The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 531, January 28, 1832

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

SCENES FROM THE (OLD) FRENCH REVOLUTION

(From the "Quarterly" Review of Madame Junot's Memoirs.)

About the beginning of the revolution, a working-man, by name Thirion, had established himself in a little stall (in Paris,) where he carried on his business as a mender of carpets. He called one morning to ask M. Permon's (a Royalist[7 - And father of Madame Junot.]) custom, but was civilly told that the family had long employed a tradesman of his class, and could not change for a stranger: the man took the refusal so insolently, that he was at last turned out of doors, vowing revenge. M. Permon, the ports being still open, makes a run over to London to place some money in our funds. Meantime "the Sections are organized," and Thirion becomes "Secretaire, Greffier, President, je ne scai quoi, de la notre." The morning after his return to Paris, M. Permon had just risen, when footsteps were heard loud on the staircase, and in burst Citizen Thirion, two other patriots of the Sectional Committee, and the carpetman's shopboy. (Madame Junot's Narrative commences here.)

"My father was shaving himself. Naturally quick tempered, his impatience was extreme when he recognised the individual, and he was imprudent enough to make a menacing gesture the moment they broke into his dressing-room. 'I am here to see the law enforced,' cries Thirion, on seeing my father advance with the razor in his hand. 'Well, what law is it that chooses so worthy an organ?'—'I am here to learn your age, your pursuits, and to interrogate you as to your journey to Coblentz.' My father, who had from the first word felt the most violent disposition to toss the man down stairs, shivered with rage; but, at last, he composed himself, wiped his chin, laid down his razor, and, crossing his arms, placed himself full in front of Thirion: then, measuring him from the utmost height of his tall and elegant person, he said, 'You wish to know my age?'—'Yes, such are my orders.'—Where is the order?' said my father, extending his hand. 'It is enough for you to know that I am sent hither by the committee of my section: my orders are sufficiently proved by my presence.'—Ah! you think so; I am of a different opinion. Your presence here is nothing but an insult, unless you have a judiciary order to justify it; show it me, and I shall forget the name of the man, to see only the public functionary.' Thirion raised his voice as my father lowered his—'What is your age?—What was the object of your going to Coblentz?'–My father seizes a large bamboo, and makes it whistle over Thirion's head—at that moment my mother rushes in, and succeeds in dragging him into another room, and restoring him to something like calmness. I remember she placed me in his arms, whispering to me to entreat him to think of me. Meantime, Thirion had drawn up his procès verbal, and withdrawn:—he left me weeping without knowing why I wept, but I saw that my mother and my sister were in tears too. My father sat pale, trembling with anger,—everything about us had a desolate aspect."

The family escape from Paris—and it was time. Violent alternations of fear, anger, sorrow, terror, and disgust, with frequent disguises, flights, and all sorts of changes of residence, at length wear out the health and spirits of M. Permon—a man, apparently, who united dull enough intellect with all the vivacity of a Frenchman's mere temperament; and he dies in obscurity long before anything like order is re-established. We need not dwell on the particular fortunes of a not very interesting set of people; but may quote one or two more specimens of the sort of scenes which fill the greater part of the first of these volumes. Our authoress and her sister are at one time separated from their parents, and placed in an obscure pension in the Faubourg (no longer St.) Antoine. Their brother, a very young man, has also remained in Paris, and frequently visits them in their retreat.

"We could not but observe, that for some days he had been very melancholy, and that he was getting more and more so. We asked the reason, and he told us at last that the section had denounced my father in a very alarming style. We fell a-crying, my sister and I. Albert consoled us as well as he could, but it was easy to see that the denunciation was not all—that some immediate danger fixed his fears. We knew afterwards, in effect, that a report had been spread of the arrest of my parents at Limoges—happily a false one. The horizon meanwhile was taking a bloody tint. Judge of my brother's anxiety! he came every day in a cabriolet, which my father had had built just before these late events; it was an elegant one, very lofty, of the kind called wiski. Already he had been all but insulted by the populace in driving through the faubourg; but liveries had not yet altogether disappeared, and nothing would persuade him to listen to our remonstrances, and make the domestic put off his. Thus it was on the 31st of August, when he came to see us as usual."

"There was about the boarding-house a man charged with all the rough work, by name Jaquemart, a fellow that could do everything—but the most atrocious of countenances. 'The sight of that man makes me sick,' said Albert; 'I am sure he will end in something tragic.'"

"One day, shortly after we went to the pension, Jaquemart was bringing in a load of wood, when my brother drove at the speed of his horse into the entrance. He saw the man had a burden that would hardly allow him to get out of the way in time—cried 'Gare!'—perceived that his efforts were in vain—and pulled back his horse so sharply as to run much risk of wounding the animal, and, indeed, of being thrown out himself, owing to the extraordinary elevation of the wiski. Jaquemart, however, escaped by this means with a scratch on his leg; his eyes were good, he saw what Albert had done to master his horse, and vowed gratitude."

"The 31st of August the man had nothing to do about the house, yet he kept lounging at the gate, or in the court, all day long. It was late ere Albert came—he had been waiting for him, and whispered, as he alighted, 'Stay here to-night to take care of your sisters—don't go home.' Albert looked at him with astonishment; he had, indeed, perceived symptoms of some commotion, but fancied, as most of Paris did, that it would be directed against the Temple. 'What is your meaning?' said he. 'I entreat you to stay here—you will be near your sisters; and if there be need for another hand, mine shall not be far off—very well!—we shall be there.' Albert pressed him with questions, but could extract nothing; and after giving the man some money, persisted; in returning home as usual."

"All know the frightful story of the day after this. Albert's anxiety for us makes him brave every danger, and he comes to us again. The first person he sees at our door is Jaquemart, in the costume of the most atrocious of bandits; our ladies had not dared to bid him go away, but his appearance made them tremble. 'I did not desire you to come hither, but to stay here,' he said; 'why have I not been obeyed?' 'Why do you speak so—was this house particularly menaced?' 'I know nothing of that—at such a moment one should fear everything.'"

"We heard groans, weeping, all Paris had not been at the massacre. It was late. They pressed Albert to stay, but he would not. He promised, however, to come back next morning.–That day he was obliged to stay at home till about three o'clock, arranging and burning papers. He then came out to visit us, and found himself in the midst of crowds of men, drunken and bloody; many were naked to the waist, their breasts covered with blood. They carried fragments of clothing on their pikes and sabres—their faces were inflamed, their eyes haggard, the whole scene hideous. These groups became more and more frequent and numerous as he advanced. In mortal anxiety for us, he determined to push through everything, and, urging his horse to its speed, reached at length the front of the Hôtel Beaumarchais. There he was stopped by an immense crowd—always the same figures naked and bloodstained, but here their looks were those of enraged fiends. They shout, they scream, they sing, they dance—the saturnalia of hell. On seeing Albert's cabriolet, they redoubled their cries—'An aristocrat! give it him, give it him!' In a moment the cabriolet is surrounded, and from the midst of the crowd an object rises and moves towards him. His agitation perplexes his view—he perceives long fair tresses dabbled with blood—a countenance beautiful even yet. It approaches—it is thrust upon his face; he recognises the features—it is the head of Madame de Lamballe!"

"The servant whips the horse with all the strength of his arm. The generous animal, with the instinctive horror of his race for dead bodies, springs with redoubled speed from the spectacle of horror. The frightful trophy, and the cannibals that bore it, had been overturned in the mud—screams and imprecations pursued Albert, stretched senseless at the bottom of the cabriolet. The servant had kept the reins, and whipped the more fiercely, because he could perceive, from the motion of the carriage, that some one had got up behind it, and hoped that the rapidity of its progress would shake him off."

"In a few minutes Albert reached our door—judge of our alarm!—pale, still quite senseless, not breathing. The moment the cabriolet stopped, the man behind jumped down, took my brother in his arms, as if he had been a child, and carried him into the house. It was Jaquemart. 'The monsters,' said he, 'the monsters! the poor young man, they have killed him too.' What could Jaquemart have been doing in such a garb, and among such a troop o' ruffians?"

THE GATHERER

The Paris correspondent of the Court Journal gives the following incident at the King's Ball, about a fortnight since. I happened to be near his majesty when he addressed himself to an Englishman, wearing the Cross of Three Days. "Where did you signalize yourself, sir?" inquired the monarch. "At the Tuilleries, sire," was the answer. "C'est aux braves de Juillet que je dois ma couronne," said his majesty. The gentleman thus honoured was M. Bennis,[8 - The agent for the MIRROR, in Paris.—ED. M.] in whose literary establishment the king seems to take much interest.

GUTTING THE FISH

One evening a red-headed Connaught swell, of no small aristocratic pretensions in his own eyes, sent his servant, whom he had just imported from the long-horned kingdom, in all the rough majesty of a creature fresh from the "wilds," to purchase a hundred of oysters on the City-quay. Paddy staid so long away, that Squire Trigger got quite impatient and unhappy lest his "body man" might have slipt into the Liffey; however, to his infinite relief, Paddy soon made his appearance, puffing and blowing like a disabled bellows, but carrying his load seemingly in great triumph. "Well, Pat," cried the master, "what the devil kept you so long?" "Long! a thin, may be it's what you'd have me to come home with half my arrant?" says Pat. "Half the oysters?" says the master. "No; but too much of the fish." says Pat. "What fish?" says he. "The oysters, to be sure," says Pat. "What do you mean, blockhead?" says he. "I mean," says Pat, "that there was no use with loading myself with more nor was useful." "Will you explain yourself?" says he. "I will," says Pat laying down his load. "Well then, you see, plaise your Honour, as I was coming home along the quay, mighty peaceable, who should I meet but Shammus Maginnis; 'Good morrow, Shamien,' sis I; 'Good morrow kindly, Paudeen,' sis he; 'What is it you have in the sack?' sis he; 'A Cwt. of oysters,' sis I; 'Let us look at them,' says he; 'I will, and welcome,' sis I; 'Orah! thunder and pratees!' sis he, openin the sack an examinin them; 'who sowld you these?' 'One Tom Kinahan that keeps a small ship there below,' sis I; 'Musha then, bad luck to that same Tom that sowld the likes to you,' sis he; 'Arrah, why, avic?' sis I; 'To make a Bolshour ov you an give thim to you without gutting thim,' sis he; 'An arn't they gutted, Jim, aroon,' sis I; 'Oh! bad luck to the one o' thim,' sis he; 'Musha then,' sis I, 'what the dhoul will I do at all at all, fur the master will be mad;' 'Do!' sis he, 'why I'd rather do the thing for you mysel nor you should lose your place,' sis he; so wid that he begins to gut them wid his knife, nate and clain, an afeereed ov dirtying the flags, begor, he swallowed the guts himself from beginnin to ind, tal he had thim as dacent as you see thim here"—dashing down at his master's feet his bag of oyster shells, to the no small amazement of the Connaught worthy, as you may suppose.—Dublin Comet.

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notes

1

The present Borough of Pontefract was incorporated by Richard III., and has sent Members to Parliament since the reign of James I.

2

Dugdale Bar. vol. i p. 99.

3

This tradition is moulded into a pleasing tale entitled "the White Rose in Mull," in the Scottish Annual, the Chameleon, noticed by us a few weeks since.

4

Shakspeare lays Scene v. of Act. v. of Richard II. in a dungeon of Pomfret Castle.

5