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splendid task of making the festivities of June next a magnificent object lesson in the essential unity of the British race. No fitter time could be found in which statesmanship and patriotism might combine to take a step towards the great goal of Imperial Federation. The past justifies big aspirations for the future; our heritage is one which we should not only strive to preserve, but to improve upon. Let that be the moral of our reflections on 1497--1897 and all that the interval teaches and implies.

EDWARD SALMON.

From The London Quarterly Review. HENRI ROCHEFORT'S ADVENTURES.1

If it be true that "modern history tends neither to tragedy nor to comedy, but to sensational melodrama," M. Rochefort's life, as here presented, may be taken as a typical epitome of one part of modern history. It bas not been without its touches of true tragedy, and comedy in all its shapes is found in it, but melodrama in excelsis is the most complete and accurate description of this chequered and astonishing career. The story loses nothing in the telling, but, after all deductions on the score of personal bias and of literary exigency, it will take its place among the most amazing and romantic stories of the time. A restless, turbulent, ungovernable spirit, born, as he himself says, with the "instinct of revolution," M. Rochefort has been, throughout his public life, a political Ishmael. "Out with you, but not that I may take your place!" has always been his maxim towards all constituted authorities, and, not unnaturally, those authorities have not relished his disinterested attentions. His hand, in politics, has been against every man and every man and every government he has assailed has of necessity been against him.

1 The Adventures of My Life. By Henri Rochefort. Arranged for English readers by the author and Ernest W. Smith. 2 vols. London: Edward Arnold. 1896.

At one time or another [he says] I have experienced nearly every imaginable sensation. For more than a quarter of a century I have been like a man on a switchback railway, continually plunged from the highest summits into the darkest depths. . . . I have tasted every joy and As journalist, deputy, and outlaw, I have chewed the cud of every bitterness. . moved in all classes of society. . . . I have been shaken by events, and played a rôle in nearly every catastrophe.

He does not tell us that he has attacked his enemies with every poisoned weapon in his armory-every poisoned weapon to be found in any fiend's armory-pursuing them with hatred that has never scrupled to insult the living and revile the dead, and that in the midst of all the virulence and violence of his political career he never once was visited by even a momentary qualm of conscience or remorse. But this, and much more in the way of ostentatious irreligion and malicious wit, of barbarous delight in raking up old scandals and parading new onesrarely and faintly relieved, here and yonder, by a gleam of kindly feeling towards the helpless and oppressed—is only too apparent in the pages of this purely pagan book. The only way to read it with composure is to skip the scandal heaped around the name of Marie Antoinette, of Josephine, of Napoleon III., of the Empress Eugenie, of Gambetta, and, by a shameless piece of candor, that of the writer himself; to shut one's eyes to "the extreme examples" which abound in it of "the application of the imagination to contemporary history;" to believe implicitly in M. Rochefort and to yield one's self to the stream of his pellucid and vivacious narrative. If at the close we find it difficult, in spite of all his biting wit and ruthless savagery, to understand how such a man, a man of noble ancestry and not without the cultured tastes of the noblesse, should choose and glory in a life of hardship and of exile, from motives inconsistent with the honesty and the integrity for which he would seem to plead, it will not be from any failure in his self-assurance, which is

consummate, or in the unflagging spirit by which, to the end, his pretences are sustained.

Born in 1831, Henri Rochefort was just of the right age to be carried away by the exciting events of 1848 and 1851. His grandfather, the Marquis de Rochefort de Lucay, a distant descendant, it is said, of an offshoot of a sovereign house, the original Counts of Champagne, had lost his title at the French Revolution, together with his immense estates, valued at ten million francs, in the Berri, not far from George Sand's literary home at Nohant. His father, plain M. Rochefort, was penniless, and, but for his scanty earnings as a dramatist, the family would have been brought up in the direst penury. Henri was a youth at the College of St. Louis, in the Rue de la Harpe, when Louis Phillipe escaped from Paris, and he made his début in politics by scaling the college walls with some companions and joining the Revolutionists. "Shut up!" they cried to the astonished Latin professor, when he began his lecture, "they are murdering our brothers;" and off they started helter-skelter through the

streets.

Aunt Guérin appeared at a window overlooking the quais and was stupefied to see her nephew, looking like a brigand, with his hair blown out in the wind, hurrying through the streets of Paris at the head of an armed troop to attack the palace of the kings. I heard her call the children and scream, "It's Henri!" I looked up, waved my hand, and continued my triumphal

way.

On leaving college, Rochefort had to earn a livelihood and to help his family

to live. From the first he felt that he was born to be a writer, but it was not until after he had exhausted other means of living that he trusted to his pen. Several years were spent as tutor and as clerk in the Hotel de Ville, before he found his métier as a writer of lampoons. He had written one-act plays and poems and had acted as dramatic critic in his room in the Rue Saint Victor-a garret into which "the

light came from above, like a bad example." At the age of twenty-two he was admitted, as a penny-a-liner, on the staff of the Charivari, "the writer to pay for every line beyond the first hundred." On this, and on another forgotten journal, he acquired "the art of saying something while appearing to say nothing," as in one of his first onslaughts on Napoleon III. "We have bad news of the emperor to-day. He is better." For several years he worked for Villemessant, the founder of the Figaro, and distinguished himself by the wit and virulence of his attacks upon the emperor. "You don't want to become an academician, do you?" said Villemessant, on engaging him. "Oh, no!" "Well, then, go ahead! Don't be afraid of letting your pen follow your caprices. Hurl jokes at everybody and make everybody laugh." The free hand thus given him had a good deal to answer for. By the time the fourth number was published he had two duels on hand, which led his colleagues to declare that he was in luck's way. In 1867 he wrote the famous article on the emperor's exploits as a sportsman, in which he said that when the emperor went shooting there was always a rabbit which "pretended to fall dead." This coup de lapin might have cost the paper dear.

Pietri commanded Villemessant to appear again at the Prefectorial Bureau. It was there pointed out to him how insulting it was to the majesty of the throne to allege that the three hundred and fifty rabbits composing the bag were one and

the same rabbit, which had contented itself with shamming dead, and had disappeared behind the scenes to come forward again like the supernumeraries in a military spectacle on the stage.

The Figaro was not suppressed, but Rochefort was required, as the alternative, to quit the staff.

His next move was to start the Lanterne, the little red-backed weekly pamphlet with a lantern on the cover, and a rope. This brought him worldwide notoriety, and is still called up by every mention of his name. It was a

veritable tomahawk to the emperor, and a torpedo to the empire. In the earlier numbers, sold by hundreds of thousands, Rochefort set himself to prove the emperor's illegitimacy, and ridicule his title and his claims. He complained that he had been misunderstood. In reality, he had always been profoundly Bonapartist; only, he had claimed the right to choose his own pet hero in the dynasty. He had chosen one that was apocryphal. "As a Bonapartist, I prefer Napoleon II. In my mind he represents the ideal of a sovereign. No one will deny that he has occupied the throne, because his successor calls himself Napoleon III." The emperor was a Dutchman, and no Corsican at all.

Any weapon was good enough for me to use to sap the respect with which they affected to surround that official dummy called "the person of the sovereign." Ah! that unfortunate sovereign. I twisted and wrung it like an old towel. I wrote the following, for example: "The State has commanded M. Barye to execute an equestrian statue of Napoleon III. Everybody knows that M. Barye is one of our most celebrated sculptors of animals."

The eleventh number of this venomous publication contained a veiled incitement (so it was interpreted) to assassinate the emperor. The paper was seized, and Rochefort, to evade arrest, escaped to Brussels, where he soon became the guest of Victor Hugo, who encouraged him to prosecute his paper warfare with unceasing virulence.

The glimpses Rochefort gives of Hugo's home-life are most interesting. In the poet's dining-room there stood a great armchair which no one was allowed to occupy. Between its arms the dead are supposed to take their seat

and listen to the conversation. The poet's bedroom was his study. It was an attic, through the roof of which the sky was visible and the rain came down. Rochefort had the privilege of entrance to this sanctum.

I used to open the small door of the tiny room with all sorts of precautions, for fear of treading on the wet pages of manuscript

that, not daring to put one upon the other, he used to spread out on his bed, on the mantelpiece, and on the floor. In consequence, to take my place, I had to execute a sort of egg dance. As proof of the rapidity with which he worked, the bluish paper of medium size on which he wrote scarcely

ever had time to dry before he started on a fresh sheet. It is true he used to spread out his lines to such an extent that each page only contained a dozen at the outside. One morning I asked him rather indiscreetly: "When you have finished one of these pages, what have you earned?” "About a hundred francs," he answered.

or

Hugo was as regular in his habits as John Wesley. "Every evening, however absorbing the conversation, whatever the number of visitors, he would be off to bed exactly as the clock struck ten, while he always rose at six precisely." One morning he was up at four to fortify his guest with parting counsels and poached eggs before he started out to fight one of his innumerable duels. Throughout these months at Brussels the Lanterne was issued week by week, but under the greatest difficulties. How to pass it through the frontier was the problem, and the ruses by which it was smuggled into France were most ingenious and amusing.

A cigar-dealer, who was friendly with employee of the French Legation at Brusthe Hugos, told us that he had bribed an sels to smuggle cigars into France in despatch-boxes, which, owing to the diplomatic immunity, were not examined by the customs authorities on the French frontier. He lent us one of these boxes, and the stratagem answered admirably, until one day the minister of foreign affairs received a consignment of cigars instead of his diplomatic papers. The Lanterne was not seized, but we knew the

rose was blown, and that our next batch would never get beyond the frontier. We then sent them stuffed in plaster busts of Napoleon III. himself. We circulated the report that these statues were destined to replace the out-of-date ones in the municipal offices throughout France. As there were thirty-six thousand communes, we gave ourselves a very substantial margin. Our employees walked past the French Customs officers with a bust on each arm,

but unfortunately one of them happened Bashi-Bazouks, in which I undertook a to be insecurely fixed upon its pedestal, and fell in pieces at the feet of the authorities. My pamphlets were scattered in all directions, and, as the police would say, we were caught red-handed. The incident was so comic that our disappointment was well compensated by the ridicule which fell on the Tuileries man. We at once hit upon another combination.

Returning to Paris in 1869 as a candidate for the first electoral division, Rochefort was arrested on the frontier, and this ineptitude on the part of the government carried him into the house of deputies by an overwhelming majority. Next day he was released, but then it was too late. The populace had been aroused to fury by the news of his arrest. The Grand Salon de Montmartre was crowded with electors waiting his arrival.

Suddenly a wild rumor spread through the mass-"Rochefort is arrested!" The proprietor of the Grand Salon has since told me that the yelling, stamping, and beating of the walls was so violent that he feared the building would collapse. Men were delirious with anger and indignation. So great was the excitement that even Albiot could not make himself heard for quite ten minutes, although everybody in the hall was awaiting his declaration.

When Rochefort himself attempted to address the electors during the campaign, he could not be heard, but not because of the enthusiasm, feverish as that always was. Like many other brilliant writers, he was no orator.

My election speeches were quite incoherent. My task, however, was a very easy one, for I had only to open my mouth to excite applause. One of my meetings was reported in three lines by a ministerial newspapers - "He appears - (Vive Rochefort)! A glass of water is handed to him-(Vive Rochefort)! He wipes his He leaves the face (Vive Rochefort)! platform-(Vive Rochefort)!"

Nor did he shine in the French Parliament. His speeches were made up of brief invectives and retorts. His eloquence appeared in his new paper, the Marseillaise, a veritable journal of

daily and conscientious attack on the empire, and everybody connected with it." The only outburst he records from all his speeches in the chamber has sometimes been quoted as his masterpiece. When his name was called out at the Louvre, on the occasion of the oath-taking after the election, the emperor, who presided, was seen to laugh. A few days after, Rochefort and his friend Raspail brought in a bill abolishing the conscription, which was greeted with loud jeers. The opportunity had come.

I asked permission to make a personal explanation, and, amid the breathless silence, hurled this little speech at the majority: "The minister has taken the liberty of describing our bill as ridiculous

and childish. The policy of the government appears to be to ridicule all our acts and words. The chief of the State has been the first to adopt this attitude by daring to laugh when the name of the deputy

for the first division of Paris was called out in his presence. The emperor grossly insulted the universal suffrage on which he pretends to rely. In any case, if I am ridiculous, I shall never be so ridiculous as the individual who walked about the promenade at Boulogne with an eagle on his shoulder, and a lump of lard in his hat."

For a violent article on what he calls the murder of Victor Noir by Pierre, son of Lucien, Bonaparte, Rocherort sent to prison on the ninth of February, 1870, and there he remained till he was rescued by the Paris mob soon after the disaster of Sedan. "Covered with flowers, and entwined like Maypoles with colored ribbons," he and his fellow-prisoners were carried to the Hotel de Ville, where the provisional Etienne government sitting. Arago, who was walking up and down the pavement gesticulating, threw himself into Rochefort's arms, and shouted, "Vive la République," at the top of his voice. "Vive la République! my child," he repeated. "The Mayor of Paris embraces you!" In response to the clamors of the crowd, the hero of the hour was made a member of the govern

was

ment, Jules Favre "consoling himself with the reflection, 'It is better to have him with us than against us."" At that moment, Rochefort thinks, he might have had the dictatorship if he had wished. Instead of this, he threw himself into the work of preparation for the coming siege of Paris, and firmly stood between the furious populace and the government until the "shilly-shallying" of Trochu and Jules Favre rendered his position untenable. Speaking of the horrors of the siege, the author notes, as M. Zola in "La Débacle" observes, that, in the dearth of solid food, the people formed the habit of excessive drinking which since then grown to such alarming proportions.

1

has

Specialists [says M. Rochefort] have established the fact that, during the interval between the siege and the hour at which I am writing, the sale of absinthe and similar poisons has reached such proportions, that alcoholism is extending throughout the country like a cancer, threatening to undermine not only our health, but our race.

During the Commune Rochefort devoted himself almost exclusively to his paper, the Mot d'Ordre, and by his criticisms, both of the government at Versailles and of the Paris insurgents, he placed himself between two fires. It is clear that he was never directly connected with the Communards; he so ruthlessly attacked their chiefs that he only escaped the fate of Darboy and the other hostages by flight. But flight in this case meant arrest outside the walls of Paris by the agents of the Government of Thiers, for inciting an attack upon whose house, and for other crimes and misdemeanors, he was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment. The account of his arrest at Meaux, which was still in the hands of the Germans, is characteristic and amusing. The general in command was in high dudgeon because the prisoner had been taken without his authority.

He compelled the commissary to lead him to the prison. . . . His severe look led Eng. Trans. Chatto & Windus, p. 497.

me to think at first that he was going to take revenge for the warlike policy I had advocated during the siege, and the resignation I had sent to the National Assembly, rather than approve the treaty of peace. . . . I could not have been more his manner, he approached me with a completely deceived. Suddenly changing gracious air, and said, "You are M. Henri Rochefort, the celebrated author of the Lanterne, are you not?" I replied with a sign of acquiescence, and he continued. "You were arrested yesterday without my knowledge. I am master here. My name is General My rather knew your grandfather at Coblentz during the emigration period. Kindly take my arm; you are going to leave this prison with me." It was a tempting offer. . . . I took a moment to reflect. The prospect of being set at liberty upon the order of the men who had just dismembered my country seemed to me to be inacceptable, and I replied to much the would-be liberator, "I am obliged to you, sir. Unfortunately I cannot allow myself to take advantage of the assistance you propose. You will understand why." I saluted him, and returned to the garden to continue my walk.

The very same day he was hurried off by a special commissary from Versailles, who threatened to blow out his brains at the least sign of resistance. and for many weeks he expected hourly to be led out to summary execution. In September, 1871, he was tried, on several counts, before a military tribunal, and sentenced to "perpetual transportation in a fortified place."

This was interpreted by the government to mean Noumea, in New Caledonia. Victor Hugo pleaded with De Broglie, "that political and literary nonentity," for a modification of the sentence as "commuted" by the authorities. Why Noumea? Everybody knew that with his delicate constitution. Rochefort would be broken by the long and frightful voyage, or devoured by the climate, or killed by pining for his native land. The sentence as "com. muted" was a sentence of death.

It will be a day of mourning, indeed. when France learns that the grave has opened for this brilliant and valiant mind! It is a writer whose fate is at stake, and

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