The Paris Sketch Book of Mr. M. A. Titmarsh Part 28

Three or four years back, when Fieschi and Lacenaire were executed, I made attempts to see the execution of both; but was disappointed in both cases. In the first instance, the day for Fieschi's death was, purposely, kept secret; and he was, if I remember rightly, executed at some remote quarter of the town. But it would have done a philanthropist good, to witness the scene which we saw on the morning when his execution did NOT take place.

It was carnival time, and the rumor had pretty generally been carried abroad that he was to die on that morning. A friend, who accompanied me, came many miles, through the mud and dark, in order to be in at the death. We set out before light, floundering through the muddy Champs Elysees; where, besides, were many other persons floundering, and all bent upon the same errand. We pa.s.sed by the Concert of Musard, then held in the Rue St. Honore; and round this, in the wet, a number of coaches were collected. The ball was just up, and a crowd of people in hideous masquerade, drunk, tired, dirty, dressed in horrible old frippery, and daubed with filthy rouge, were trooping out of the place: tipsy women and men, shrieking, jabbering, gesticulating, as French will do; parties swaggering, staggering forwards, arm in arm, reeling to and fro across the street, and yelling songs in chorus: hundreds of these were bound for the show, and we thought ourselves lucky in finding a vehicle to the execution place, at the Barriere d'Enfer. As we crossed the river and entered the Enfer Street, crowds of students, black workmen, and more drunken devils from more carnival b.a.l.l.s, were filling it; and on the grand place there were thousands of these a.s.sembled, looking out for Fiaschi and his cortege. We waited and waited; but alas! no fun for us that morning: no throat-cutting; no august spectacle of satisfied justice; and the eager spectators were obliged to return, disappointed of their expected breakfast of blood. It would have been a fine scene, that execution, could it but have taken place in the midst of the mad mountebanks and tipsy strumpets who had flocked so far to witness it, wis.h.i.+ng to wind up the delights of their carnival by a bonnebouche of a murder.

The other attempt was equally unfortunate. We arrived too late on the ground to be present at the execution of Lacenaire and his co-mate in murder, Avril. But as we came to the ground (a gloomy round s.p.a.ce, within the barrier--three roads lead to it; and, outside, you see the wine-shops and restaurateurs' of the barrier looking gay and inviting,)--as we came to the ground, we only found, in the midst of it, a little pool of ice, just partially tinged with red. Two or three idle street-boys were dancing and stamping about this pool; and when I asked one of them whether the execution had taken place, he began dancing more madly than ever, and shrieked out with a loud fantastical, theatrical voice, "Venez tous Messieurs et Dames, voyez ici le sang du monstre Lacenaire, et de son compagnon he traitre Avril," or words to that effect; and straightway all the other gamins screamed out the words in chorus, and took hands and danced round the little puddle.

O august Justice, your meal was followed by a pretty appropriate grace!

Was any man, who saw the show, deterred, or frightened, or moralized in any way? He had gratified his appet.i.te for blood, and this was all. There is something singularly pleasing, both in the amus.e.m.e.nt of execution-seeing, and in the results. You are not only delightfully excited at the time, but most pleasingly relaxed afterwards; the mind, which has been wound up painfully until now, becomes quite complacent and easy. There is something agreeable in the misfortunes of others, as the philosopher has told us. Remark what a good breakfast you eat after an execution; how pleasant it is to cut jokes after it, and upon it.

This merry, pleasant mood is brought on by the blood tonic.

But, for G.o.d's sake, if we are to enjoy this, let us do so in moderation; and let us, at least, be sure of a man's guilt before we murder him. To kill him, even with the full a.s.surance that he is guilty is hazardous enough. Who gave you the right to do so?--you, who cry out against suicides, as impious and contrary to Christian law? What use is there in killing him? You deter no one else from committing the crime by so doing: you give us, to be sure, half an hour's pleasant entertainment; but it is a great question whether we derive much moral profit from the sight. If you want to keep a murderer from farther inroads upon society, are there not plenty of hulks and prisons, G.o.d wot; treadmills, galleys, and houses of correction? Above all, as in the case of Sebastian Peytel and his family, there have been two deaths already; was a third death absolutely necessary? and, taking the fallibility of judges and lawyers into his heart, and remembering the thousand instances of unmerited punishment that have been suffered, upon similar and stronger evidence before, can any man declare, positively and upon his oath, that Peytel was guilty, and that this was not THE THIRD MURDER IN THE FAMILY?

FOUR IMITATIONS OF BeRANGER

LE ROI D'YVETOT.

Il etait un roi d'Yvetot, Peu connu dans l'histoire; Se levant tard, se couchant tot, Dormant fort bien sans gloire, Et couronne par Jeanneton D'un simple bonnet de coton, Dit-on.

Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah!

Quel bon pet.i.t roi c'etait la!

La, la.

Il fesait ses quatre repas Dans son palais de chaume, Et sur un ane, pas a pas, Parcourait son royaume.

Joyeux, simple et croyant le bien, Pour toute garde il n'avait rien Qu'un chien.

Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c.

La, la.

Il n'avait de gout onereux Qu'une soif un peu vive; Mais, en rendant son peuple heureux, Il faux bien qu'un roi vive.

Lui-meme a table, et sans suppot, Sur chaque muid levait un pot D'impot.

Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c.

La, la.

Aux filles de bonnes maisons Comme il avait su plaire, Ses sujets avaient cent raisons De le nommer leur pere: D'ailleurs il ne levait de ban Que pour tirer quatre fois l'an Au blanc.

Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c.

La, la.

Il n'agrandit point ses etats, Fut un voisin commode, Et, modele des potentats, Prit le plaisir pour code.

Ce n'est que lorsqu'il expira, Que le peuple qui l'enterra Pleura.

Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c.

La, la.

On conserve encor le portrait De ce digne et bon prince; C'est l'enseigne d'un cabaret Fameux dans la province.

Les jours de fete, bien souvent, La foule s'ecrie en buvant Devant: Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah!

Quel bon pet.i.t roi c'etait la!

La, la.

THE KING OF YVETOT.

There was a king of Yvetot, Of whom renown hath little said, Who let all thoughts of glory go, And dawdled half his days a-bed; And every night, as night came round, By Jenny, with a nightcap crowned, Slept very sound: Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!

That's the kind of king for me.

And every day it came to pa.s.s, That four l.u.s.ty meals made he; And, step by step, upon an a.s.s, Rode abroad, his realms to see; And wherever he did stir, What think you was his escort, sir?

Why, an old cur.

Sing ho, ho, ho! &c.

If e'er he went into excess, 'Twas from a somewhat lively thirst; But he who would his subjects bless, Odd's fis.h.!.+--must wet his whistle first; And so from every cask they got, Our king did to himself allot, At least a pot.

Sing ho, ho! &c.

To all the ladies of the land, A courteous king, and kind, was he; The reason why you'll understand, They named him Pater Patriae.

Each year he called his fighting men, And marched a league from home, and then Marched back again.

Sing ho, ho! &c.

Neither by force nor false pretence, He sought to make his kingdom great, And made (O princes, learn from hence),-- "Live and let live," his rule of state.

'Twas only when he came to die, That his people who stood by, Were known to cry.

Sing ho, ho! &c.

The portrait of this best of kings Is extant still, upon a sign That on a village tavern swings, Famed in the country for good wine.

The people in their Sunday trim, Filling their gla.s.ses to the brim, Look up to him, Singing ha, ha, ha! and he, he, he!

That's the sort of king for me.

THE KING OF BRENTFORD. ANOTHER VERSION.

There was a king in Brentford,--of whom no legends tell, But who, without his glory,--could eat and sleep right well.

His Polly's cotton nightcap,--it was his crown of state, He slept of evenings early,--and rose of mornings late.

All in a fine mud palace,--each day he took four meals, And for a guard of honor,--a dog ran at his heels, Sometimes, to view his kingdoms,--rode forth this monarch good, And then a prancing jacka.s.s--he royally bestrode.

There were no costly habits--with which this king was curst, Except (and where's the harm on't?)--a somewhat lively thirst; But people must pay taxes,--and kings must have their sport, So out of every gallon--His Grace he took a quart.

He pleased the ladies round him,--with manners soft and bland; With reason good, they named him,--the father of his land.

Each year his mighty armies--marched forth in gallant show; Their enemies were targets--their bullets they were tow.

He vexed no quiet neighbor,--no useless conquest made, But by the laws of pleasure,--his peaceful realm he swayed.

And in the years he reigned,--through all this country wide, There was no cause for weeping,--save when the good man died.

The faithful men of Brentford,--do still their king deplore, His portrait yet is swinging,--beside an alehouse door.

And topers, tender-hearted,--regard his honest phiz, And envy times departed--that knew a reign like his.