fault, at any rate, is a fault on the right side, more especially in one gifted with so facile a lyrical pen as Mr. Swinburne. Some few years back his Muse was reproached in the pages of this magazine with having too feminine a voice. No one would dream of denying that 'Bothwell' is thoroughly masculine. We are rather disposed to doubt if, in even the best passages, there is not too much rhetoric, and too little of real fancy and imagination. We have abundance of splendid declamation, but of striking metaphors, similes, and figures of speech rather a paucity. Moreover-but this is the old sin of garrulousness-the same figures of speech are used and utilised over and over again, especially by the Queen. Nevertheless, when every just allowance has been made for the objections we have thought it our duty to urge, Bothwell' ought to advance Mr. Swinburne's reputation; and if he will only listen to critics as admiring yet as candid as ourselves, he may advance that reputation still farther by a more economical exercise of his abundant powers.

Monsieur Chauvin.

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DAUDET.

It was on a Sunday early in July, 1870, at the commencement of what we then called "the Hispano-Prussian incident," that this celebrated personage first came visibly before my eyes. I had never before beheld him in the flesh, but nevertheless I recognised him instantly. Tall, gaunt, and grizzled was he in form, with fiery complexion, aquiline nose, and round gleaming eyes, which seemed to pass in review almost menacingly all the occupants of our railway compartment-save only one decorated old soldier in a corner. And when he at length opened his mouth, there was something in the tone of his voice and in the terrible roll he gave to the letter r in speaking of "la Frrance" and "le drapeau Frrançais," that awakened slumbering recollections in my mind as if he had long been in some way familiar to me. "It is CHAUVIN," I said to myself.

Chauvin indeed it was, and Chauvin at his best; declaiming, gesticulating; slapping Prussia in the face, as it were, with the newspaper he held; marching into Berlin, in his mind's eye, with vengeful cane high in air; deaf to entreaties for peace-blind to all obstacles. "War! There must be war despite all considerations!"

"And how if we are not ready, M. Chauvin ?"

"Monsieur, the French are always ready!" replied Chauvin, starting up; and from under his moustache, as he uttered the word "Français," the letter r seemed to roll out so vehemently as to make the window glasses vibrate.

Irritating fool!" said I to myself, "how well I now comprehend all the jests and songs which have given your name so ridiculous a celebrity !"

After this first encounter I made oath to myself to sedulously avoid this personage; but a singular fate threw him almost continually in my way. First he turned up at the Senate the day that M. de Grammont came forward to announce formally to our Conscript Fathers the declaration of war. In the midst of the tumultuous hum and clamour, a resonant shout of " Vive la France !" came forth from the galleries, and I perceived high up there Chauvin waving his long arms about, evidently in a state of rapturous enthusiasm. Some time after I met him at the Opera, standing up to demand the Rhin Allemand,' and crying to the company-who as yet hardly knew it-"Il faudra done plus de temps pour l'apprendre que pour le prendre."

Soon my senses seemed incessantly filled up with this figure of Chauvin. Everywhere, at street corners, on the boulevards, either perched on a bench or standing on a café table, this absurd figure met my eyes in the midst of the beating drums, of the waving banners, of the crowd gone half-mad with its Marseillaise ;' now pressing cigars on our departing braves, now applauding ambulances and vivandières; always heading and infecting the crowd with his enthusiasm; and so enthusiastic, so fierce, so confident, that one would have thought there must be at least six hundred thousand Chauvins in Paris. Truly, it began to seem imperative to remain in one's house with closed doors and window blinds down in order to gain relief from this insupportable vision. But how to contain oneself within when Wissembourg, Forbach, Wörth, and a whole series of disasters gathered on us, turning the month of August into one long, nigh unbroken nightmare? How could one overcome the instinct to mingle oneself with the restless feverish crowd which thronged about the news kiosques and the fresh bulletins of ill omen, which left every night groups of fearful, sombre faces under the gaslights of the boulevards? On these nights, then, did I again constantly pass and repass M. Chauvin. He would be moving along the boulevards from group to group holding forth, he, brief addresses full of hope to the crowd; sure of success, undoubting of good news, he, as yet-repeating to you twenty times over that "the White Cuirassiers of Bismarck have been cut down to the last man!"

Strange it was! Already Chauvin began to appear to me far less ridiculous than at first. I could not in any way feel confidence in a word of his news; but all the same it seemed to give me pleasure to hear him. With all his wildness, his vain-glory, and his gross ignorance, there seemed to be in this devil of a man a species of moral force, a kind of sympathetic flame which communicated warmth to the hearts of his fellows.

We had ample necessity for the warmth of this sympathetic flame during the long months of the siege, and that terrible winter of dog's bread and horse beef which was at hand. Every Parisian must admit it-but for Chauvin Paris would not have held out eight days. From the first Trochu said to himself, "They will enter when it pleases them." "They shall never enter," said Chauvin. In Chauvin there was faith and earnestness-Trochu lacked those qualities. Chauvin had faith in everything that was patriotic: in the famous plan of the Governor of Paris deposited with his notary; in Bazaine's successful escape from Metz; in the sorties; in the approach of relief from Tours; every night he could distinctly hear the cannon of Chanzy in the direction of Etampes, or the tirailleurs of Faidherbe behind Enghien; and what is still more admirable, it seemed to us that we too heard them-so strangely did the sympathetic soul of

this heroic simpleton exercise its influence on us also. Poor, brave Chauvin! It was always he who was the first to descry upon the leaden, snow-charged horizon the fluttering white wings of our little pigeon messengers. When Gambetta sent us one of his pieces of excited eloquence, it was always Chauvin who, with resounding voice, read it out at the gates of the Mairie. In those dreary nights of December, when the long lines of shivering wretches stood murmuring for their turn before the butcher's shops, Chauvin bravely took his place in the file, and thanks to him all those half-famished beings seemed to find again the spirits to sing, to laugh, to dance on the thick snow. 'Le, Lon, La, laissez les passer, les Prussiens dans la Lorraine' would strike up Chauvin, and the poor chilled feet would move in measure, and the haggard faces assume for a moment the colours of health. Alas! all was to go for naught. One evening, in passing up the Rue Drouot, I fell in with a great crowd pressing in silent anxiety round the Mairie; and there fell upon my ears, as I stood there nearly in the centre of our great sombre Paris-no longer luminous with the old brilliancy of gas, no longer noisy with the old ceaseless rattle of vehicles-the voice of Chauvin solemnly uplifting itself once more, "We occupy the heights of Montretout!" Eight days after all was over.

From this moment forward Chauvin crossed my gaze only at long intervals. Two or three times I saw him on the boulevards gesticulating wildly and talking of "la Revanche" (still an r to roll out); but none now paid attention to him. Kid-gloved Paris was longing to resume its round of pleasures; the Paris of the blouses was thinking of nothing but its democratic "cholers ;" and poor Chauvin vainly swayed his gaunt shoulders; the groups in the streets, in lieu of gathering round him as heretofore, seemed rather to disperse at his approach. "Tiresome fool!" said one; "mouchard," muttered others.

The insurrection now drew on; the "drapeau rouge,” the Commune, Paris as it were delivered over to all the Powers of Darkness. Chauvin became "suspect," and could hardly venture out in the light of day. On that momentous day, however, when our famous column -that column

"Que chacun de nous regardait
Étant fier d'être Français,"

was overthrown by Felix Pyat's engineers, Chauvin must have been lugubriously lurking in some corner of the Place Vendôme, hoping perchance for some providential interposition against what must have seemed to him almost a sacrilege.

One divined him amidst the crowd. The gamins insulted him with their cries, although they could hardly catch sight of him. "Ohé Chauvin!" they shouted. And when the column fell, alas! some

Prussian officers, drinking champagne at a window of the Etat-Major, chuckled gleefully," Ah, ah! Mossié Chaufin."

Till the 23rd May, Chauvin gave no longer the least sign of life. Hidden in a deep cellar, the poor fellow gradually wasted away listening to the shells of French artillerymen whistling over the roofs of Paris. On that day, at last, in the interval of two cannonades, he resolved to set foot outside.

The street seemed strangely empty and vast. At one end a barricade frowned menacingly, surmounted by its cannon and the "drapeau rouge;" at the other two dapper little Chasseurs de Vincennes could be perceived gliding along by the wall-side, fusil projected forward; the troops of Versailles were making way into Paris. The heart of Chauvin bounded. "Vive la France!" he cried, running towards the advancing soldiers.

His voice died away in a double fusillade. The poor wretch had found the ill-fortune to be caught between the fires of the two parties. He was seen to roll death-stricken in the middle of the unpaved street, where his body lay quietly for two days, the arms outstretched, the face looking calmly up to heaven.

Thus died Chauvin, victim of our civil wars. style him the last Frenchman!

One may almost