XIX.

LOUIS NAPOLEON AND FRENCH POLITICS.

THE French nation presents a strange spectacle to the world, and holds up an example which none would wish to imitate. It is to-day (November, 1851) a republic. Its supreme magistrate is a president, who must be a native of France, more than thirty years old, and is elected by the people. The legislature is the National Assembly, which is composed of several hundreds of members, also elected by the suffrages of the people. The president nominates three men, one of whom is chosen by the Assembly as vice president. He also selects his own cabinet. The general day of election is the second Sunday in May, every fourth year. The salary of the president is six hundred thousand francs, in addition to which frequent appropriations are made for the extra expenses of these officers.

Louis Philippe came to the throne of France in 1830, in the midst of the existence of several distinct parties. The Republicans were clamorous for a democracy; the Legitimists for the restoration of the elder branch of the Bourbon family; while a middle class looked to the house of Orleans as the only hope of their blooddrunken nation. Lafayette presented Louis Philippe as the representative of a liberal government; and he was accepted by the people, and crowned accordingly. From the day of his coronation up to the year 1848, he continued to reign, his throne ever surrounded by

traitors Segment empts made upon his life, and storm and tempest contamly bring around him. Ee was on the whole, a good king, a man of tolerable izlect with 1 good knowledge of human nature, and an instinctive hire of peace and order. During his administration public ballings were erected the arts fonished, and the nation was prosperous and happy. But, overlocking a these considerations, the people thirsted for revolution Banquets were held, at which the revolutionary orators made violent speeches. Fierce and angry discussions were held in the House of Depu ties. Ledru Rein, Lamartine, and Barrot, each with a point to carry, harangued the people. In February, the waves of anarchy began to dash against the throne. Paris was full of troops; groups, in suppressed murmurs, were heard discussing the state of the nation; night and day, soldiers, with drawn swords, were stationed all over Paris, and stood in dumb silence, awaiting they knew not what. The people expected the overturning of the throne. They did not wait long; for soon, one evening, groups were seen with torches and red flags parading the streets, excited by their wild leaders. One of these processions reaches the Hotel of Foreign Affairs, where a column of soldiers is drawn up. Here a random shot is fired-no one knows by whom, or for what purpose; but it commenced the revolution, drove Louis Philippe from his throne, and changed the kingdom into a republic. Through Paris sounds the cry of terror, that blood has been shed; and when blood begins to flow in France, no one knows where it will end. The dead bodies are gathered up, placed in a cart, and hurried away. Thousands follow with these terrible trophies to the office of the National. Here every attempt is

made to inflame the passions of the people. The bodies in the dead-cart are overhauled, and the form of a female is held up, all gory and red, and inflammatory speeches are made over the terrible display. Soon the bells are sounding, the pavements of the streets are being torn up, men and women are arming themselves, and the revolution is in progress.

While all this is taking place in the street, the Tuileries has been filled with councilors. M. Molé, M. Thiers, M. Guizot, and others have been called in to consult with the perplexed king. Louis Philippe, unwilling to shed blood, hesitates; but his hesitation is fatal. While he listens to the various plans, a messenger rushes in to tell him that the soldiers are giving away their arms to the people. The commandant still declares that the revolution can be stayed; that one broadside would drive back the masses who are filling the Place de la Concorde. Hour after hour is wasted, and the rage of the people knows no bounds. At length, the king gives orders to have the soldiers fire upon the mob. But the old officer shakes his head, and exclaims, "Too late!" The only alternative is abdication, and Louis Philippe writes his withdrawal from the throne, in behalf of his grandson, the Count of Paris. One scene follows another in quick succession. First, the king is seen taking the arm of the queen, and, followed by members of the royal family, passing out of a side door into a cab found in the street, and hurrying away into a returnless exile. Then the Duchess of Orleans is seen in the Chamber of Deputies, with her two children, pleading for their rights, while over her hangs the sword, and around her shout the infuriated madmen. She is the widow of the oldest son of the king, and is arrayed in mourning yet for

the sad death of her husband, who was thrown from his carriage and killed a while before. She comes into the Chamber of Deputies with the vain hope of restoring the tottering throne, and saving for her son the remnant of royalty. As she approaches the tribune, she moves her veil, and casts her calm blue eye around upon the astonished and bewildered deputies, as if to read her fate in their countenances. In one hand she leads the young king, who has just been made sovereign of France by the abdication of his grandfather; in the other she holds the hand of the other child, the Duke of Chartres-two beautiful children, wearing short, black jackets, with snow-white collars, and a slight regal ornament suspended from the neck. Murmurs of approbation follow her as she moves on. Her pale and serene look saddens all hearts, and all resentment and revenge are banished from the breasts of the members. She takes her seat at the foot of the tribune, and utters a silent but beautiful appeal to the feelings of the deputies. Speech after speech is made, and it seems as if the tide is turning in favor of monarchy, when shouts are heard without. Rude voices clamor for admittance; guns are discharged in the street; and a crowd of assailants burst into the Chamber. They look with glaring eyes upon the beautiful duchess and her children, and cry, "Why is she here?" The tide which had begun to set towards royalty begins to roll back again. The deputies grow pale, the duchess trembles, and her children clap their hands with joy at the scenes around them. Their mother, with a paper in her hand, arose to speak; but they would not hear her, and she sat down in confusion, feeling that her case was hopeless. Soon the chamber was full of wild armed men, and the very tribune was gleaming with bayonets.

The whole scene was wild beyond description. One who witnessed it gives the following account:—

"The people were heard rushing against the door on the left, at the foot of the tribune. The clash of arms, the cries, shouts, questions, and groans of men, confounded together, rang through the corridors.

"The hall and the tribunes sprang up at a bound. Men with outstretched arms, bayonets, sabers, bars of iron, and torn standards above their heads, forced their way into the hemicycle. It was the column of Captain Dunoyer, swelled by the Republicans it had recruited on its route. This column had first entered the Tuileries pellmell with the masses of insurgents who had invaded the chateau by all its entrances. They had there saved the municipal guards and the soldiers forgotten in the retreat. Afterwards reaching the throne room, the column had been there preceded by Lagrange, the enthusiastic combatant of the insurrections of Lyons and Paris.

"Lagrange held in his hand the abdication, which he had taken, as we have seen, from Marshal Gérard at the moment when the old warrior displayed it before the people to disarm them.

66

Lagrange, mounted on a bench, read the abdication, and then, surveying his auditory with an inquisitive look and a smile of disdain, he seemed to ask if this miserable satisfaction were sufficient for the blood poured out for three days. No! no!' cried the victors. No royalty, nor reign!' Bravo, friends,' cried Lagrange; we must have the republic.' this word, the applause broke forth. Orators took the very throne for a tribune. They mounted it, and there proclaimed the abolition of royalty. Captain Dunoyer and his men detached one of the flags that decorated

At