Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 63, No. 392, June, 1848

All tendencies to return upon the bloody track of the past are equally condemnable: every symbolical reminiscence of that past is equally to be avoided. It ought to be scouted by the good sense of the better-thinking citizens of France, and put down by all the moral force that public remonstrance, reasoning, satire, and ridicule may command in the public prints. There was a time when a new-born French republic, in the heyday folly of its early youth, and with all the silly fancies of silly puerile years – and who of us, as a youngster, has not had such? – sought for its models, and emblems, and symbols, in the most ancient republics of Europe; and weened that, if it assumed the outward forms, and wore the names of those old times, it must necessarily inherit the supposed virtues of the days of Greece and Rome: those virtues which, to its fancy, consisted chiefly in uncompromising sternness, and soi-disant patriotic hard-heartedness. And, like a silly boy, the first French republic rendered itself ridiculous by its extravagant absurdities. Like a stage-struck hero of the same age, it exaggerated and overacted its part: it fancied that it had but to put on the robe, and take the name, and strut and swagger; and that it would act the part, if not to the life, at least with wonderful effect. Unlike the silly boy, however, it went beyond the contemptible, – it became frantic, furious, bloodyminded – it became terrible: its hot young brains were turned, and dreamt bad dreams of cruelty and carnage. Those were the days when men unbaptised themselves of their old names, and called themselves "Brutus," and "Aristides," and "Scevola," and "Leonidas," and deemed themselves great and doughty patriots, with all the virtues of the antique, because they had so put their names down among the dramatis personæ in the bill of the play. Those were the days when women wore Grecian tunics, and exposed their naked charms to the inclemencies of a foggy northern sky; and happy would the results of all this nonsense have been, had the republic only caught a cold, or a sore throat, or a toothach: unfortunately, it caught a fever, a sore soul, and a heartach. Those were the days when fasces were carried abroad in public fêtes, as emblems of liberty, – fasces! those true emblems of constraint and tyranny – of constraint by the stick, of tyranny by the axe, – fasces! such as lictors carried before Nero; and the fasces were stamped upon the coins of the republic, surmounted by a cap of liberty! Those were the days when Greece and Rome were soi-disant models, greedily swallowed, ill digested, and producing nausea, loathing, and sickness. The Grecian and the Roman symbols, therefore, were symbols to be avoided and repulsed. They remind of the past; they prepare people's minds for its return; they bring with them visions of blood. In the very heart's core of the people, with the Grecian allegories, and the Spartan virtues, and the fasces, are intimately connected comités de salut public, and denunciations unto death, and the guillotine. Away with them then! refer not to them again! repel them, second French republic, from your fêtes, and your public ceremonies, and your coins! They are all so many prickly whips to drive men's minds back to the bloody past, and urge them again along the self-same blood-stained road. Surely, too, the day of such worn-out theatrical humbug is past: the world has grown more civilised and more sensible: the age of allegorical absurdities is gone by. True! the world has also lost much of its poetry and romance; and there may be those who regret it, and would be foolish still; but all this Greco-Franco republican romance and poetry, borrowed of the ancients, is now sadly out of place. What do I say? – is to be shunned as the plague-fraught garment from the East, that, when thrown upon your shoulders, may extend a fatal disease far and wide among the land, that may become another robe of Nessus to burn and consume you to the bones; and when once thrown on, not to be torn away again without tearing with it the healthful flesh, and the very blood of life. And yet there are those who would seem determined ever to refer back to the past days, ever to spur along the old road, and who appear to dream that they can never produce the effect they want, but by spreading the poisoned garment over the back of France. There has been a reckless Minister of the Interior, who, hand-in-hand with a strong-minded but ill-judging woman, full of strange subversive fancies, which she proclaims with a masculine voice, and in a nominal masculine garb, seems to forget the importance of such symbols over the easily exciteable imaginations of the French, or perhaps even – may God forgive him, if so it be! – adopts the symbols of the past, in order to prepare the way for its return, and for the return to his own hands of the tyranny of democratic despotism. It is he who has declared it his high will, that the spirit of the country should be travaillé—i. e. tortured – to his own furious sense: and, in truth, the maintenance of such symbols is a pretty and convenient manner to travailler the public spirit with all the taking gaudiness of outward show. As Minister of the Interior, he is supreme institutor and instigator of popular fêtes, and public republican ceremonies: and, whether of his own fancy, or under the influence of the promptings of minor masters of ceremonies, or of those who would be such, he appears determined that modern republican shows, festivities, and ceremonials, should bring back as many reminiscences of those of a fatal time as possible. In the funeral ceremony of the interment of those who fell in the days of February, – which, in its very nature, as well as from the immense masses it called forth of men of all classes, all corporations, all bodies of the state, citizen troops, and military, with music, and banners, and streaming ribands, was sufficiently imposing, – in this ceremony Paris was again bid to delight itself with the aspect of modern lictors preceding the members of the Provisional Government, with antique fasces – those eternal emblematical fasces, – that had been borrowed from the boards of the ci-devant Théâtre Francais, where they had been used, poor dirty old things, to be paraded by knock-kneed bearers before all the bloody tyrants of the classic drama of France: they were "freshened up," it is true, and made smart, to meet the time and circumstance, by being bound with new tri-color ribands: but they were no less foolish symbols, and worse than foolish, from the effect they might have on sentiments. But this was but the caviare to the feast. A new republican fête is prepared by the same minister of the interior, and that, too, at a time when the public treasury is empty, and a national bankruptcy stares the country in the face – a fête that has no purpose as an anniversary, unless it be some anniversary of a time to be forgotten – an uncalled-for fête, that is to be symbolical of a republican word called "Fraternity," the sense of which no one in France seems, by any effort, to be able to understand, – in fact, to be the vague vain emblem of a vague vain word. What does the programme of this fête set forth? Antique cars, bearing Grecian allegorical personifications of the new-old deities of the day, drawn by huge oxen with gilded horns, borrowed of the Eleusinian mysteries! – and little Lacedemonian girls in white Grecian tunics, singing French patriotic hymns on the boulevards under Grecian pavilions, – hear it, shade of Coleman's Mr Sterling, and rejoice! – and Grecian tripods with burning flames at street-corners – and painted Grecian statues, allegorical of all sorts of fancied Grecian virtues, under the trees of the Champs Elysées – and nonsense only knows how many other Grecian attributes of canvass and pasteboard, and carpentry-work, and stage decoration in all manner of high places. Out upon them all! Were we to turn to some edict of the past, issued for the celebration of the pure and mighty virtues of the days of the Convention, we should find exactly the same programme of some fête of fraternity in those fraternal times, ordained and arranged by the famous artist, Citizen David, the pure taste of whose classic pictures all amateurs, who have visited Paris, may have had the happiness of admiring in the galleries of the ci-devant Louvre.

No less to be condemned, for similar reasons, as uselessly and even deleteriously calling into life the past, was the edict of the Provisional Government, enacting that the representatives of the people in the national assembly should have a uniform costume, similar to that worn by the heroes of the Convention. This idea emanated, doubtless, from the same violent and misdirected source as the Greco-republican programme de fête: but why, it may be asked, did the more sensible and moderate majority of that government lend its hand to sign such a decree? The immense, majority, however, of the representatives of the people, who are unwilling, at the same time, to be the representatives of the ideas of '93, have, in their good sense, done justice to this edict, by their disdain of its ordinances, and their refusal to wear the costume imposed upon them. They felt the full force of the symbol they were told to adopt; they felt the dangerous importance of the sentiment that would be attached to it: they rejected the symbol; and they disavowed the sentiment. And they did well. The cocked hat with its gold-lace border, such as may be seen, in pictures, on the head or in the hand of Danton or St Just, was declared simply absurd, if nothing more: the tri-color scarf, to be bound round their waists, with its gold fringe, was thought puerile; but the celebrated white waistcoat, the fatal white waistcoat, with its broad lappels flung back upon the shoulders – that waistcoat known only under the popular names of the "gilet à la Robespierre," – or the "gilet à la guillotine" – the new representatives of the people of a new republic, founded upon other principles, flung aside with indignation. The "gilet à la Robespierre!" – the very name was sufficient to excite feelings of abhorrence; and the edict, although it of course withheld the name, raised a storm of angry remonstrance and refusal. The whole affair, – the edict as the indignation, – may be considered as puerile, frivolous, and unworthy of strong feeling. But, again it must be repeated, the men who were told to don this costume knew what the sentiment would be that such a display of symbolical attire would excite; and a great importance was attached to it, which men in other countries may not understand, but which those who know the French, and their facility to be led away by the outward symbol, will entirely appreciate. It may seem ridiculous to say – and yet it may not be far off the truth – that many a representative of the people, who may now talk sage and sensible moderation, might have thundered forth the excess of democratic violence, had his bosom borne across it the "gilet à la Robespierre."

There are other symbols of the great watchwords of the day; those ill understood and oft misconstrued words, – those words which are so constantly put forward by the violent to mean the very contrary of what they are intended to express, – the words "Liberté! Egalité! Fraternité!" and these symbols men think it necessary to exhibit on all occasions. So be it. They are the rallying cry of the new republic; let them be symbolised. But let men take care how, and in what manner, it be done. In the new coins of the republic, upon which the three mystic words shine, they are strangely enough typified – the old die of the old coin of the old republic has been used; and perhaps the allegorical personages that figure on them had then another signification. As it is, the Hercules in the midst, with the two ladies by his side, may be interpreted in various ways. Curious speculators in allegories would in vain endeavour to affix each of these three personages to each of the abstractions they are supposed to represent: there are many, at all events, who decline the task. Which does Hercules typify? Liberty perchance – the liberty, then, of force. Or, if the ladies alone represent the qualities that are of the feminine gender in the French language, which of the three is absent? which of the three is excluded from being symbolised on the coins of the French republic? This would be, again, a difficult task to investigate. All the three are so constantly called in question, so continually menaced, above all, so little comprehended in general in the first steps of the French republic, that it would be hard to say which is the least recognised, although many may give their votes in favour of the first of the three good dames. But it is not alone upon the coins that the three deities find their emblems. Lithographic prints, of every species of good or bad drawing, display them in a bodily form to admiring eyes at every print-shop. Led away by pictures, as by all other outward and visible emblems, the French are easily inflamed by such productions. And, again, a protest should be entered against the character commonly given to the republican deities – against that of goddess Liberty more especially. She is almost invariably represented in an attitude of demoniacal vengeance, worthy of Mademoiselle Rachel. She has the so-called cap of liberty, of course, upon her head, but her hand always grasps a sabre, or a pike, or some such deadly weapon; her countenance is furious, angry, vengeful. Why should Liberty be represented thus, then, as a bloodthirsty angel of wrath? why should she be an object to be dreaded and not loved? Rulers of France, ye should have a care how the divinity ye proclaim is symbolised to the eyes of the people! the effect produced, in the fostering of the sentiment, may be more important than ye choose to think or to acknowledge. The same reprehension should be cast upon the greater part of those models and pictures which are exhibited in the Ecole des beaux arts, for the prize to be given for the best personification of the French Republic. The great majority of these models represent, once more, a perfect fury of wrath, in all the extravagance of frantic theatrical gesture. But, my good artists, this is a representation of a French Republic such as it was in the worst moments of its last reign – not of the French Republic proclaimed as the living exemplification, not only of liberty, equality, and fraternity, but of peace, and order, and love! Could you do nothing better than make bad imitations of a detestable past? It will be for the famous Minister of the Interior, probably, to decide which of these personifications is to be raised on high as the symbol of the republic. He who offered the prize will probably award it: Paris, then, will soon see what sentiment is to be taught, in the name of all France, to attach to the symbol.

There is another little trait connected with a people's sentiments that, slight as it is, may be of more influence in the direction which the violence of popular commotion may take. This little trait, although born of an evil and violent feeling, may have a tendency that not only will not be a harmful one, but may protect from harm. At the commencement of the revolution, – upon every greater or lesser demonstration of popular feeling, – the first cry, to the rich or the supposed rich, was to illuminate their houses in honour of the sovereign people, or rather of those who assumed the rank and title of sovereignty wholly to themselves. Above the cries, "à bas les riches! à bas les aristocrats!" prevailed the cry "des lampions! des lampions!" So often, and for so long a time, was this cry heard in the streets of Paris, that it has now taken the distinct form of one of those popular shouts used upon all occasions. Is the mob angry, or is it merry, it cries "des lampions!" Is it angry only, this cry often changes its wrath to merriment: is it impatient, it cries "des lampions!" is it witty, "des lampions!" By day as well as night, on all popular occasions, the cry is heard, and now never fails to excite a laugh. In the theatres, is a piece to be damned? – the pit and the galleries cry, "des lampions!" Does a declaimer in a street crowd displease the multitude? – it cries again, "des lampions!" The words, then, have become a popular demonstrative cry; and who can tell how much in the future this habit may efface the hideous cry of "à la lanterne?" – how much the cry for light may cause the people to forget the cry for the darkness of death upon the lamp-post – how much, in truth, popular sentiment may be hereafter influenced by a trait of popular habit so slight, so frivolous, so ridiculous, and yet, perhaps, so important in its results. Should it have this working, there are many who have lost their temper at the ear-rending, monotonous, irritating cry of "des lampions," who may bless the day when the fancy of the mob adopted this popular and almost historical cry. Who can tell, indeed, upon what a trifle may depend the direction given to a people's outbreak, to the course of a revolution, to the destinies of a country?

Since the courageous action of Lamartine gave a first stamp to the character of the revolution, by putting down a dangerous sentiment in its bloody symbol, the violent party has in vain again endeavoured, as yet, to assume its lost supremacy. The horizon is dark with its menace, it is true, and its thunder growls, its lightnings flash, from time to time: the storm may be dispersed, or it may break forth, and then pass away. This is for the future. But whatever men may rule the destinies of France, they should, like Lamartine, be well aware that if the French people must be amused with constant displays of symbols, those symbols must be chosen with care, as the direct, and leading, and active instigators of their sentiments.

AMERICAN FEELING TOWARDS ENGLAND

We believe it to be impossible to overrate the importance of the triumph of order on the 10th of April in London, either as to its effects on Great Britain or on the world. The complete and signal success, and at the same time the calm working of the machinery by which the end was accomplished, – the impression of a vast power felt throughout, though purposely kept in the background, ready to act if necessary, but only in the case of necessity; the proof which it afforded of the perfect soundness of the English mind, extending even to the masses of the capital amidst the revolutionary contagion; and the contrast which it exhibited between the well-balanced and elastic strength of the English constitution, and the unsubstantial systems or crumbling governments of the Continent, formed a spectacle which no one could witness without pride, or remember without a feeling of gratitude and of increased security. It has tranquillised for many a year the fears of those who had begun to doubt whether even the strong anchor of our constitution could continue to hold fast against the strain of the revolutionary current. It has proved, if that indeed were doubtful, how essentially different are the elements of the British character from those of the fickle populations of Southern Europe, among whom revolution had found its adherents; and how deep-seated in that character is the love of order, respect for property, deference to established authority, calm and practical good sense, and that solid groundwork of moral and religious feeling, on which alone any stable form of government can ever be reared. If, since that memorable 10th of April, the Continent has begun to obtain a little truce and breathing time; and even in France the possessors of property and the friends of order are beginning to be alive at once to their own danger, and their own strength, and to the necessity of exerting the forces, moral and physical, which are at their disposal to put down the approach of anarchy in its most undisguised and hideous form – it is to the peaceful and majestic triumph of order in England that these results are to be ascribed.

It cannot but be matter of deep interest to us to learn with what feelings the danger and the escape of Great Britain were contemplated in America; a country where the experiment of a republic had been tried, and where – if the same spirit of propagandism existed which appears to be the curse of France – it might have been supposed that the chance of a democratic constitution being established in England, would have been a subject of congratulation and anticipated triumph. In Paris, upon the morning of the 12th April, nothing, we are told, but disappointment was experienced, when the peaceful, and, as they deemed it, ignominous termination of the proceedings at Kennington Common was made known. How were the news received by our Transatlantic brethren? A short extract from the letter of a valued friend in New York, and one or two from the American papers, will be interesting, we think, to our readers, as illustrating the state of feeling on the subject in America.

The tone of the American press on this question has on the whole been most creditable to the periodical literature of that country. It proves that, though many points of difference may and must exist between the two countries, – though the elder may not always have borne her faculties in the meekest way, and the younger may have often announced her pretensions with more of petulance than discretion, – nations sprung of the same lineage, speaking the same language, cherishing the same literature, cannot be so alienated from each other by difference of political institutions, or opposition of commercial interests, as not to feel a warm and cordial interest in each other's welfare; and to lament, not from mere selfish considerations of interest, but from higher and more generous sympathies, every calamity which threatens a kindred nation, with which it feels itself united by the ties of moral and intellectual relationship.

Our correspondent thus writes: —

"New York, May 1st, 1848.

… "The arrival of the steam-ship America at this port on Saturday last, bringing the good news of the complete triumph of law, liberty, and order in our Fatherland, was hailed with a degree of joy that well became true-born descendants of British ancestors. That arrival terminated a week which, to myself as well as to thousands of others, had been one of intense and painful anxiety; for although I never dreamed of the probability of a revolution, and never doubted the power of government to quell the threatened insurrection of the Chartists, I did greatly fear that a conflict was inevitable; and I trembled at the possible results that might follow, were only a single man in the procession to parliament to fall before the bayonets of the soldiery. How universal was this fear the newspapers which I send you clearly tell; and you will smile at hearing that even bets were made that the revolution was complete, and England a republic.

"The course pursued by government, in trusting to a voluntary police rather than to the military, exhibited their usual wisdom, and has greatly added to the moral dignity of their triumph. And the result has fully verified the remark in your letter to me in March, that 'the upper and middle classes, as also the respectable operatives, are most determined to maintain order and the law, irrespective of all political differences;' and proves beyond a doubt the truth of the proud declaration, in the last number of your Magazine, that 'the unbought loyalty of men – the cheap defence of nations – still, thank God, subsists among you.'

"Notwithstanding all the extreme excitement aroused throughout our land by the Revolution in France, and its astounding progress on the Continent, and the confident predictions of many that England could not unshaken meet the shock of Chartist rebellion, – the instant it was known that she had met it and was unmoved – that it had passed harmlessly by as a summer cloud, without awakening from its slumbers the giant strength it had threatened to overcome, – a sensation of relief, a thrill of gladness, a feeling of thankfulness, of security, and of admiration, seemed to be almost universal, and men greeted each other in the streets as those might who had together feared and together escaped a great personal calamity.

"That much of this rejoicing arose from selfishness is very true, for so closely connected are the social and commercial relations of the two countries, that no blow struck at the prosperity of England could be long unfelt in these United States. But the fact is scarcely on that account the less striking, nor will it, I venture to hope, deprive it of its intense significance with those who, like yourselves, exercise so great an influence upon the opinions and the sympathies of two great nations."