[10]

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 manoeuvres, 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.

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:—

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:—

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.