‘Les journaux du soir!’ ‘Voilà “La Presse,” dernière édition du soir!’... ‘“La Séance,” demandez “La Séance,” “L’Assemblée.”’... ‘Colère du père Duchesne! ... le père en colère!—cinq centimes, un sou.’... ‘“La Patrie,” voilà “La Patrie!”’... ‘Les éditions du soir, dernières nouvelles de Pologne!’... ‘L’insurrection de Madrid, par le citoyen Cabet, “Le Populaire!”—cinq centimes, un sou.’ ‘Demandez “La Presse:” grande colère du père Duchesne, le père Duchesne est en véritable colère! le père’.... ‘“Le National,” demandez “Le National!” “L’Assemblée Constituante!”’
L——, attaché of the English press, is of opinion that if the money hold out till confidence in a new government gets itself fairly established, all will be well. The people mean to wait and see if their condition is to be mended; if so, well, whatever the form of government; if not, ‘we must go into the streets again.’
You know I am a bad hand at lionising. I do little else than potter about under the Tuileries chestnuts, and here and there about bridges and streets, pour savourer la république. I contemplate with infinite thankfulness the blue blouses garnished with red of the garde mobile; and emit a perpetual incense of devout rejoicing for the purified state of the Tuileries, into which I find it impossible, meantime, to gain admittance. I growl occasionally at the sight of aristocratic equipages which begin to peep out again, and trust that the National Assembly will in its wisdom forbid the use of livery servants. But there is not very much to complain of generally: one cannot better express the state of Paris in this respect, than by the statement that one finds it rather pointed to be seen in the streets with gloves on.
To the same.
Paris: May 19, 1848.
Ichabod, Ichabod, the glory is departed! Liberty—Equality and Fraternity, driven back by shopkeeping bayonets, hides her red cap in dingiest St. Antoine. Well-to-do-ism shakes her Egyptian scourge to the tune of ‘Ye are idle, ye are idle’; the tale of bricks will be doubled: and Moses and Aaron of Socialism can at the best only pray for plagues; which perhaps will come, paving stones for vivats, and émeutes in all their quarters.
Meantime, the glory and the freshness of the dream is departed. The very garde mobile has dropped its dear blouse and red trimmings for a bourgeoisie-prætorian uniform, with distinctive green hired-soldier epaulettes. The voice of clubs is silenced: inquisitors only and stone walls of Vincennes list the words of Barbès. Anti-rappel Courtais no longer hushes the drum which, as he said, vexes the people (‘cela fâche le peuple’); conciliatory active Caussidière gives place to a high-shop successor. Wherefore, bring forth, ye millionaires, the three-months-hidden carriages; rub clean, ye new nobles, the dusty emblazonries; ride forth, ye cavalier-escorted amazons, in unfearing flirtations, to your Bois de Boulogne. The world begins once more to move on its axis, and draw on its kid-gloves. The golden age of the Republic displays itself now, you see, as a very vulgar parcel-gilt era; nevertheless, in all streets and gardens, proclaims itself ‘L’Ère Nouvelle!’ ‘La Liberté!’ ‘La Réforme!’... ‘Vraie République!’... ‘Grande Séance de l’Assemblée Nationale: dix centimes, deux sous; seulement deux sous.’ ‘Arrestation!’ ‘Demandez “La Presse”; la lettre du citoyen Blanqui!’... ‘Derniers soupirs du père Duchesne!’
Saturday, May 20.
To judge from ‘Galignani’s’ extracts, the English papers are as usual exaggerating. I don’t believe the affair of the 15th was anything like the conspiracy described in the ‘Times’ and ‘Chronicle.’
Monday, May 22.