want to know my opinion,

citizen? You shall have it, in two words. The thing is a failure, and

must be done over again. 'Lend a hand to the Revolution,' they said to

us, 'and this time you shall not be forgotten.' Very good; word

passed, bargain accepted. In a turn of the hand, the thing is done.

Here are your goods, where's your money? There the difficulty began.

'Let us organise labour,' they exclaimed at the Luxembourg. Very well;

organise, citizens--take your time. The workman has his savings, he

will wait. Three days, four days, pass in speeches, embraces, mutual

congratulations. The workman has deputed comrades who sit upon the

benches of the peers; it is always an honour, if it does not fill the

belly. He takes patience, and forgets himself for the general good,

until a voice is heard from the Luxembourg saying, 'We are going to

try to organise labour.' The deuce, says the workman; the first day

they organise, and now they try to organise; that is not like

progress. Meanwhile, he is on the street, more pinched than ever.

Little by little his money goes, and his credit too. He returns to his

workshop; door shut, nothing doing. He tries another; same answer.

Whilst they 'tried to organise,' work had disappeared. I am

wrong--nominal work was still to be had--alms in the guise of labour.

Sooner break my arm than have recourse to it."

The reader will recognise in these passages exact statements of facts.

The artisan's last reference is, of course, to the national workshops,

whither we shall presently accompany M. Reybaud's hero. The disease of

the social body, of which Paturot's inquiries gave him warning, soon

became too prevalent for concealment; and, as usual in such cases, a

host of quacks started up, puffing their panaceas. This, however, was

not till the self-appointed, but more regular physicians of the

Republic had made desperate attempts at a cure. Attempts and

quackeries were alike recorded in the journals of the day. M. Reybaud

writes a chronicle, and deserves our gratitude for its lucid and

pointed style. The first prescription of the lawful practitioner was a

national loan, to be subscribed at par. On reflection, however, the

drug was thought too expensive, the electuary did not advance beyond

the state of a project, and, of course, the patient was no better. The

next remedy was a wooden one, but none the worse for that. "It was

resolved to apply to the diseased organs a portion of the

crown-forests, millions of ash and birch trees--antiquated elms, and

historical limes--all the vegetable riches of the country! What

treasury would not be saved at this price? The responsible doctor

could not doubt success; he hugged himself for the bright idea. Well!

heaven, jealous of his genius, frustrated his combinations.

Unfortunately, the forests could not be applied to the patient's

relief in their natural state. The ash-trees positively refused to

enter the public cash-box in the form of an essence; the birches were

equally obstinate, the elms no less so. It was necessary to transmute

them into metal, and there was the difficulty. With time, the thing

might have been done; but what avails distant succour to a dying man?"

Other plans were then suggested; decree followed decree with startling

rapidity, but without avail; distress gained ground, and the crisis

reached its height. Entire streets closed their shops and

counting-houses. Time-honoured names found their way into the gazette;

some of their owners nobly sustaining the shock, others yielding to

despair and rushing to suicide. It was a frightful and unexpected

scene of ruin, which surprised the financial world in the midst of the

abuse of credit, and of a fever of speculation.

"How arrest the evil? What dyke oppose to this growing devastation?

There was no lack of saviours--they swarmed; nor of miraculous

plans--the walls were covered with them. Every day hundreds of

individuals presented themselves, offering to contract with the

country for a supply of felicity. In their eyes, all this misfortune

was but a mistake; to remedy it they had sure balsams and magic

charms. It was a new profession that suddenly started up, that of

saviour of the country, with or without government guarantee."

The quacks were the leaders of the clubs, several of which were

visited by Oscar and Paturot; and Jérome was surprised to find how

little freedom of discussion was allowed amongst men professing

universal equality. Contradiction to the great orator of the hour and

place was usually a signal for the expulsion of the rash offender,

unless the follower of Fourier interposed, and expressed his

willingness to enter the lists of argument. Cabet and the Icarians are

capitally shown up. At the end of the discussion, which more resembled

a lecture, the pontiff of the community produced a packet of letters,

received from the colony where his Utopian schemes were to be carried

out, and read extracts to his admiring auditors, interlarding them

with reflections of his own. "Father," the despatch began, "all goes

well; fraternity intoxicates us. We cannot sleep at night for the

mosquitoes; but, like every thing else, these insects are in common:

that thought consoles us."

'Poor dear children!'

"We have been visited by a great drought; it was common to us all.

Grass failed for the flocks, and meat for man. But with fraternity all

is light--even our diet. Yesterday morning we went to draw water from

the Tair. The river was dry; we got nothing but locusts."

'Divine! pastoral! like a page of the Bible.'

"To-day a tribe of Sioux paid us a neighbourly visit. We invited them

to join our brotherhood. They scalped two of our brethren. Father,

this concerns us greatly. Two scalped and the others not. Where is the

equality? They should have scalped us all."

'Touching scruple!'

"You are expected here with the liveliest impatience, and will be

received with open arms. We run short of shirts; hasten to send us

some, or we shall find ourselves in the condition of a primitive

people. Father, bless your children.

"THE COLONY OF THE TAIR."

* * * * *

There is more caricature in this than M. Reybaud generally permits

himself. The reading of the despatch from the communist pioneers was

followed by a collection, whose announcement nearly cleared the room,

and whose result was pitifully small, the enthusiasm of the assembly

having expired upon the road from the lips to the pocket. Jérome

departed in disgust. He was scarcely better pleased at the next club

he visited, whose orator harped perpetually upon one string, whence it

was impossible to detach him. "Let us associate all men's capital,

labour, and talent," said he emphatically. "It is the salvation and

reconciliation of all interests." Jérome, who had always disliked

"those sententious aphorisms which resemble pompous signs before empty

shops," could not forbear an interruption, and requested the speaker

to explain his words. But it was impossible to drag the socialist from

his formula. His reply was a repetition of the same nonsense in other

words. "Do what I would, I could not detach him from these

common-place and pompous generalities. A controversy ensued, and I

tried to bring it round to the boreal crown and the cardinal aromas.

He refused to follow; and at last, finding himself hard pressed, he

made me the offer of a ministry of progress. If there had been no

door, I certainly should have jumped out of window." After a visit to

Louis Blanc at the Luxembourg, Paturot repaired to the national

workshops, whose administration occupied the park and pavilions of

Monceaux.

"The following problem being given:--How to realise the least possible

work with the greatest possible number of workmen;

"And supposing it is desired to discover the institution, existing or

to exist, which shall most completely fulfil the end proposed;

"The solution will necessarily be--

THE NATIONAL WORKSHOP.

"Never perhaps did a fact of this nature present itself, especially

with such proportions. Before us, it had occurred to no one to

confound alms with work. Nobody ever thought of cloaking alms with the

appearance of a useless labour. In a few individual cases of misery,

this way of concealing the donor's hand may leave some illusion to him

who receives; but the assistance afforded by the public treasury to an

entire army, to a hundred thousand men, admits of no doubt as to its

nature. It is nothing more or less than English pauperism in the

rudimental state."

Jérome had heard Oscar speak of these national workshops, one of whose

brigades contained, according to the artist's account, the flower of

Parisian society--five sculptors, twelve painters, and a whole company

of authors. One of the sculptors had fixed his own task at twenty-five

pebbles a-day. Monday he carried them from right to left; on Tuesday

from left to right, and so on. The twenty-five pebbles had already

brought him in seventy-five francs, three francs a pebble, and in time

he hoped to get them up to a napoleon a-piece. Each workman received

two francs a-day when employed; one franc when idle. Eight francs

a-week were guaranteed to him, at work or not. Paturot, who doubted

Master Oscar's details, resolved to use his own eyes, and set out for

Monceaux. The gates were besieged by discontented workmen, clamorous

to see the director, who was in no haste to show himself. Work was the

cry, on account of the additional franc gained by a day of nominal

labour. And work there was none for three-fourths of the sixty

thousand men (subsequently 120,000) then upon the roll of the national

workshops. And even when the director, to save the park gates from

destruction, made his appearance and heard their complaints, they

still were hard to please. They would find terrace-making at the Champ

de Mars:--they were tired of that. They might break stones at

Asnières;--many thanks; it spoiled their hands. Would they condescend

to plant early potatoes in the fields of St Maur? They should have the

eating of them when ripe. The offer was treated with contempt. At last

they were suited. A nurseryman at Ville d'Avray was to deliver a lot

of saplings to plant upon the Boulevards, in lieu of those trees

planted after the revolution of 1830, which just began to afford an

appearance of shade when they were swept away by that of 1848. It was

a pleasant walk to Ville d'Avray, across the Bois de Boulogne and by

St Cloud; and the national workmen set out, two hundred and fifty in

number. The nurseryman was astounded at their arrival. He had already

hired two carts, for fifteen francs, to convey the two hundred and

fifty acacias, which were carefully packed in mould and matting. Torn

from their envelopes, they were shouldered by the workmen. On the way

back to Paris, rain came on, and at Sevres a halt was called: the

trees were piled by the roadside, and the bearers crowded the

wine-houses. Paturot and Oscar, who had accompanied them on their

walk, entered the tavern patronised by Comtois and Percheron, in whom

M. Reybaud typifies the Parisian populace. Comtois was a giant, strong

as a horse, and gentle as a lamb; Percheron, weaker of arm, was

stronger of head, and far more glib of tongue. "The one represented

the strength and goodness of the people, the other its turbulence and

causticity." One was resistance, the other restless progress. These

two men, who thereafter frequently figure in the book, attracted

Paturot's particular attention. A few bottles of wine won their

hearts; they proposed his health, and offered to elect him deputy at

the next election. Speeches followed, and bitter complaints of a

government that neglected the workman. Percheron was then called upon

for a song, and gave parodies of the _Marseillaise_ and of the _Mourir

pour la Patrie_, which he converted into _Nourris par la Patrie_. When

he came to the last couplet of the _Marseillaise_, his comrades called

out for the flag accompaniment.

"'As at the _Français_, Percheron! as at the _Français_!

"'Really! What epicures! Nothing but the best will serve you, it

seems. Well, my boys, you shall be satisfied.'

"At the same time he arranged a couple of napkins in the fashion of a

flag, draping himself with them picturesquely; then, rolling his eyes

in their orbits, he threw himself on his knees, and assumed the airs

of a Pythoness who has diligently studied posture before her mirror."

The parodies, rich in thieves' slang, at an end, and the bottles

empty, the grateful pensioners of the national workshops resumed their

march, cutting practical jokes, and cudgel-playing with the acacias,

which were considerably deteriorated by the proceeding. "Such," says

Jérome Paturot, "was the end of this memorable day, during which Oscar

and myself were enabled to appreciate a national workshop and the

services it rendered. The account was easily made up. Two hundred and

fifty men had carried two hundred and fifty saplings. Two francs for

each man's day's work, and three francs for each acacia, made five

hundred francs on the one hand, and seven hundred and fifty on the

other. Total cost, twelve hundred and fifty francs. Not one of the

plants survived the consequences of the breakfast, notwithstanding

which there was the expense of planting them, and afterwards that of

digging them up. Double work, double charges. Such were the national

workshops; such the profits of the institution."

The allusion in the tavern-scene to Mademoiselle Rachel is not the

only cut administered by M. Reybaud to the tragedy-queen of the French

republican stage.

Jérome and Oscar, strolling one evening down the Rue Richelieu, found

a crowd at the theatre doors. The Provisional Government treated the

people to the play. The whole mass of tickets was divided amongst the

twelve mayors of Paris, who distributed them in their _arrondissements_.

But somehow or other a considerable number had got into the hands of

the ticket merchants, and for twenty francs Paturot and his companion

obtained a couple of stalls. The play over, the hour of the

_Marseillaise_ arrived.

"The tragedian approached the foot-lamps, a tricoloured flag in her

hand. Her manner of singing the republican hymn at once carried away

and revolted the hearer. It was like the roar of the lioness urging

her male to the combat. The tone was not of our period; its energy and

ferocity had no sufficient motive. It breathed vengeance--where was

the injury to revenge? conquest--and where the territory to conquer?

Even as an artistical study, the effect should have been more

measured, more restrained. That effect was nevertheless great, and was

felt by every one in the theatre. Under the flash of that glance and

the power of that voice, a sort of low shuddering ran along the

benches, and was broken only by a universal acclamation. The

enthusiasm sustained itself thus to the last couplet, which was of

itself a scene and a _tableau_."

The song over, a workman in a blouse leaped upon the stage, bent his

knee before the actress, and presented her with a bouquet of choice

flowers and a paper. The manager, at the demand of the audience, read

the latter aloud. It was the following acrostic in honour of Rachel:--

R eine de l'empire magique,

A vous ce don de l'ouvrier;

C harmez-nous par votre art magique,

H éroïne au royal cimier,

E t chantez d'un accent guerrier

L' hymne ardent de la république.

This apropos piece of gallantry drew down thunders of applause, to

which the members of the Provisional Government there present

contributed their share. But Paturot had recognised, to his great

surprise, in the bouquet-bearer, the smart young scamp of whom he had

purchased his admission, and whom he had noticed as being evidently a

leading character amongst the not very reputable fraternity of

ticket-mongers. Curious to penetrate the secret of his sudden

metamorphosis, he followed him, and overheard his conversation with

his colleagues. The bouquet had cost fifty francs, the acrostic five,

flowers of literature being cheaper under the republic than those of

the hothouse. Mitouflet's comrades are bewildered by his extravagance,

until he divulges the secret that--government pays. "Happy nation!"

exclaims Jérome, "whom a benevolent government finds in bread and

tragedies! What more can it desire?"

No class of society escapes M. Reybaud's satire. Under the title of

"The Victims of Events," he devotes a chapter to the authors, artists,

and actors whom the revolution has deprived of bread. They deserve

their fate, he maintains; they have abandoned the true for the worship

of false gods, they have dealt in maleficent philters instead of

wholesome medicines; they have used their power to mislead and

corrupt, not to guide and rightly direct, those who pinned their faith

on their performances. They were mischievous quacks, not conscientious

physicians. The literary sufferers are the first whom he exhibits.

"Some employed history as a die, and struck with it a coin of very

base metal." Take that, M. Dumas. "Others fomented violent instincts

in the bosom of the masses, and invited them to sacrilegious revolts,

exhibiting only the impurities of civilisation, and conducting the

people to anger by the road of disgust." This, we need hardly say, is

levelled at the Sue school. But the names of these men, one day so

loud in the ears of the multitude, the next were drowned in the tumult

of revolutions. "To fill the cup of bitterness to the brim, it was not

honour alone that remained on this calamitous field of battle. The

bank-notes shared the same fate. Who would have predicted this, in

those opulent days, when a piece of gold was found at the end of

every line, like the natural product of a seemingly inexhaustible

mine? Who would have foretold it in those hours of success, amidst the

intoxications of luxury, and in the indulgence of a thousand caprices

worthy an Eastern prince? Every road was then strewed with emeralds,

every path covered with rubies. There was no style of living that

Imagination, with its fairy fingers, could not sustain. She gave her

favourites every thing--coaches and lackeys, open house, and a

prince's retinue. How remote is that happy time! What a falling off in

that Asiatic existence! Where are the emeralds? where the rubies? The

bank-note is a figment; gold a chimera. Money and glory have gone down

into the same tomb.... But the man of style was not easy to vanquish.

He braved neglect, and, deeming himself a necessary element in the

world's economy, he set to work again--only, following the example of

the modern divinities, he took care to transform himself. Hitherto,

politics had appeared to him of secondary importance, and he had

abandoned them to colourists of an inferior grade. Events had rendered

them worthy of the great pens of the age. 'Aha!' said the man of

style--'Aha! they force us to it: very well, they shall see. We lived

quietly in the sanctuary of art, asking but sequins and perfumes of

the external world. Provided the sherbet was cool and the amber

bright, what cared we for the rest? But now they besiege us in our

favourite asylum. Distress is at the door, pressing and menacing. To

arms, then, to institute a new system of politics.' And the man of

style entered the arena of politics, ferula in hand, and spur on

heel." But only to encounter a lamentable break-down. It is pretty

evident whom M. Reybaud had in view when making this sketch, here

greatly abridged, but which is very exact and amusing in its details,

and must be particularly gratifying to Alexander Dumas. He then takes

up the painters, and exposes the system of mutual puffing and hired

criticism. The comedian has his turn: "But lately he reigned and laid

down the law. Each note of his voice was a priceless treasure; his

gestures were current coin. For him the bank had not enough notes, nor

fame enough trumpets. The mob crowded round him, when he walked

abroad, as round a prince of the blood. Vienna and Petersburg disputed

him; the two worlds were his domain. How believe that such an idol

should one day be hurled from his pedestal? Nevertheless it came to

pass. He beheld vacant benches and an empty treasury. He had been

improvident, and misery sat down by his hearth. Perhaps he then

remembered how he had defied fate, and squandered wealth; how he had

abused every thing--his health and his talent, the public and himself.

Had he not given into that vein of falsehood and monstrosity, which

made the theatre a school of perversity, and art an instrument of

disorder? Had he not degraded the stage by creakings of snuff-boxes

and misplaced hiccups? Had he not ridiculed, in a celebrated type,

instincts the most sacred and worthy of respect? Such excesses escape

not punishment." There is much truth in this. But is it a fact, that

Frederick Lemaitre (here evidently selected as the type of his

profession) has thus suddenly lost his popularity and sunk into

poverty? The last time we saw his name in a French theatrical

feuilleton, his successful appearance in a new piece was recorded. Has

he not also, since the revolution, drawn crowds to witness his

performance of Robert Macaire, the piece to which M. Reybaud more

particularly alludes, and which was prohibited under the monarchy,

because Lemaitre, in acting the part of the swindler Robert, used to

make himself up to resemble Louis Philippe, and introduced unpleasant

hits at the King of the French? There is no question, however, that

Lemaitre is an instance of the prostitution of great talents. With

more respect for himself and for the public, he might have aspired to

a high place in the profession, with one of whose lower walks he has

all his life remained contented.

Meanwhile, secret hands were at work preparing a movement, of which

the national workshop was to be the chief instrument. One morning,

when stone-breaking at the Porte Maillot, Percheron took Comtois

aside to inform him that the clubs had decided on an outbreak. Comtois

does not at first relish the idea, and is anxious to return to his

hammer and pebbles, but Percheron, who, by reason of his superior

intelligence, is one of six workmen to whom the plan has been

communicated, bewilders the simple giant by the sunny prospects he

exposes. This time it is the people who will reap the profits of the

revolution. No more kid gloves and varnished boots; the blouse will be

the passport to the good things of this life. No more wages. All

Frenchmen are to be partners. An immense association; real equality;

the workman well dressed, well fed, well housed, and always with

twenty-five francs in his pocket, guaranteed by the state. The

_bourgeois_, the rich man, is to be entirely abolished. Under pain of

death, no one is to have more than a hundred francs in his possession.

Costly furniture, plate, carriages, liveries, fine houses, jewellery,

statues, pictures--all are to be suppressed. Poor stupid Comtois,

venturing to inquire what will become of servants, jewellers,

coach-makers, &c., &c., is forthwith snubbed by his smarter comrade.

"They will do something else; there is to be work for every body." The

communists have found an apt scholar in Percheron. Comtois reflects,

admits they can always break stones, and agrees to place himself, upon

the following Monday, at the orders of the conspirators. Upon that day

(the famous 15th May) the fate of the Poles is to be discussed in the

National Assembly; and, under colour of a demonstration in their

favour, a clean sweep is to be made of the representatives of the

people.

There had been so much talk about this debate, that Madame Paturot

resolved to witness it, and by great exertions she obtained a ticket.

She could no longer reckon on Simon for admission, the ungrateful

miller having passed over to the enemy, and yielded himself captive to

the fleshpots and flatteries of the "Provisional." Jérome, who had a

presentiment of danger, urged her not to go, the more so as she would

have to go alone, for he could get no order. But the exgrisette, all

courage and confidence, laughed at the notion of danger, despised

caution, and betook herself to the Chamber. Paturot and Oscar

sauntered on the Boulevards. Nothing indicated a disturbance, until

they reached the Porte St Denis. There the scene changed as suddenly

as at shifter's whistle. A multitude of heads covered the Boulevard,

green branches forming above them an undulating canopy of verdure. The

throng moved steadily in one direction: songs and cries broke from its

bosom. The name of Poland was predominant. Oscar caught the infection

and repeated the cry, "_Vive la Pologne!_" In vain Paturot

remonstrated. The artist's beard bristled with excitement. He had

passed seven years of his childhood in the same room with a portrait

of Poniatowski taking his famous leap into the Elster. After that,

would Jérome have him forget Poland? Forbid it, heaven! And "_Vive la

Pologne!_" "The column advanced, with its leafy trophies--the clubs,

the national workshops, (Comtois and Percheron in the van,) with flags

and banners, cards in their hatbands, and other rallying signs. There

was a certain degree of order. Here and there, at street corners, were

seen the great leaders of the manifestation, presidents of clubs, or

persons to whom captivity had given celebrity, encouraging their men

by word and gesture, now by a short speech, or apropos cheer, then by

a shake of the hand. Oscar knew all these heroes of revolt, these

princes of the prison." And knowing them, the impetuous artist was at

least convinced that Poland was only the pretext. He ceased his

ill-advised hurras, and resumed the part of a mere observer. As the

column advanced, the shops shut. The air was full of menacing sounds.

Thousands of Poles and Italians, bearing the banners of their

respective countries, joined the mob. Uniforms abounded, officers'

epaulets were not rare: even those corps charged with the police of

the city contributed their quota to the concourse. The multitude

pressed forward with the confidence of people who dispose of an

empire. The chiefs of the insurrection were not men to enter the field

unadvisedly, and their countenances betrayed a consciousness of

strength. Their passage afforded evidence of a vast complicity. They

advanced, without obstacle or impediment, even to the very doors of

the Assembly. A few bayonets upon the bridge leading to the palace

were overthrown in an instant, and the building was forthwith

surrounded by furious groups. The gates were burst by Comtois and his

companions: the Assembly was invaded. "A shameful page in our

history!" exclaims M. Reybaud. "A sad and fatal commencement! Time

itself cannot efface the stain. Upon the roll of history will remain

recorded the fact, worthy of a barbarian horde, that, during three

hours, an Assembly, chosen by the voices of the whole nation, was left

exposed, defenceless, to the outrages of turbulent scholars, and to

the contact of impure adventurers."

Uneasy about his wife, Jérome Paturot tried to enter the house, but

one of the insurgents replaced the usual guardian of the gate, and

demanded the card of his club. No admission without proof of his

belonging to the Droits de l'Homme, or the Conservatory, or the Palais

National. So Jerome waited outside. Suddenly a cry was raised, "To the

Hotel de Ville!" and there was an instant rush in that direction.

Oscar, who hitherto had watched for Malvina at one entrance of the

Chamber, whilst his friend stood sentry at the other, could resist no

longer. He had a relapse of the revolutionary vertigo.

"To the Hotel de Ville!" shouted the mob.

"Hurra for the Hotel de Ville!" repeated Oscar. "It is not exactly the

way to the land of the Jagellons; but what matter? What a curious

people! Nothing will serve them but to take the Hotel de Ville every

week."

And away went Oscar to share in the capture. The rescue had come, and

the mob was expelled from the Chamber. Jérome, who could see nothing

of Malvina, returned to his lodgings in great alarm. After a while a

porter brings him a letter. It is from Madame Paturot, giving, in the

well-known _grisette_-dialect, an account of her adventures, written

down in the interval between the expulsion of the rioters and the

resumption of the sitting. It is about ten times as long as could be

written in the time, but it is necessary to narrate what passed within

the Chamber, as well as what occurred without; and no one is more

capable than Malvina. In her picturesque and popular style, she gives

a graphic bulletin of the strange events she has witnessed. The

recital acquires additional interest, when we remember that M. Reybaud

is a member of the Assembly, and was doubtless present at the scene

described. After a certain amount of satirical gossip touching the

appearance of the Assembly, dress of the members, and the like,

Malvina proceeds to _the_ event of the day: "A black-coated orator

occupied the tribune, recalling the memories of the Empire, and

dwelling warmly on the exploits of the Polish lancers, when a

formidable noise made itself heard. It seemed to come sometimes from

without, sometimes from beneath the ground. I began to think coiners

had established themselves in the palace vaults, or that the Allies

had re-entered Paris to blow up the bridge of Jena. The noise had

nothing sustained or regular,--it was in great bursts, followed by

sudden silence. It is best to tell things as they are, my dear; no use

flattering people. The first impression the Assembly experienced was

disagreeable enough: there were some of the elect of the people, who

may not have admitted it to themselves, but who would have liked to be

elsewhere. A mere matter of preference! A deputy is a man, after all,

and the roar at the door of the palace had nothing very soothing.

However, the first emotion did not last; the sentiment of duty

overcame it. They sat down and waited the event. I don't deny they

listened less to Poland than to what passed outside, but their bearing

was becoming, and their countenance good. You may believe me, for I am

a judge."

Presently crash went the door, and there entered a legion of ruffians

in blouses. The spectators' galleries and the body of the house were

alike invaded. All the doors gave way, and the Chamber was thronged.

The atmosphere was infected by the obscene multitude, reeking with

wine and tobacco. Filthy flags were waved over the heads of the

deputies. The vilest language was heard; the utmost confusion

prevailed; not one of the intruders seemed to know why he was there,

or what he came to do. The president was under a kind of arrest,

guarded on one side by an artillery-man with drawn sabre, on the

other by a ruffian dressed as a workman; and every moment the banners

of the clubs were waved over his head. Sometimes he was almost pushed

out of his arm-chair by the popular orators, who got astride upon its

back, or stood upon his table. "The representatives," Madame Paturot

speaks, "kept their seats, and did the Roman senator very tolerably.

The rioters did not meddle much with them, except with two or three,

who had scuffles with the insurgent leaders. Simon was one of those.

His seat was under the gallery, and an insurgent, risking a perilous

leap from the elevation, alighted upon his shoulders. Our miller was

not accustomed to such treatment. A sack of flour--well and good; but

a man was too much. He took this one by the collar, and shook him

nearly to death. The fellow bellowed for assistance, but Simon's

strength deterred interference, and the affair went no further. Others

of the elect of the people were less fortunate, and received at the

hands of their constituents a new baptism, not prescribed by the

constitution. What then, Jerome? Who loves well chastises well. Thus

did these sovereigns of the street testify their affection." The

orator's tribune was besieged by the chiefs of the insurrection--all

anxious to speak. It was continually assaulted and taken; one speaker

pulled down, and another taking his place, to be, in his turn,

expelled. Those who succeeded in making themselves heard, proposed

absurdities. One clamoured for Poland; another would levy an impost of

a thousand millions, to be paid by the rich; a third declared a

traitor to his country whosoever should cause the drums to beat alarm;

a fourth notified to the Assembly that it was then and there

dissolved. This last announcement raised a hurricane. "The mob no

longer shouted--it roared. The president still protesting, his

arm-chair was carried by assault. In an instant every thing was swept

away. The _bureau_ of the Assembly was filled with workmen, who

assumed heroic postures, stamped upon and broke every thing. The

representatives could do nothing in this scene of devastation. One by

one they retired. The clubs remained masters of the field of battle,

and the Red banner floated in the hall. The scene attained the utmost

height of confusion. The clubs had the power, or thought they had, but

knew not what to do with it. Lists were made out, and again destroyed.

Names were proclaimed, and forthwith hissed. It was the Tower of

Babel. Who can say how it would have ended but for the interference of

the _mobile_? Brave _mobile_! At the very moment they were least

expected, their drums resounded close at hand." The sound was enough

for the rioters, who ran in every direction, and in ten minutes the

hall was clear. Malvina subjoins her indignant reflections on these

extraordinary scenes, casts a considerable deal of dirt upon the

beards of the Provisional Government, and is curious to know what sort

of fricassee Buonaparte would have made of such a set of braggarts and

incapables.

Madame Paturot had borne herself with her accustomed valour in the

midst of the scuffle, and was then under Simon's protection. Jerome,

no longer anxious on her account, is about to retire to rest, when a

tremendous noise is heard on the staircase, and Oscar rushes in,

imploring shelter and concealment, and declaring himself a state

criminal. He had been to the Hotel de Ville with the insurgents;

Percheron and Comtois had recognised him, and, in memory of his having

stood treat at Ville d'Avray, had elected him general on the spot. The

Hotel de Ville taken, it was necessary to appoint a government. A

party of workmen established themselves in a sumptuous saloon, on

velvet cushions and rich carpets, to deliberate on this important

point. Percheron had his list cut and dried in his head. It was heard

with acclamation, at once adopted, and inscribed upon a slate hung

against the wall. The three first names ran thus:--

OSCAR, President of the Council.

PERCHERON, Minister of Finance.

COMTOIS, Minister at War.

Surprised by the national guards just after the issue of a decree

providing for its personal comforts, the new government was suddenly

broken up. Assisted by Comtois, who forced two or three doors with his

shoulder, Oscar escaped, pursued by horrible visions of an army of

police on his track, of capture, a dungeon, or perhaps the scaffold.

With the greatest difficulty Paturot persuades him that his retreat is

not an object of diligent inquiry on the part of the executive, and

that, during the day's brief anarchy, too many lists of new

governments have been drawn up for particular attention to be paid to

that, at whose head figures the name of the crack-brained artist. As a

good precaution, however, he advises Oscar to shave his beard and his

head, and take a course of cold douches, measures calculated to

mislead as to his identity, and to calm the effervescence of his

ideas.

But Oscar is incorrigible. A mob is for him an irresistible magnet. He

must join it, and, having joined it, he must swell the cry for the

crotchet of the hour. For a time (a _long_ time Paturot calls it, in

consideration of the popular fickleness) the republic had been the

ruling mania, and held undisputed sway with the multitude. Alone she

waved her banners to the breeze, and filled the air with clamour,

defying opposition. Suddenly a new sound was borne upon the gale, an

echo of military glories not yet forgotten; a new standard was

unfurled, inscribed with the names of Austerlitz and Jena. "The Empire

raised its head; it had its emblems and its rallying-cries; it had

also its candidates. The manifestation was sudden as it was

unexpected. It had been thought that the Old Guard and the Emperor

were done with: the latter slept under the granite of the Invalids;

the former, sculptured on the Vendôme column, mounted spirally towards

heaven. Dear and sacred memories! why disturb you by absurd

pretensions? Why load you with the responsibility of ridiculous

enterprises? Your greatest honour, your highest title, is your

isolation in history, detached from past and future, like a terrible

and luminous meteor." The people did not reason thus. They wanted

change, a new toy, no matter what. Every night, from eight to ten,

crowds assembled on the boulevard near the gates of St Denis and St

Martin, (the old resort of the disaffected,) and animated discussions

went on. Groups were formed, orators stood forth, the throng

increased, the circulation was impeded, until at last the armed force

appeared and the mob dispersed. For some time this was the order of

every night. "Revolutionary emotions yielded the ground to imperial

emotions. Vincennes was eclipsed by the fort of Ham. Was it

calculation or impulse? Perhaps both: calculation on the part of the

chiefs, impulse and enthusiasm on that of the people. Strange people,

lovers of noise and gunpowder, who rush into the street without a

motive, and fight to the death ignorant why or wherefore!"

Oscar was easily seized by the imperial mania. His dreams were of

dinners at the sovereign's table, of the run of the palace, princely

estates, and diamond snuff-boxes. According to him, art had never

received such patronage as from Napoleon: and he greatly distressed

and alarmed his friend Jérome, by spouting under gas-lamps

highly-coloured harangues concerning the marvels of the imperial

palace, and of the King of Rome's baptism. As Paturot drags him away

one evening from his _al-fresco_ audience, they are followed and

accosted by Comtois, who carries them off to a wine-house, to make an

important communication to the general, as he persists in calling

Oscar since the memorable day at the Hotel de Ville. The Emperor, he

solemnly and mysteriously informs the friends, has arrived in Paris.

His exact whereabout in the capital is not known. Some say he is in

the _lanterne_ at the Pantheon, examining the city with his telescope;

others are positive he has gone down into the Catacombs at the head of

42,000 Indians: but the general opinion, according to Comtois, is,

that he has a plan for reducing Paris in three minutes by the clock.

Comtois is of such evident good faith, that Paturot tries to undeceive

him, telling him the Emperor is dead. Thereupon the giant smiles

contemptuously, and, when Jérome persists, he looks upon him with

suspicion. Then he condescends to give the reason of his credulity.

His father had served in the dragoons of the Empress, and had stood

sentry a hundred times at Napoleon's door, had followed him to the

wars, had never left him, in short. "Comtois,"--these had been his

last words to his son--"when they tell you the Emperor is dead, answer

at once 'It is a lie of the enemy. The English spread the report; it

is their interest to do so.' Yes, my son, though you be alone and

unsupported, always maintain he is _not_ dead, and add that he will

come back. In the court-yard of Fontainebleau he promised us he would,

and he has never broken his promise."--"You understand, general,"

concluded Comtois to Oscar; "after that, there is not a word to be

said. What can you have stronger than that?--a dragoon of the Empress,

a mustache that grew gray in the service of the Emperor. It is

authentic, at any rate." In the midst of this curious conversation, a

private cab drives up to the door, and a gentleman sends in for

Comtois, who presently returns, his face beaming with joy. The Emperor

has inquired after him--after him, Comtois, native of Baume-les-Dames,

son of a dragoon of the Empress! Who would not fight for such a man?

Comtois is ready to empty his veins in his service. In a few days the

coronation will take place--the Pope will come to Rheims on

purpose--the Emperor has one thousand five hundred millions in his

pocket to distribute to the needy, and has decided there shall be no

more poor. All opposition will be in vain. Comtois is well assured

England will scatter gold in Paris to raise opponents to Napoleon; but

what then?--the imperialists are not without means of stimulating the

people. And thereupon Comtois, after assuring himself there are no

eavesdroppers, draws from under his blouse--a magnificent stuffed

eagle. With this on the top of a flagstaff, and his father's uniform

on his back, Comtois feels himself invincible. Paturot is unfeeling

enough to inquire if he proposes exhibiting it for money. Comtois

indignantly repudiates the idea. "It is our banner, sir," he says;

"our banner for the great day. By it the sons of the Empire will be

recognised. See the noble bird, the glorious fowl! I have already cut

a pole to stick it upon. As to the tricolor flag, every body has got

that. One government hands it over to another. But the eagle! the

eagle is not so easily tamed; it has but one master, and that is the

Emperor. The Emperor is come back, it is the eagle's turn!"

And Comtois departed, ready to brave any odds on behalf of his

Emperor, and under shadow of the eagle's wing. "We have seen," says M.

Reybaud, "how he understood the plot in which he was associated. This

illusion was common at the time. More than one Parisian artisan, more

than one villager of western France, believed he deposited in the

electoral urn a vote in favour of the Emperor. The name preserved all

its _prestige_, but did not delegate it. The inheritance was too heavy

to support. It resembled the iron crown; none might touch it with

impunity. There was much obscurity and misconception in what then

occurred; more than one appeal was made to ignorance and credulity.

The stuffed eagle had found a victim, the living eagle made others.

Ambition played its part, and more than one personage beheld, in the

perspective of the plot, visions of grand-crosses and senatorships."

We find M. Reybaud too veracious, in other parts of the book, to cast

a doubt on his assertion that, in the year 1848, and in Paris, after

Napoleon's coffin has been opened at Courbevoie, and his corpse

deposited in the church of the Invalids, there still are to be found

men sufficiently stupid and credulous to believe the Emperor alive,

and to await his return. In the provinces, and especially in those

most remote from the capital, we know, from actual observation, that

within a very few years the Emperor's existence was an article of

faith with thousands, who, like Comtois, looked upon the report of his

death as a mere invention of the enemy. Although the imperial veterans

are now scarcely more plentiful in France than the Peninsular heroes

in this country, there still remain a sprinkling, who infect their

children and grandchildren with their own superstitious fancies

regarding Napoleon. The lower classes of provincial Frenchmen are not

remarkable for intelligence, and they receive the traditions of the

_vieux de l'Empire_, collected under the summer-porch, and in the

winter-night's gossip, with a sort of semi-credence which a trifling

corroborative circumstance ripens into implicit belief. The mutilated,

red-ribboned relic of the Grande Armée, who tells, from beneath the

shadow of the domestic vine, or from the bench at the _auberge_ door,

such thrilling tales of past campaigns, of Austerlitz' glory and

Moscow's snows, shakes his gray head doubtingly when he hears it said

that Napoleon has perished, a captive and in solitude, on a rock of

the distant ocean. The gesture is not lost on the gaping bumpkins, who

greedily devour the old man's reminiscences. They muse on the matter

whilst tracing the next morning's furrow, or perhaps, taken next day

by the greedy conscription, they meet, at the regiment, some ancient

corporal who confirms the impression they have received. The

traditions of the barrack-room are all imperial; how should they be

otherwise? Were not those the days when every recruit went to battle

with a marshal's baton in his havre-sack,--when no rank, honours, or

riches were beyond the grasp of the daring and fortunate soldier? The

six years' service expires; the soldier returns to his plough--an

election arrives, the name of Napoleon is every where placarded--interested

persons tell the newly-fledged voter, as the gentleman in the cab told

Comtois, that the _Petit Tondu_ has returned to France. The

_soldat-laboureur_, whose prejudices are much strengthened, and his

intelligence but little brightened, by his term of military service,

doubts, hopes, is bewildered, and finally, in the uncertainty, votes

for a stuffed bird instead of a genuine eagle.

We have dwelt so long upon Jérome Paturot that we can afford but a few

lines to his brother in hosiery. Poor Monsieur Bonardin! Never, since

humanity first took to stocking-wearing, was a vender of that useful

article more scurvily treated than he was by the French republic of

1848. The 25th of February beheld him a prosperous man and an ardent

republican,--"a republican of the morrow," certainly, but no worse for

that; four months of liberty and fraternity brought him to ruin and

suicide. At first, all his anticipations are rose-coloured. Increase

of trade, an unlimited demand for hosiery, must be the consequences of

the new order of things. He is fully persuaded great days are coming

for the renowned establishment at the sign of the Spinning Monkey. The

day after the revolution he opens his shop as usual, but only to be

bullied by an _ouvrier_ who steps in to buy a red cap, finds none but

white, curses Bonardin for a Carlist, and carries off his national

guardsman's musket. Uproar recommences in the street; the shop is

shut, and continues so for some days. The end of the month arrives;

there are payments to be made, and M. Bonardin sends Criquet to the

bank with bills for discount--first-rate paper at short date. Criquet

brings them back; the best signatures no longer find cash. M. Bonardin

is in all the agonies of a punctual paymaster who sees a chance of his

signature's dishonour, when suddenly he is summoned to his duty as

national guard. On his return, after a sleepless night and a fagging

day, he has scarcely got amongst the blankets, when he is roused by

voices in the street calling out, in a measured chant, for lamps at

his windows.

_M. Bonardin_, awaking in alarm, and jumping out of bed--

What is that? (_Cries in the street, 'Des lampions! des lampions!'_)

Good! here they are again with their infernal lamps! Impossible to

sleep under this republic!

_Voices of boys in the street._--Hallo! first floor! Spinning Monkey!

Lamps! lamps!

_M. Bonardin._--What a nuisance! (_calling out_)--Babet! Babet!

_The boys shouting_,--Lamps or candles!... break the ugly monkey's

windows, if he does not light up directly!

_M. Bonardin._--Lord bless me!... Babet! Babet!...

_Babet_, (_running in_,)--What is it, sir?

_M. Bonardin._--Don't you hear them? Cut a candle in eight pieces

directly. Not a minute to lose!

_The boys._--It's a _Carlisse_, (_Carlist_.) Hallo, there! lamps or

candles!

_M. Bonardin_, (_in his nightgown, opening the window_.)--Directly,

citizens, directly! A minute's patience!

_The boys._--Ah! there's the old monkey himself! Bravo! bravo!

'D'un sang impur engraissons nos sillons!'

_M. Bonardin_, (_flourishing his nightcap_.)--Yes, yes, my friends,

_d'un sang impur!..._ Certainly, by all means; _Vive la République!_

_The boys._--_Vive la République!_ Down with the _Carlisses_! (_Babet

enters with candle-ends; M. Bonardin retreats behind his

bed-curtains._) Ah! there's the monkey's wife lighting up at last.

Bravo! bravo! _Vive la République!_ The monkey's wife not bad-looking

in her night-dress!

_Babet_, (_shutting the window_.)--Do you hear, sir, those ragamuffins

call me your wife?

_M. Bonardin._--Well! are you not flattered?

_Babet._--Yes, indeed, the monkey's wife! It's flattering! They take

me for an ape, then?

_M. Bonardin._--If they will only let me sleep at last. Midnight

already.

_Babet._--Pray, sir, is this to last long? This is our sixth

illumination. A whole packet of fives gone already!

_ M. Bonardin._--No, no, Babet--it is only the first moment. Recollect,

the republic is but ten days old.... A single decade, no more.

_Babet._--A proper business it has been, your decade! Alarms at every

hour of the day and night; the shop shut three-quarters of the time,

and no buyers when it is open! A nice decade! And then the bank, that

refuses your paper; and then your bills, which you can't pay; and then

...

_M. Bonardin._--Let me sleep, my poor Babet.... All that is very true;

but what matter? We have got the republic; and you know as well as I

do--THERE ARE NO ROSES WITHOUT THORNS."

With this trite saying, the epigraph of the book, Bonardin, a bit of a

philosopher in his way, consoles himself, at the close of each

disastrous decade, for the annoyances and calamities he has

experienced in its course. These are countless, and of every kind. Now

it is a polite note from the tax-gatherer, requesting him to pay down,

in advance, the whole of the year's taxes, including an extraordinary

contribution just decreed by government. Then Criquet, who has imbibed

communist principles, insists on sharing his master's profits, and M.

Bonardin is afraid to refuse. Criquet, however, is glad to fall back

upon his wages, on finding that, instead of profit, the shop leaves a

heavy loss. Next comes a scamp of a nephew, emancipated from Clichy by

the abolition of imprisonment for debt, who gets his uncle into

various scrapes; and a drunken godson, one Pacot, a soldier, who

knocks his sponsor under the table, on pretence of his being

reactionary. Bonardin goes to Rouen to assist at a wedding, and the

railway takes him into a cross-fire, the town being in full

revolution. Rent-day arrives, and he sets out as usual with receipts

and a canvass-bag to collect the quarter's rent from the occupants of

the five upper stories of his house; but nobody pays. The workman in

the attics takes the receipt and refuses the money, threatening to

hang out the black flag if his landlord insists. One tenant feigns

madness--another declares himself ruined--a third denies himself. Poor

Bonardin returns home with a heavy heart and an empty bag. In short,

his misfortunes are innumerable. He is mixed up in revolts against his

will, and without his knowledge; is sent to prison, thumped with

musket-buts, hidden in a cask, robbed in the national workshop.

Finally, at the end of the thirteenth decade, he stands upon the

bridge leading to the National Assembly, his face partly concealed by

a handkerchief, singing republican songs and asking alms. None give

them. "I am a proprietor, my poor man," says one; "I can give you

nothing." "Impossible, my good fellow," says the next; "I am a

manufacturer." "No change," says a third; "I am a shopkeeper, and I

sell nothing." "Sorry for you, my friend," replies another, "but I am

an artist. In these times, that is as much as to tell you I have not a

sou in the world." "Alas!" exclaims a fifth, "I would relieve you with

pleasure, but I am a poor _employé_, and the revolution has struck off

a quarter of my salary." "What ill luck!" cries Bonardin; "the

revolution has ruined every body, it seems. But this is about the time

when the representatives of the people repair to the National

Assembly. They are generous, the worthy representatives. The millions

they daily vote away sufficiently prove it. Courage! people who spend

so many millions will perhaps give me a few coppers." He is mistaken;

the deputies pass, but none give him any thing; whereupon he concludes

they have not yet received their five-and-twenty francs. And as the

republic will not give him bread, he resolves to seek water in the

river, climbs the parapet, and throws himself into the Seine--thus

tragically terminating the volume, which, up to that point, is a

farce, both broad and long, crammed with jokes and double-entendres of

various merit, but all exhibiting, in a light as unfavourable as it is

true, the disastrous effects of the revolution upon the trade and

prosperity of Paris.

We hoped to have included in this review the fourth volume of _Jérome

Paturot_, but it has not yet reached us, only a portion of it being

published. The work comes out in parts, and it is said the fourth

volume will be the last of the series. In that case, it will probably

close with the June revolt. If M. Reybaud likes, and dares, he may

find in subsequent events abundant food for his satirical chronicle.

Perhaps he will think fit to wait Cavaignac's exit before criticising

his performance. There are numerous points in the brief history of the

republic upon which he has not yet touched. We hope yet to accompany

Jérome to the cell of an imprisoned journalist, to the court-martials

upon the June insurgents, to debates in the Assembly, and to

consultations in the cabinet. A retrospective flight to the days of

the Convention, and an incidental inquiry into the antecedents of M.

Cavaignac the father, of whose exploits the son has expressed himself

so proud, were not without interest. But the subject we are especially

curious to see M. Reybaud take up, is that of French journalism in

1848. He might fill a most amusing volume with an elucidation of its

mysteries and rivalries; and we cannot believe, after reading the bold

judgments and revelations contained in the three published volumes of

_Jérome_, that he would be deterred from the task by apprehension of

editorial wrath, whether expressed in the field or in the feuilleton,

by a challenge or a criticism.

PROPHECIES FOR THE PRESENT.

Prophecies and miracles, we are told, have long since ceased upon the

earth, as permitted only, by Divine goodness, to those ages when faith

was not firmly established, and revelation needed the active and

visible interference of Divine influence to make its way into the

heart of obstinate and denying man. This is a doctrine which, in these

present times of reason, we are naturally inclined to accept. But yet

there are circumstances, occurring even in our day, which sometimes

surprise the imagination, and even startle that reason which is so

ready to assert its supremacy. It is thus that we have regarded with

much curiosity, more wonder, and an impression which it is difficult

to drive away from our minds, certain strange documents relative to

the most important events of modern history, which, if their

authenticity be accepted, are among the most striking revelations

emanating from a prophetic spirit. They appear before us avowed

prophecies, coming from seemingly well-authenticated sources, and

backed by such assurances in the genuineness of their antiquity, from

credible mouths, as takes off from them that paulo-post-future sort of

suspicion, that inevitably attaches itself to predictions, which make

their appearance to the world after fulfilment. In laying them before

our readers, we are able to offer some little proof, as far as it

goes, in support of their authenticity; and we still call to them the

attention of those who may nevertheless refuse their credence, as

highly interesting documents of a strange character, relating to past,

present, and even future political events. As they do, in truth, refer

also to a future still to be accomplished, as well as to the present,

our readers, it is to be hoped, may be able to judge for themselves

how far the predictions as to the future will bear out those which now

already relate to the past, and to what, if such an expression may be

pardoned, might be called the present just gone by.

Two of these revelations bear the character of direct and avowed

prophecies, given _as such_ by holy men, and are imbued throughout

with that mystic spirit, which, however incomprehensible as regards

the future, becomes clear to an extraordinary degree of distinctness

when applied to the test of the past: they wear, in fact, the strange

air of predictions never intended to be comprehended until after their

fulfilment; as if, even although the inspired soul of certain

individual men had been permitted to raise itself, in its ecstasy,

from the earth into those unknown realms where past and future are

confounded in eternity, and shake off for the time the mortal trammels

of our limited understanding, but retain still afterwards the

consciousness and the power to reveal what there it saw; yet, by some

mysterious dispensation, the revelations should not be allowed to be

expounded in the clearness of their truth, so as to be comprehensible

to the intellects of the uninspired and undeserving herd. Why, then,

should the future be revealed, it might be asked, if the revelation

should serve nothing to mankind? With such deep and awful mysteries we

have not to deal: we cannot answer: we are of the blind who cannot

lead the blind. At all events, if these documents be forgeries--mere

devices fabricated after facts--and that they cannot be so _entirely_,

will be seen hereafter--certainly a degree of genius that is almost

incomprehensible presided over their fabrication, with this strange

stamp of vague oracular language, which is only comprehensible in its

after-application.

Such are two of these prophetic writings. As they are supposed to

proceed from the mouths of religious men, renowned for the sanctity of

their lives, they naturally refer more to the condition of the

Christian church, and to the fate of the "faithful," than immediately

to political events; but yet so closely is the destiny of the faithful

of the Christian world mixed up inevitably with the destiny of men and

countries in general, that the political events of our day are there

set down in prediction, with all the minuteness which the vague and

mystic language of prophetic revelation, dimly depicting what even

the inspired eye can only dimly trace in cloudy vision, "through a

glass darkly," is able to bestow upon detail. The third revelation

assumes to be no more than an interpretation of the prophetical book

of the New Testament, and repudiates all supposition of aiming at any

spirit of prophecy in itself; a portion, however, of this

interpretation of a part of Scripture so obscure as the book of the

Revelation, is so remarkable in its application to present events, as

to wear the very air of prophecy that its interpreter repudiates.

The longer and more important of the two prophecies, which have both

appeared in France, and refer chiefly to events immediately connected

with French history, is one popularly designated as the "Prophecy of

Orval:" it has been already translated into English, and

published,[12] with a preface, an introduction, and explanatory notes,

chiefly referring to the authenticity of the document, and to its

possession in the hands of a variety of credible and respectable

persons during the whole of the present century, and some of the later

years of the last. The little pamphlet has been got up with much

intelligence, and apparently with a strictly conscientious spirit. We

cannot here follow the editor through all the details he lays before

us, to prove that the prophecy has been copied from a book printed at

Luxembourg in the year 1544, and recopied, by gentlemen of standing

and respectability, from copies already made, as early as the year

1792--or through all the evidence adduced, some years ago, in such

respectable religious French papers as the _Invariable_, and the

_Propagateur de la Foi_, accompanied by notes from the editor himself,

with regard to his own personal experience, and the testimony he has

received from personages worthy of the highest credit, known to

himself. It may be said, however, that he communicates extracts of

letters and other authorities, which, could they be forgeries, would

assuredly be some of the most ingenious of the kind, even if they had

any great end or aim in their fabrication; and it ought to be added,

that a great part of this testimony is compiled from a _brochure_

called _The Oracle for 1840_, and published by a certain Henry

Dujardin in Paris, in the month of March 1840, consequently anterior,

at all events, to the remarkable circumstances of the present day. On

these matters we must refer our readers to the interesting little

pamphlet itself. The authority upon which rests the fact that the

prophecy, generally known under the title of "_Les Prévisions

d'Orval_," and entitled "Certain Previsions revealed by God to a

Solitary, for the Consolation of the Children of God," was actually

printed at Luxembourg in the year 1544, seems every way as conclusive

as possible in such matters of ancient lore; and the writer of this

present paper has only to add that he himself has seen in Paris the

whole prophecy, as far as it is still in existence, printed in a

newspaper of the year 1839, (he _believes_, as far as his memory

reaches, in the _Journal des Villes et des Campagnes_), and

consequently, to his own knowledge, published to the world previously,

at least, to the events of the present year; that an old English lady,

upon whose faith he can implicitly rely, positively declared to him

that she had it in her hands as early as the year 1802, and thus even

before the crowning of Napoleon as Emperor; and that its reappearance,

since the breaking out of the revolution of this year, excited so much

sensation in the French capital, that measures were taken by the

republican government of the day to establish a sort of _surveillance_

over persons known to possess and propagate the prediction--a fact

also mentioned by the editor of the English pamphlet--as conspirators

against the stability of the republic. With these premises, we proceed

to do no more than lay before our readers the prophecy in question,

claiming for the notice that follows such credence as every man's

conviction or scepticism, imagination or cooler reason, may choose to

bestow.

[12] _Prophecy of Orval._ James Burns: 1848.

The Abbey of Orval, from which the prediction has taken its title,

was, it appears, a religious institution, situated in the diocese of

Treves, on the frontiers of Luxembourg; and it is said that the abbot

and the monks, when they fled from their convent, during the siege of

Luxembourg by the French revolutionary army, to the "refuge" in the

town, conveying a part of their archives as well as their sacred

vessels with them, first communicated the _printed_ copy of the

_Previsions of a Solitary_ of 1544 to Marshal Bender, who commanded

the army, and other French gentlemen, by whom copies were then taken

as a matter of curiosity, and put in circulation. Tradition at that

time attributed the prediction to a monk of the name of Philip

Olivarius, although the exact period of the existence of the

"Solitary" does not appear to have been well known. What at present

remains, or is supposed to remain, commences only with the history of

Napoleon Buonaparte, although the "Oracle" of Henri Dujardin speaks of

the prediction relative to the death of Louis XVI. as having excited

considerable sensation among the emigrant circles of that time; and

the circumstance of the absence of any events anterior to the

prophecy, as it stands at present, is accounted for by a remark made

in the _Propagateur de la Foi_, that, when it was discovered, at the

conclusion of the last century, the copyists generally neglected to

transcribe what related to the past, and contented themselves only

with that portion, the accomplishment of which was still to come.