Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 63, No. 391, May, 1848

Try to move on once more! Before the walls, all plastered with handbills of every kind, are again throngs to read and comment. On every vacant space of wall, at every corner, are posted countless addresses and advertisements. The numerous white bills are decrees, proclamations, addresses, and republican bulletins of the Provisional Government, all headed with those awful words, "Republique Française," which make many a soul sink, and sicken many a heart, with the remembrance of a fearful time gone by. And decrees there are which hurry on the subversion of all the previously existing social edifice, without reorganising in the place, destroying and yet not building anew; – and proclamations more autocratic and despotic, in the announcement of the reign of republican liberty, than ever was monarchic ordinance; – and addresses to the people, couched in vague declamation, telling these rulers of the day, "Oui, peuple! tu es grand – oui, tu es brave – oui, tu es magnanime – oui, tu es généreux – oui, tu es beau!" with an odious flattering such as the most slavering courtier never ventured to bestow upon the most incensed despot; – and bulletins declaring France at the pinnacle of glory, and happiness, and pride – the object of envy and imitation to all people. Private addresses from individuals or republican bodies there are also innumerable, in the same sense; until one expects to see angels' wings growing behind the backs of every blouse, forming harmonious contrast with the black unshaven faces. But we are far from being at the end of the long lines of handbills, that give Paris the look of a city built up of printed paper. Here we have announcements of clubs – the mille e tre noisy mistresses that court the fascinating, seductive, splendid Don Juan of a Republic; there are four or five in every quarter of the town, almost in every street. And then come their professions de foi; and then their addresses to the people, and their appeals, and their counsels to the Government, and their last resolutions, and their future intentions – say, their future exactions. Most greet the fall of the social edifice with triumph; but few, if any, let you know how they would reconstruct anew: some boldly state their object to be "the enlightenment of a well-intentioned but ignorant Government, which it is their duty to instruct: " others call down "the celestial vengeance, and the thunders of heaven, on their head, if ever they should deceive or lead astray the people." Here again we have petitions to Government, and demands, and remonstrances from individuals or small bodies – delegates, they tell you, of the people's rights; – some wild and inflammatory, some visionary to the very seventh heaven of political rhapsody, but all flattering to the Peuple Souverain, whose voice is the voix de Dieu! Here again we have whole newspapers pasted on the walls, with articles calling upon the people to take arms again, since their first duty to their country is "mistrust." Now a proposition to tax the revenues of the rich in a progressive proportion of one per cent for every fortune of a thousand francs, two for every two thousand, fifty for every fifty thousand, "and so on progressively," – without stating, however, whether those who possess a revenue of a hundred thousand francs are to pay a hundred per cent, or what is to become of those who possess two hundred thousand. Now, a menacing call upon the Government to perform their duty in exacting the disgorgement of that vile spoliation of the nation, the indemnity granted to the emigrants at the Restoration, as belonging to the people alone. Here again are numerous addresses and appeals from and to all foreign democrats in Paris – Germans, Belgians, Italians, Poles – calling for meetings, and begging the "braves Français" to give them arms and money to go and conquer the republics of their respective countries by force. Here again, other notices from all trades, and companies, and employments, appointing meetings for the consideration of the interests of their partie; tailors, café-waiters, bootmakers, choristes of theatres, gens de maisons, (servants,) even to the wandering hawkers on the public ways, and lower still, all wanting to complain to the Provisional Government of the restraint laid on their free rights. Here again, proposals for congratulatory addresses, and felicitations to the Government, from all manner of various representatives of nations resident in Paris. Here again, ten or twelve solitary voices of braves citoyens, proposing infallible remedies for the doctoring of the financial crisis. Here again, advertisements, in republican phrase, recommending to the "citoyennes," "now that the hour is come, to take up their carpets," some especial wax for their floors; or reminding the "Citoyens Gardes Nationaux," that, "in this moment of the awakening of a country's glory, when they watch over the interests of France, and are indefatigable in patrolling the streets of the capital," the citoyen "so and so" will cut their corns with cheapness and ease! And all these are pasted about in confused pell-mell; all are headed with the necessary "Vive la Republique!" Wonder then not, at the thick crowds about these documents, all treating of a country's weal, all announcing some new and startling design, all devoured by eager eyes. Wo betide, however, the citoyen who may leave his house door closed for a whole day! – he will find it barricaded with plastered paper from top to bottom on the morrow; or the shopkeeper who may lie too long a-bed – it will be a difficult task for him to take down his placarded shutters: and both will stand a chance of getting hooted for venturing to displace a printed paper headed with the talismanic words, proclaiming individual liberty of person and opinion. No tyranny like a mob tyrant, I trow.

Apropos of advertisements, the play-bills will no less startle the ancient habitué of Paris, were he now again to return to his old haunts. The names, formerly so familiar to his eyes, are gone in many instances. The old Académie de Musique is now the Théâtre de la Nation; the Théâtre Français, the Théâtre de la Republique; the Théâtre du Palais Royal, the Théâtre Montansier. In this confusion he will be still more confounded by the composition of the bills: every where the announcement of patriotic songs and chorusses, sung between the acts – of àpropos pieces, allegorical or historical – of titles such as "Les Barricades," "Les Trois Revolutions," "Les Filles de la Liberté," "La Revolution Française," and so forth, throughout all the theatres in Paris. Even in the ex-Théâtre Français he will scarcely trust his astonished eyes to see that "Mademoiselle Rachel will sing the Marseillaise between the acts." Oh! theatre-loving old habitué of Paris, you will think that your wits have gone astray, and that your senses are deceiving you! The new names of streets will no less bewilder your mind. All that smacked of royalty, or dynasty, or monarchic history have already republicanised themselves, as is the old wont of Paris streets under every change of government: there are many that have long since forgotten all the hundred and one names that they have already borne. Then you will know how to pity the embarrassment of an unlucky man who lived in the Rue Royale St Honoré. On going out in the morning of the 25th of February, he found unexpectedly that he lived in the Rue de la Republique. Well, he made up his mind to that; but the Rue Rambuteau had already claimed this glorious title; so the Rue Royale had to make shift with that of the Rue de la Revolution. But now came again another prior claim; and the ex-Rue Royale was again despoiled. Now it has no name at all: and the poor individual in question, as far as his direction goes, might as well live in the ruins of Palmyra.

But to return to the outward aspect of republican Paris.

Hark! what a noise of awkward drumming! and see! a host of men of the lower classes comes pouring down the street, in hundreds – nay, in thousands. Several banners are borne among them: they shout "Vive la Republique!" and sing with that utter bold disregard of time, which, the French themselves would tell you, is peculiar only to supposed unmusical England. The Marseillaise or the now so popular Mourir pour la Patrie, or the Ca ira of fearful memory; and interlard their discordant efforts at chorus with screams of "à bas les aristocrates!" Scarcely has the horde rushed past you, than there comes another, and another, and another, until your brain whirls with the unceasing throngs. Now it is a troop of women, banners also at their head; now again a long line of more orderly, and better dressed men; but they cry "Vive le Gouvernement Provisoire!" Now again a band of ruffian fellows, with the howl of "à bas les riches!" They cross your path at every step, these marching bands. Sometimes they are deputations of all the different trades, or subdivisions of peculiar branches of handiwork – tailors, joiners, scavengers, paviours, sign-painters, wet-nurses, cooks, and so forth, as far as the imagination or the memory can reach in enumeration, and still further; and they are all streaming to the Hotel de Ville, to harangue the Provisional Government on their several rights and wrongs, desires and demands. Sometimes they are mere bands promenading for the sake of promenading, screeching for the sake of screeching, and making demonstrations, because whatever is theatrical, whatever smacks of show and parade, whatever gives them the opportunity of exhibition, and with it the hope of admiration, is the ruling passion of the people; or because they have nothing else to do, and will not work, although the Government pays them daily with the country's money. Now comes a troop of would-be Hungarian patriots, in their national dress, their attilas, pelisses, braided pantaloons, singing a national hymn – somewhat better than the French, by the way – flaring about banners, and getting up all sorts of Quixotic theatrical manifestations, lowering their banners in mere sport, flourishing them upon others, and calling upon the manes of several of the "victims of liberty murdered in their country's cause." These are specimens of the Hungarian nation of the frantic description, who, after carrying felicitations to the Provisional Government in the name of their country, are now parading the streets to show themselves off. Now comes again a long troop of young fellows in light-coloured blouses, bound with lacquered leather belts around their waists: they have broad white beavers on their heads, mounted by black, red, and yellow cocks' feathers; and they bear banners of black, red, and gold – a more picturesque throng than those you usually meet. The colours are the colours of the German nationality: the young men are German patriots. Poor deluded young fellows! their minds have been excited by designing men; and they are about to march off to Germany "to conquer the liberties of the German republic," expecting that all Germany is to rise again at their puny call, and at the sound of that magical name "republic." They have been begging for arms and ammunition, and money, of all Paris; and now, with the slender succour they have obtained, they go to meet their fates.

But now comes a fresh marching mass of many thousands, with the usual accompanying drums and banners: there are women and children among the throng – if children still there be in France, when every urchin fancies himself a man. They distinguish themselves from the others by the tall bare poplar stems they bear. These are great poetically and symbolically-minded patriots of the lower classes, who are bent on planting trees of liberty all over Paris. They protest that they are fully earning the pay the country gives them, by enacting these wonderful feats for the country's good. Their delegates knock at house-doors, and thrust themselves into private dwellings, to beg – no! to demand contributions for the celebration of their fête; and these republican fêtes are of every day and every hour. The ancient habitué of Paris will not find his capital much embellished by the aspect of these tall unsightly bare stems erected at every corner, on every square, on every vacant space of ground, although they be all behung with banners, and garlands, and tricolor streamers. Let us follow some of these immense gangs. In some instances they have got a priest among them to bless their patriotic fête: and the poor ecclesiastic is dragged along with them, oft-times pale and trembling at the thought of the unusual ceremony he is thus violently called upon to perform. Now again they summon the whole clergy of some rich parish church to come forth in cope and stole, and with incense and banner, and all the hundred other rich accessories of the pomp of Catholic ceremony, to bestow the blessing on these naked emblems of a country's naked liberties, and pronounce a political sermon, felicitating France on the awakening glories of the republic, established by divine Providence and a people's might, before the poor ragged pole. Sometimes again they come, fresh with triumphs, from the Hotel de Ville, where they have constrained one or more of the members of the Provisional Government to accompany them – some of them nothing loth, when popular demonstrations are to be theatrically made – and to give vent to wonderful speeches, flattering to this people, "si grand, si magnanime, si généreux, si beau!" &c., &c., as before, as every day, as in every word they are to hear; all which flattering words teach them how their excellence is ill recompensed, and how it ought to exact still more. They are now at work with more or less of this pomp, and in the midst of a greater or lesser concourse of spectators. The pavement is torn up: a hole is dug in the street; the tree is planted, pulled up to its elevation, firmly fixed in the ground – although, by the way, in many instances, the poor tree of liberty looks in a very tottering state – and the havock committed in the pavement more or less repaired. The acclamation is great: shouts, shrieks, cries rend the air: the religious benediction is over: the priests hurry away as quietly as they can: the members of the Government retreat, escorted by a deputation of delegates, after an oration: and now the Marseillaise, or the Mourir pour la Patrie, are again screeched in discordant chorus, amidst the incessant firing off of guns. All day the tumult lasts throughout the city: to a late hour of night the firing in the air is incessant. A barricade of stones and poles is erected round the precious emblem of liberty: the surrounding houses are constrained by threats of window-breaking to illuminate in honour of King-People: pitch fires are bright at each corner of the barricade: and patriotic boys, who devote themselves for their country's weal, are posted, with muskets on arm, to do sentry-duty all night round the tree – lest any audacious enemy of the country should compromise the safety of the republic by attempting to pull down one of the many hundreds of its emblems that now disfigure the streets of Paris. Again, who would recognise his old Paris in these strange scenes, or in the night pictures, thus faintly sketched, which meet his eye at every turn? When these mighty deeds for a country's welfare and glory shall come to end – when Paris shall have been all so beplanted that it will resemble a naked forest, what great feats to prove their zeal in behalf of Republican France will they next invent? "Qui vivra verra" is a favourite French proverb. Heaven grant that it be not reversed, and that "qui verra ne vivra pas!"

But see! they have already invented another great patriotic amusement. Whence come those discordant howlings? A band of fellows is rushing up and down the Boulevards, dragging along a bust of the ex-King, by means of a rope round its neck; they have attached to it a label, "Louis Philippe à la lanterne!" See! what a frantic delight they express in their schoolboy amusement. How wonderfully their ferocious faces picture forth "the grand, the generous, the magnanimous, the beautiful!" They flourish sticks about at carriage windows, with the cry of "à bas les riches! à bas les aristocrates!" and they forcibly turn such equipages out of their royal way, if their path be crossed by adventurous coachmen. But as yet they do no real harm; and the pacific majority is hopeful in its force to restrain, if the time for restraint should come.

Now again comes pouring down from the Rue du Faubourg St Denis, another host of men, women, and children, howling the "Ca Ira." They have got a great placard among them, declaring, that if their landlords do not remit to them their rents, for two quarters at least, they will burn down their masters' houses over their heads: and, unobstructed, this screeching mob invades the streets. But this is rather too much, even amidst the license due to King People in Republican Paris. To-morrow will be posted on the walls of the capital, a notice from the Prefet de Police, appealing to the good sense of the mob not to burn houses, and containing a half-concealed under-current, but an under-current only, of threat.

Now again you may be witness to a grotesque scene of a high revolutionary tone. We are in the purlieus of one of the great public schools of Paris – the colléges, as they are termed. Suddenly the street is invaded by several hundred boys: they rush along uttering hideous vociferations; before them flies a well-dressed middle-aged man: he flies as if for his life, and is pursued by showers of stones from the young revolutionary insurgents. This flying man, these screaming and pursuing children – what a lesson there is in it! Let us catch hold of one of the little urchins, and ask what all the uproar means. He tells us that the object of all his schoolboy hate, is a tyrant – a tyrant like Louis Philippe; and that, like Louis Philippe, they are driving him forth with scorn. "What has he done then?" we ask. "He was too strict," is the only reply; and on rushes again the young revolutionist to join in the general pursuit, with a big oath, and the cry of "Vive la Republique! à bas les tyrans!"

Now again, late in the evening, hurries past a detachment of National Guards. We ask, what now is afloat in a city where every day something new and startling crosses our life's path. We are told that the citizen troops are hastening to the rescue of a newspaper editor, who has ventured to write articles in opposition to the Government. His house is being stormed by an angry and excited mob; they threaten to break his presses, if not burn the whole establishment. In vain he meets the mob with courage, and asserts the right of that "liberty of opinion," which the republic has proclaimed as one of its first benefits. He is not listened to. What is liberty of opinion, or any liberty, in the sense of a mob, compared with its own liberty of doing what it listeth? They advance upon the house with threatening gesture – they pour in: the National Guards arrive, and a scuffle ensues. With difficulty the mob is driven back, and sentinels are posted. But now the crowds, in the dim night, grow thicker on the Boulevards than ever; and violent declamation is still heard from the midst against the man who, whatever be his real ends and aims, has the courage to assert an opinion contrary to the mass. Partisans there are, for and against: and high words arise, and threats are again proffered: and along the damp night air comes ever the murmur of many angry voices far and near: and the rumour ceases not, the crowd disperse not. And in the distracted city, where was firing, and shouting, and singing, and drumming, all day, there is still the agitation and the tumult long and late into the night.

But let us take a turn to the neighbourhood of the Hotel de Ville, the seat of the Government; other fresh scenes will there meet our eyes.

Daily and hourly pour up into the open space before the fine old building, such troops of drumming, banner-bearing men and women as have been before described. Sometimes they are deputations from the various trades, full of all sorts of grievances, for which the members of the Provisional Government are expected to find immediate remedy; – sometimes they are bands of workmen, all couching, under different expressions, the demand for much pay and little work; – sometimes they bear addresses from various nations all speaking in the name of their country, which probably would disavow them; – sometimes they are delegates from the thousand and one clubs of Paris, who all choose to lay their resolutions, however frantic and impracticable they may be, before the Government, and expect to impose upon it their distracted will; – sometimes they are a body of individuals, who have got some fancy for a remedy of the financial crisis, which, of course, unless it would offend them bitterly, the Government is expected forthwith to adopt. Deputations, addresses, counsels, demands, exactions, – they must all be admitted, they must all be heard, they must all receive flattering promises, that probably never will, and never can be fulfilled. See! they come streaming up from all sides, from streets and quays, in noisy inundating floods; and now the streams mingle and roar together, and struggle for precedence. Generally, delegates are despatched to obtain audiences of the persecuted members of the Government; but sometimes, again, some tired minister or other is forced to appear in front, and harangue their importunate petitioners, amidst cries of "Vive la Republique!" For those who dwell upon this place, Paris must appear to be in a state of constant revolution. The noise, the tumult, the drumming, the shouting, the marching and the countermarching, never cease for a moment.

See! to-day there is a tumult before the façade of the old building. Battalions of National Guards have marched up, without arms, to protest against a despotic and arbitrary ordinance of an ambitious and reckless minister. They bring up their petition as thousands of other deputations have brought up theirs; the square is filled for the most part with long military-looking lines of their uniforms. But in a sudden, they have come to a check. Before the long façade of the line of building, are posted bodies of armed men, of the lower classes, with muskets charged and bayonets fixed. The demonstration of the National Guards, who dare to murmur at the will of their governors, spite of the proclamation of the reign of liberty, is not to be received. Anger and indignation is on the faces of all the citizen-soldiers; their feelings are excited; they cry, "down with" the obnoxious minister; they are met by cries from the armed people, of "down with the National Guards! down with the aristocrats!" The middling classes are now considered, then, as the aristocrats of the day; and the people treat them, as they have treated, in days gone by, the titled noblesse– as enemies! But now they advance in rank and file, determined to force an entrance to the Government palace: and the people oppose them with pointed bayonets; and drive them back; disperse them like sheep; pursue them down the quays; and the unarmed mob, collected in countless crowds around, joins in the cry of "down with the National Guards!" The National Guards are vanquished. They were considered in the revolutionary days of combat as the heroes, and allies, and defenders of the people. Only a few weeks are gone by since then; and they, in turn, are overthrown in a bloodless revolution. Their prestige is lost for ever. The last barrier is thrown down between the upper and the lower classes – the breakwater is swept away: and when the day of storm and tempest shall come, when the angry waters shall rise, when the inundation shall sweep on and on in tumultuous tide, what shall there be now to oppose it?

On the morrow, what a scene! From a very early hour of the morning, bands of hundreds and of thousands, in marching order, have poured down upon Paris from all the suburbs. From north, south, east, and west, they have come in countless hordes into the central streets and squares of the capital. Along the Boulevards, from the Bastile, from the heights of Montmartre, down the avenues of the Champs Elysées and the quays – from beyond the water and the Faubourg St Martel, they have come, sweeping on like so many mountain torrents. Every where as they advanced they have proferred cries of "Down with the National Guards! down with the aristocrats! down with the legitimists! down with the enemies of the Republic!" Better dressed men in many instances have marshalled them on their way; and among the inhabitants of Paris goes forth a murmur, that they have been roused to this state of tumult by the accolytes of the obnoxious minister, with the intention of overawing his colleagues and displaying his own power. And if, in truth, they shout "long live" any one, it is his name they cry: his noble-hearted and more moderate colleague, lately so popular, has lost a people's favour. And now the hundred torrents have met upon the quays, and before the Hotel de Ville; and hundreds of banners with manifold inscriptions are waving in the air; and troop upon troop is marshalled into some degree of order: but fearful is the mass: awful is the demonstration of a people! And now the members of the Government are compelled, one and all, to come down upon the elevated terrace before the façade of the Hotel de Ville: they are behung with tricolor scarfs, the ends of which stream with long gold fringes; their heads are bared before their masters and the rulers of the land. And now the host of people defiles before them; and they make speeches, and cry "Vive la Republique! Vive le peuple!" And the people, proud of its force, and rejoicing in its demonstration, that shows its power over the bourgeois, answers with shouts that rend the air. Heavens! what a scene! This is Republican Paris, indeed, I trow!

But come quickly to the Boulevards: the mighty mass has passed away to the column of liberty in the Place de la Bastile; and it will come down the Boulevards in overwhelming tide, exulting in its triumph. And now it comes. The long line, five abreast – there are nearly two hundred thousand in this great army – stretches on and on, almost from one end to the other of the immense central artery of the capital. It comes, and the chorus of the Marseillaise rolls like thunder along, dying away but to burst forth again. Hark! how it peels along the Boulevards! It comes, and the senses swim as the host goes by, marching on, and on, and on – confusing the sight with the incessant passing of such a stream of living beings, and its waving banners; deafening the ears with the menacing cries of "Down with the aristocrats!" and the discordant chorussing of confused patriotic songs – for the Marseillaise now gives way to the fearful Ca Ira. It comes, and it seems as if it never would end. Awful, indeed, is the display of a people's force, thus excited and inflamed by designing leaders! At last the mighty procession passed away, leaving consternation and alarm behind it. But think not that Paris resumes its usual aspect. The various bands break up at last, but they still parade the streets in several battalions: and the shouting and howling and singing cease not during the day.

But the night of the same day is come, and all is not yet done. Not content with its triumph, the people demands that all Paris should honour it with a festival, whether it will or not. Down the Boulevards come the hordes again, slowly, and pausing as they came on: they are chanting, in measured notes, the words "Des lampions! des lampions!" amidst the cries of "Illuminate, or we break your windows! Down with the aristocrats!" Why all Paris should be illuminated, because it has pleased King People to make a demonstration, it would be too insolent to inquire. It is a fancy, a caprice – and autocrats will have fancies and caprices. It is the people's will; and, however fantastic or unreasonable, the will must be obeyed. "Des lampions! des lampions!" The monotonous chant is impressed upon the ears with stunning force, until you believe that you must retain it in your bewildered brain until your dying day. And as they come along, see how readily the will of the people is obeyed! There is no readiness so quick as the readiness of fear. Up and down, from above and from below, right and left, in long irregular lines, until the lines of light become more general and more regular – see the illumination bursts forth from the façades of all the houses. Windows are rapidly opened on every side, in sixth stories as on first floors, on every terrace, on every balcony; and lamps, lanterns, candles, pots of grease, all flaming, are thrust out at every one. See! how the light darts up and down like wildfire, dancing along the houses in the darkness of the night, with an increasing phosphoric flicker. You may mark the progress of the mob, as it goes farther on in dusky mass, and is lost to sight in the gloom, not only by the eternal monotonous cry that bids the inhabitants illuminate, coming from the distance, but by the gleaming track it leaves behind it like a gigantic, broad tail of fire. Presently all the Boulevards will be brightly lighted; and the gleams of the many thousand points of light will illuminate a thickly moving crowd of beings, that look like the uneasy spirits of some gloomy pandemonium. Fairy-like, however, has the magical illumination sprung forth at the people's bidding, and fairy-like does it flicker on all sides in the night. All the other principal streets are burning also on either side, like long bands of spangled stuff glittering in the sun. The Faubourg St Germain, suspected of legitimacy, has long since been the first to yield to threats, and demonstrate at its windows its supposed sympathy in a people's triumph; and to-morrow we shall be told by the republican papers, how Paris was in an ecstasy of joy – how all the population strove in zeal, with one accord, to fêter le peuple généreux– how spontaneous was this illumination of republican enthusiasm. Spontaneous was the feeling that dictated it, certainly; but it was the spontaneity of fear – the fear of the quietly-disposed in the face of a reckless and all-powerful mob!