Under a democracy, everybody goes into politics, and everybody requires to be pleased.
The literary man, the scholar, the artist, all are criticised by more or less competent judges; but the statesman, who is there that does not criticise him? Who does not take upon himself to judge him without appeal? Who does not drag him in the mud? Who does not cry, "Stop thief!" when he is bold enough to buy a dozen railway shares, like the smallest shopkeeper in the land?
No one says to himself, "The Prime Minister is not a fool; he ought to know what he is about; and even if he were a rogue, is it not to his interest to serve his country to the best of his ability?"
Why, even the schoolboy goes into politics nowadays.
I warrant that there is not a single man, in France or England, who does not believe himself perfectly capable of criticising the acts of his Prime Minister, and very few, who do not feel equal to filling his place, if, for the good of their country, they were called by their fellow-citizens to fulfill these arduous duties.
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There is a great virtue, a virtue eminently English, which we French do not possess; respect for the man who is down. Yet it is not that we lack magnanimity; but we also have our contrasts. Generous, of a chivalric character, with a repugnance for any kind of meanness, we yet insult the fallen man and even bespatter the memory of one who has gone to the grave. We consoled ourselves for Sedan by singing "C'est le Sire de Fiche-ton-Camp." On the death of M. Thiers, a celebrated Bonapartist journalist exclaimed that he could jump for joy over the tomb of him who had just liberated his country. Open the newspapers of to-day, and you will still see Gambetta's memory insulted.
In England, they would have forgotten that Gambetta was a party man, and have remembered only his eloquence, which that of Mirabeau alone could have eclipsed, and which made him one of the brightest ornaments of contemporary France.
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When Mr. Bright left the political arena for a world from whence jealousy is banished, and subscription lists were opened for erecting a statue to him, the Conservatives sent their contributions as well as the Liberals; they forgot the Radical, and remembered but the orator and the philanthropist. At the death of Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield, it was Mr. Gladstone, the political enemy of the Tory chief, who pronounced the panegyric of that illustrious man in the House of Commons.