Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 64, No. 398, December 1848

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.