"I am a calculator, not a speculator," was one of Labouchere's retorts to Mr. Thesiger. "A distinction," said Mr. Thesiger, when summing up for his client, "that Mr. Labouchere will be able to explain to his own satisfaction, but perhaps not to that of other people."

Mr. Grenville Murray was another able writer on the staff of the World, and was for some time Mr. Yates's partner in the proprietorship of the paper, but the partnership was dissolved because Mr. Yates disapproved of Murray's repeated attacks upon Lord Derby. It would have been well if Mr. Labouchere had been as prudent as Mr. Yates. When Mr. Labouchere started Truth, he persuaded Mr. Grenville Murray to write some of his "Queer Stories," and it was one of these that brought upon the editor of Truth the wrath, never to be assuaged, of a very important personage. Mr. Labouchere told me once that, by some accident, he never saw the "Queer Story" in question, until it had actually appeared in print. Had he done so, he should never have permitted its publication. Reference had already been made to Mr. Labouchere's somewhat imprudent championship of the ex-Consul of Odessa, but, when it was asserted in a much-read weekly that Mr. Labouchere was the proprietor of the Queen's Messenger,[17] he was obliged to send the following letter to the Times:

2 BOLTON STREET, July 5, 1869.

SIR,—Having been informed that the proprietorship of the Queen's Messenger has been attributed to me by a weekly newspaper, I shall be much obliged to you to allow me a space in your columns to deny the statement. I have not, and never had, directly or indirectly, anything to do with the Queen's Messenger.

HENRY LABOUCHERE.

An old member of the staff of the World, in a recently published article commenting upon certain unintentional misstatements of a definite nature that had appeared from time to time in the press in connection with the two gifted editors respectively of the World and Truth, said, after dealing with one relating to Mr. Labouchere's supposed partnership with Mr. Yates: "Equally contrary to fact is the statement, even more generally made and accepted, that Mr. Labouchere severed his connection with the World, and founded Truth, as the sequel of personal differences between himself and his sometime editor. No such personal differences occurred at any period; and, though Yates would have been more than human if he had rejoiced at the decision of a particularly able member of his staff to leave him, in order to start another journal, planned on parallel lines and appealing to the same public, he was far too shrewd a man of the world to show any sense of grievance or resentment. It happened that the news of Mr. Labouchere's project first reached his editor's ears through the medium of a third person; and on being challenged by Yates, as to the truth of the rumour, the imperturbable 'Labby' characteristically replied that he had decided for the future to have a pair of boots of his own with which to do his own kicking. Rivals, in a journalistic sense, as they thenceforth necessarily became, the friendly personal relations between the two were maintained to the last, and the weekly mutual corrections of 'Henry' by 'Edmund' and vice versa, which caused so much diversion to the readers of both papers, were conducted at all times in an entirely amicable spirit."[18]

Mr. Montesquieu Bellew, another journalist of that time, was an intime of Mr. Labouchere's. On the occasion of Mr. Bellew's son choosing the stage as his profession, Mr. Labouchere took the opportunity of writing in Truth a racy article, in which he related the whole story of his friendship and travels in company with this most unconventional parson. They must indeed have been a queer pair, and it is interesting to imagine the effect they must have produced together at the various tables d'hôte and social functions they attended on their journey. They became acquainted in this wise. Mr. Labouchere was idling one day on the steps of his hotel at Venice, when he noticed a gentleman paying his bill and tipping the porters preparatory to taking his departure. His carriage was waiting for him at the door. "Where are you going?" said Mr. Labouchere, on the impulse of the moment. "To the Holy Land," replied the stranger. "Wait five minutes," replied Labouchere, "and I will come with you." He flew to his room and flung his clothes into his portmanteau and joined Mr. Bellew, who was waiting for him. He did not, however, discover the identity of his travelling companion until they reached Jerusalem, although he knew that he was a clergyman, because every night before retiring to rest Mr. Bellew pressed a manuscript sermon into his hand, for "night-reading." At Jerusalem, Mr. Bellew broke to him that, his bishop being in the place, he should probably be asked to preach in the English Church. Labouchere took this as a hint that Mr. Bellew would like him to be present, so he made his plans accordingly. Finding out at what precise moment of the service the sermon would begin, he marched into the church with great impressiveness, at the head of a large band of Arabs and others, whom he had bribed to accompany him. This, he explained afterwards to Bellew, was to create in the bishop's mind the impression that Bellew was such a prodigy of piety that even the inhabitants of the country places of Syria had heard of his fame and were come in flocks to gaze upon him. The bishop's annoyance on the occasion he assured Bellew was entirely due to his jealousy of his more popular confrère. They quarrelled on the journey. Bellew pointed out to Labouchere a small stream. "That," he said, "is the source of the Jordan." Labouchere pointed out another stream, declaring that that and that alone was the source of the Jordan. They argued the matter hotly, but Labouchere was not aware how deeply Bellew had taken the affair to heart, until he found himself in bed that night with no manuscript sermon under his pillow. But Bellew was a Christian and a man of tact. The next day in the course of their wanderings, they came upon another minute trickle of water. "That," said Bellew, with a note of conciliation in his voice, "is the source of the Jordan; we were both in the wrong yesterday." "Of course it is," assented Labouchere; "how in the world we came to make such a mistake I can't imagine." From Jerusalem they went on to the Dead Sea. Bellew had picturesque-looking long white hair, which he would comb and arrange before a looking-glass that accompanied him on all his travels. This looking-glass got upon Labouchere's nerves, so one day "I got hold of it," he related, "and sent it to join Sodom and Gomorrah beneath the gloomy waters that stretched out beneath us. The next night, we pitched our tent in the desert. Dire was the confusion on rising. The looking-glass could not be found. I held my tongue respecting its fate. Probably some day or another some eminent explorer, poking about the bottom of the Dead Sea, will fish up this looking-glass, and we shall have archæologists divided in opinion, one half proving that it belonged to a lady of Sodom and the other half that it was the property of a gentleman of Gomorrah. Bellew was equal to the occasion. He managed to arrange his hair by looking into the back of a dessert spoon."[19] Mr. Bellew contributed a most interesting account of his journey to the East in the first number of Temple Bar called "Over Babylon to Baalbeck."[20] He does not, however, mention in it his travelling companion, nor any of the incidents referred to by Mr. Labouchere in his account of the same journey. Mr. Bellew subsequently joined the Church of Rome, and died in 1874. On one of Mr. Labouchere's frequent visits to Italy, he met Dumas père, with whom he had an amusing adventure. Strolling into a restaurant at Genoa for breakfast, he perceived Dumas at another table, and, seated by his side, a very pretty girl, dressed like a Circassian boy, young enough to be Dumas's granddaughter. To continue the story in his own words: "Dumas told me that they had just landed from a yacht and were spending the day in Genoa. He introduced the girl to me as Emile. After luncheon he proposed that we should all take a carriage, and go and see a show villa in the neighbourhood. When we reached the villa, we were told that it was not open to the public on that day. 'Inform your master,' said Dumas to the servant, 'that Alexandre Dumas is at his door.' The servant returned, and told us that we could enter. We were ushered into a dining-room, presenting a typically Italian domestic scene. The father and mother of the family were present, and several well-grown boys and girls. Dumas was somewhat taken aback for a moment, but introduced Emile and me vaguely as 'mes enfants.' As we were asked to sit down to coffee we made ourselves at home. Afterwards the owner showed us his garden. He and Dumas walked first. Emile and I wandered about hand-in-hand to denote our brotherly and sisterly affection. The Circassian was in a playful mood, and told me that Dumas was of a jealous disposition, which grandfathers sometimes are. He had one eye on the beauties of the garden and the other on his children. 'What are you doing?' said Dumas. I replied that I was embracing my sister. As he could not well object to this, for once, I think, I got the better of the lady's eminent grandfather." He had a story too of the younger Dumas. Labouchere was at the wedding of Mlle. Maria Dumas, and her brother, on coming to the sacristy with all the family friends for the signature of the register, looked at the document for a minute, as if perusing it carefully, and then said with mock gravity, "The accused have nothing further to add for their defence? Be it so!" And then he signed.

Mr. Labouchere's curiosity at this period of his life was insatiable. He wanted to know what it felt like to be a criminal about to be hanged. So, having procured an invitation to see all over Newgate, he carried out his experiment, and described his sensations in the columns of the Daily News. After giving a vivid account of the prison and some of its inmates, he wrote the following realistic lines: "And now we were led through a long stone passage open to the sky. This was the Newgate graveyard. Beneath each flag is the corpse of a murderer, and on the walls opposite are their initials, which have been cut by the warders to guide them through this murderous labyrinth. At the other end of the passage is the execution yard. The scaffold is put up the night before an execution, in a corner close by the door through which the condemned prisoner issues. The court is surrounded by high gloomy walls, and looks like the ante-chamber of Hades. I asked the warder whether in his opinion murderers preferred being executed in public or private. He opined the former. 'The crowd keeps them up,' he said. 'They are not so firm, now it takes place in private.' I understand this feeling. If I were going to be hanged myself I should like the ceremony to take place coram populo. I should feel myself already dead in that dreary yard; and I should prefer, I imagine, after weeks or months of prison life, to have one more look at the world, even though that world were a howling mob, before quitting it for ever.

"We passed through the chapel and were shown the chair on which the prisoners condemned to death are perched—in obedience to what seems to me a barbarous custom—to hear their last sermon, and then we entered the 'Press Room.' It is a room of moderate size with plain deal tables, benches, and cupboards. One of these latter the warder opened, and showed us Jack Sheppard's chains, and other interesting relics, which are as religiously preserved as though they had belonged to saints. A leather sort of harness was also brought out. It consisted of two belts with straps attached to the lower one for the wrists. This is the murderer's last dress, and with it round him he walks to the scaffold. I tried it on, and when my hands were buckled to my side, I pictured to myself my sensations if I had been waiting to fall into the procession to the neighbouring yard. I heard my funeral bell toll; I saw the ordinary by my side; the warders telling me that my time was up; Calcraft bustling about eager to begin. So strong was the impression that I hastened to get out of the prison, and was not fully convinced that I was not going to be hanged until I found myself in the midst of a crowd in Fleet Street, who, for reasons best known to themselves, were cheering the 'Claimant,' who was issuing from a shop, while a chimney sweep who was passing by was welcomed as Bogle, being mistaken for that dusky retainer."[21]

With reference to the "Claimant," Mr. George Augustus Sala has a curious story to relate about him and Mr. Labouchere, who, of course, took the greatest interest in the famous trial. "I saw a great deal of the Claimant during 1872," says Mr. Sala, "and I remember once dining with him and the late Mr. Serjeant Ballantine at the house of Mr. Labouchere, who then resided in Bolton Street, Piccadilly. The senior member for Northampton had, upon occasion, a curious way of putting things; and over the walnuts and the wine—of which our host was not a partaker—he startled us all by coolly asking his obese guest, 'Are you Arthur Orton?' 'Good Heavens, Mr. Labouchere,' exclaimed the stout litigant, 'what do you mean?' 'Oh, nothing in particular,' quoth Mr. Labouchere; 'help yourself to some more claret.'"[22]

Mr. Labouchere however afterwards was quite convinced that the Claimant was not Orton. When the latter was released from penal servitude in 1884, he published the following reminiscence:

"It is a curious fact that during his trial the London papers sold more copies than during the Franco-Prussian War, or any other recent eventful epoch. I confess that it never was proved absolutely to my mind that he was Arthur Orton; on the other hand, whilst there was the strongest presumption that he was, he entirely failed to make out that he was Sir Roger Tichborne. I remember once during the trial, in company with Mr. G. A. Sala, passing an evening with the 'stout nobleman' at his hotel in Jermyn Street. We found him very pleasant, and he told us many tales of his existence in Australia. He certainly had a wonderful command over his features. On that last day of the civil trial, the room at the hotel was filled with adherents, many of whom were Tichborne bondholders. Suddenly the Claimant walked in. He leant against the mantelpiece, took his cigar out of his mouth, and announced the fatal news. Great was the excitement, great was the despair and the indignation. But the Claimant calmly smoked on, apparently the only person in the room who had no sort of interest in the matter."[23]

Soon after Mr. Labouchere's founding of Truth, he became involved in several lawsuits, the most famous of which, at this period, was the one which indirectly led to his expulsion from the Beefsteak Club. He invariably commented with great wit and asperity upon his enemies, frustrated and otherwise, in the columns of his paper, and there is no doubt that its enormous popularity depended in large degree upon the fearlessness and unconventionality with which he attacked all persons of high degree and low, guilty of injustice, bullying, snobisme, or wilfully ignorant prejudice, who, for long, had been silently endured by their weaker brethren, for no other reason than because there had never before been a—Labby.

Sometimes he was accused by an envious press of being a liar. The title he had chosen for his paper possibly provoked the criticism. He was rather sensitive on the subject, and expressed a certain amount of annoyance whenever the well-known ditty of Sir Henry Bridges, "Labby in our Abbey," which was published in M. A. P., was mentioned.[24] In Truth he once produced what may be called an apposite alibi when confronted by the accusation. Some correspondent had referred rather pointedly to the existence of Lying Clubs in the last century. "There is no occasion to go back to the last century to prove the existence of Lying Clubs," he wrote. "When I was at Bishop-Auckland in County Durham, a few years ago, I found a Lying Club existing and flourishing. There were different grades of proficiency. If a man could not lie at all, he was expelled. If he lied rather badly, he was given another trial. I never knew any one expelled. I was blackballed."

[1] The Daily News was the first Liberal daily paper to be published in London and at first cost fivepence. It was afterwards reduced to threepence.

[2] Sir John Robinson, Fifty Years of Fleet Street.

[3] It was humorously said at the period that Mr. Robinson (the Manager of the Daily News) and Count Bismarck were the only persons who had gained by the war, and that only the former deserved to do so.

[4] Mr. Labouchere gave the following reasons for severing his connection with the Daily News. "On Mr. Gladstone's withdrawal from public life," he wrote in Truth, "the party, or rather a majority of the officialdom of the party became tainted with Birmingham imperialism. My convictions did not allow me to be connected with a newspaper which supported a clique of intriguers that had captured the Liberal ship, and that accepted blindly these intriguers as the representatives of Liberalism in regard to our foreign policy."

[5] Daily News, Feb. 8, 1869.

[6] Merivale and Labouchere had recently met at a dinner party at the house of the former's father.

[7] Merivale had collaborated with Palgrave Simpson in the construction of the play.

[8] Herman Merivale, Bar, Stage, and Platform.

[9] Ellen Terry, The Story of my Life.

[10] Truth, August 16, 1877.

[11] Ibid., June 12, 1877.

[12] Truth, Nov. 12, 1887.

[13] Truth, November 8, 1877.

[14] Joseph Hatton, Journalistic London.

[15] "The Ghastly Gaymarket," Truth, Dec. 8, 1881.

[16] The World, July 15, 1874.

[17] Mr. Grenville Murray, who was the editor of the Queen's Messenger, was assaulted by Lord Carrington on account of an article he wrote about the latter's father, and out of the case which Mr. Grenville Murray brought against Lord Carrington arose Mr. Murray's prosecution for perjury, which resulted in his departure from England. He died in Paris in 1881. It was at the time of the scandal aroused by the article for which Lord Carrington assaulted Grenville Murray, that Mr. Labouchere was accused of being the proprietor of the paper.

[18] The World, Jan. 23, 1912.

[19] Truth, October 11, 1877.

[20] Temple Bar, December 1, 1860.

[21] Daily News, February 19, 1872.

[22] G. A. Sala, Life and Adventures.

[23] Truth, October 23, 1884.

[24] The first and last verses are as follows:

Of all the boys that are so smart
    There's none like crafty Labby;
He learns the secret of each heart,
    And lives near our Abbey;
There is no lawyer in the land
    That's half as sharp as Labby;
He is a demon in the art
    And guileless as a babby!

The ministers and members all
    Make game of truthful Labby,
Though but for him it's said they'd be
    A sleepy set and flabby;
And when their seven long years are out,
    They hope to bury Labby;
Ah then how peacefully he'll lie,
    But not in our Abbey!

CHAPTER VI

THE BESIEGED RESIDENT

(Sept., 1870-Feb., 1871)

Mr. Labouchere was a famous raconteur and of the reminiscences he loved to recount there was no more riveting a series than the one relating his experiences as a journalist during the siege of Paris. According to the Times[1] nothing that he ever achieved in journalism or literature excelled or perhaps equalled the letters of a "Besieged Resident," which he sent from Paris to the Daily News, in the autumn and winter of 1870 and 1871. The correspondent of the Daily News in Paris at that period was the late Mr. George Morland Crawford, who had occupied the position since 1851. Mr. Crawford had already made Mr. Labouchere's acquaintance in the early sixties, when the latter was an attaché at Frankfort, and they had met again later on at Homburg. It had been the intention of Mr. Crawford to remain at his post in Paris, when an unexpected offer from Henry Labouchere to replace him temporarily caused him to alter his plans.

Mrs. Crawford has given a graphic account[2] of how Labouchere took her husband's place as correspondent. He had been in Paris with the exception of some excursions into the country for several weeks, and had invited Mr. Crawford to dine with him at Durand's on the night of September 17. The party was to have included Aurélien Scholl, celebrated then as a wit, Got of the Comédie Française, Dr. Alan Herbert, and Mr. Frank Lawley. However, the uncertainty of immediate events and the general rush of departure from the capital obliged Labouchere to put off his party. He went at about six o'clock to the Café du Vaudeville to find Mr. Crawford—first to tell him that the dinner was countermanded, and then to propose to take his place as correspondent in Paris, whilst he, Mr. Crawford, should go to Tours. Mrs. Crawford happened to be with her husband at the café, and she thus describes the impression Labouchere made upon her:

"Labby looked a young man on this, to me, memorable evening, but, at the close of the siege, frightened Odo Russell by looking almost an old one. Before my husband, who was writing, introduced us he began to talk to me and I could not make him out, but at once enjoyed his company. He had a very pleasing and intelligent face, I thought spoke a little like an American (he had been escorting a party of American young ladies to Rouen), had high caste manners, but with naturalness, and much that was the reverse of that affectation of owlish wisdom or cordial dodgery then rife in the diplomatic world. I saw that he was somebody, both on his own account, and from education, and thought that he might be some Don brought up in England, who had made himself the president of a South American Republic."

As soon as Mr. Crawford had finished his writing, Labouchere broached the subject of the Daily News. He said: "A fancy seized me, as Sheffield (of the British Embassy) told me you had sent your little children to England, and your wife had resolved to stay through the siege and give you what help she can. It is to take your place as correspondent of the Daily News, and to send you into the provinces. As I am a proprietor of the paper, Robinson won't object to this arrangement. It would be an excellent thing for my heirs were I to stop a bullet or die of starvation, but were anything of the sort to befall you it would be calamitous for you and yours. You need not leave me the six weeks' provisions which Sheffield told me you laid in, but can give them to poor neighbours. I can always get as much fresh mutton as I want from the porter of the British Embassy, who has orders to this effect. There is a flock of ewes and wethers on the grounds there, to browse on the grass and eat the hay laid in for the horses of Lord Lyons, before he had directions from Granville to go to Tours to watch events there. The only person at the Embassy is the porter. We two will have more mutton than we can eat even if the siege lasts long. The porter knows how to grow potatoes and mushrooms in an empty cellar, so that we two shall have not only meat but dainties to vary the dishes. I have arranged to have rooms at the Grand Hotel, so you see I shall be in clover."

Mrs. Crawford, who did not the least believe he was in earnest, protested that she was not at all afraid of remaining in Paris, but Labouchere persisted in his persuasions.

"If you were at all affected," he replied, "I should say, 'Don't be theatrical.' Instead of that I shall say, 'Don't be like Lot's wife.'" Then he took out his watch and explained that the last train to leave Paris between then and the end of the siege would start from the Gare St. Lazare that night at 9.40. "I advise you to go home at once," he went on, "and pack up what clothes you can for your temporary residence at the seat of the delegate government at Tours. Lyons will be glad to have you near him, for, as you can understand, he knows nothing personally of those friends of yours whom the Revolution has brought to the top."

Mrs. Crawford lost no more time in discussion, and hurried off to make her preparations in order to catch the last train by which she and her husband could get out of Paris. The 9.40 train did not leave St. Lazare that day before midnight, and such was its weight of passengers and baggage that no fewer than three engines had to be coupled on.

The next day Mr. Labouchere sent his first letter to London, in his capacity of Paris correspondent to the Daily News. The mails continued to leave Paris regularly for another three days, but the chaos that prevailed in the post-office did not inspire the citizens who entrusted their correspondence to its tender care with overmuch confidence.

"Everybody was in military uniform," writes Labouchere, "everybody was shrugging his shoulders, and everybody was in the condition of a London policeman, were he to see himself marched off to prison by a street sweeper. That the Prussians should have taken the Emperor prisoner and have vanquished the French armies, had of course astonished these French bureaucrats, but that they should have ventured to interfere with postmen had perfectly dumbfounded them." Having disposed of his letter as best he might, Labouchere passed through the courtyard to try his luck with a telegram. There he saw postmen seated on the boxes of carts, with no horses before them. It was their hour to carry out the letters, and thus mechanically they fulfilled their duty. It is in touches such as these that the writer makes the scenes of the winter months of '70 and '71 live before the eyes of his readers. Were the ridiculous episodes he relates visible to others besides himself, or were his journalistic abilities so acutely developed that nothing significant, however minute, could escape his eager scrutiny? It is not easy to say, but the fact remains that he gave the world at that time, in astonishingly amusing letters, vivid pictures of bureaucracy startled into ludicrous attitudes of unaccustomed enterprise, of gilt and tinsel patriotism ineffectually trying to replace the paper courage[3] of Imperial France—of an irresponsible populace brought face to face with a catastrophe which they imagined to be impossible up till within the last ten days of the siege.

The Parisians had undoubtedly a good excuse for the poor figure they were obliged to cut before Europe in the January of 1871. Events, which every one, except their ex-Emperor and his government, had predicted as inevitable, had followed one another with a disastrous rapidity, leaving them, after each one, bouches béantes, incapable of deciding whether the most appropriate gesture to express their attitude would be one of applause, of hisses, or of weeping.

Only six months had elapsed since the afternoon of the Emperor's reception, at St. Cloud, of the members of the Senate, when M. Rouher had said, during the course of his address, in words that, to-day, sound as if they must have been meant to be ironical: "Your Majesty has occupied the last four years in perfecting the armament and organisation of the army," and since the King of Prussia and the Sovereigns of South Germany had ordered the mobilisation of their armies. Six months! But what a six months of bloodshed and fury, of humiliation and defeat.

The Emperor left St. Cloud for the seat of war on July 28th, and went straight to Metz, where a Council of War was held on August 4, with Marshals Macmahon and Bazaine in attendance. That very day the Crown Prince of Prussia fell upon a portion of Macmahon's army corps at Weissenburg, and all but destroyed it, killing its general, Abel Douay, and taking 800 prisoners. The next day a similar fate overtook another corps, commanded by Macmahon himself on the hills above Wörth, when 6000 men were killed or taken prisoner, and no less than thirty pieces of artillery with six mitrailleuses were captured. Whilst the latter engagement was actually in progress General Froissard's army corps, which was holding the heights above Saarbrück, was driven back in confusion and with great loss upon Metz.

The news of these events fell upon the ears of startled Europe on August 8. A fiasco, so hurried and hopeless, had not been contemplated. At first a false report had reached Paris of a grand victory won by Macmahon, who was supposed to have captured the Crown Prince of Prussia with all his army. The enthusiastic excitement had been unbounded. Gradually the truth was borne in upon the unhappy people, and a hopeless reaction was the natural result. Napoleon's apologetic telegrams from Metz did not cheer his subjects; even the fourth of a series of five containing these words, Tout pent se rétablir, brought little hope to their hearts, for it was impossible not to be aware of the fact that, although the war was but three weeks old, the Prussian invasion of France was going successfully and steadily forward.

But France was still an Empire, and, on the morning of August 7, the Empress-Regent presided over a ministerial council at 5 o'clock in the morning, and convoked the chambers, who met on the 9th, when the Ollivier Ministry resigned. The department of the Seine was declared in a state of siege, and a permanent council of the Ministry was established at the Tuileries. The Ollivier Ministry was replaced, by one under Count Palikao.

It was still possible for news of the French defeats at the seat of war to reach the capital. Bazaine's unsuccessful movement of retreat from Metz to Verdun on August 15, followed by the bloody battle of Gravelotte, resulting in his enforced retirement into the entrenched camp of Metz, spread further consternation among the Imperial Ministers at home, and preparations for a siege began in earnest. General Trochu was appointed Commander-in-Chief of all the forces in Paris on August 17.

Sedan was fought on the first of September, and on the second, the Emperor of the French sent his sword to the King of Prussia, who thereupon appointed him a residence as a prisoner of war. Two days later the advance guard of the Prussian army at Sedan set out for Paris.

It is to the columns of the Daily News,[4] that we must turn for the most authentic account of the way in which Paris took the news of Sedan. Although Labouchere was not yet the official correspondent from Paris, he nevertheless sent letters to Fleet Street dealing with matters connected with the crisis, which were published above the signature of a "Parisian Resident."

"The news of the Emperor's capture," he writes on September 4, "reached the foreign embassies here at ten yesterday morning. At about 8 o'clock it began to be rumoured that the Emperor and Macmahon's army had surrendered. I saw a crowd of about 2000 men going down the Boulevard, and shouting 'La déchéance.' I took the arm of a patriot, and we all went together to the Louvre to interview General Trochu. He came out after we had shouted for him about half-an-hour, and a deputation had gone in to him. There was a dead silence as soon as he appeared, so what he said could be distinctly heard. He told us that the news of the capture of the Emperor was true, and that as for arms he could not give more than he had, and he regretted to say that the millions on paper were not forthcoming."

In the course of the next twenty-four hours a bloodless revolution was accomplished in Paris. On Sunday afternoon Labouchere got into a carriage and drove about the city, noting everything he saw. "The weather was beautiful," he wrote; "it was one of the most glorious early September days ever seen. I drove slowly along the quay parallel with the Orangerie of the Tuileries before the Palace. The Tuileries gardens were full of people. I learned that, in the morning, orders had been given to close the gates, but that, half-an-hour before I passed, the people had forced them open, and that neither the troops nor the people made any resistance. My coachman, who, I dare say, was an Imperialist yesterday, but was a very strong Republican to-day, pointed out to me several groups of people bearing red flags. I told him that the tricolour, betokening the presence of the Empress, still floated from the central tower of the Tuileries. While I was speaking, and at exactly twenty minutes past three, I saw that flag taken down. That is an event in a man's life not to be forgotten. Crossing over the Pont de Solferino to the Quai d'Orsay, I witnessed an extraordinary sight indeed. From the windows of those great barracks, formerly peopled with troops, every man of whom was supposed to be ready to die for his Emperor, I saw soldiers smiling, waving handkerchiefs, and responding to the cries of 'Vive la République.' Nay, strangers fell on each other's necks and kissed each other with 'effusion.' In the neighbourhood of the Pont Neuf, I saw people on the tops of ladders busily pulling down the Emperor's bust, which the late loyalty of the people had induced them to stick about in all possible and impossible places. I saw the busts carried in mock procession to the parapets of the Pont Neuf and thrown into the Seine, clapping of hands and hearty laughter greeting the splash which the graven image of the mighty monarch made in the water. I went as far as the Hôtel de Ville, and found it in possession of his Majesty the Sovereign People. Blouses were in every one of M. Haussmann's balconies. How they got there I do not know. I presume that M. Chevreau did not invite them. But they got in somehow without violence. The great square in front of the Hôtel de Ville was full of the National Guards, most of them without uniform. They carried the butts of their muskets in the air, in token that they were fraternising with the people. The most perfect good humour prevailed. Portraits of the Emperor and Empress, which many of your readers must have seen in the Hôtel de Ville ballrooms, were thrown out of the window and the people trod and danced on the canvas. On leaving the Hôtel de Ville I saw, in the Avenue Victoria, M. Henri Rochefort,[5] let out of prison as a logical sequence of events but half-an-hour before. He was on a triumphal car, and wore a scarlet scarf. He was escorted by an immense mob, crying, 'Vive Rochefort!' He looked in far better health than I expected to see him after his long imprisonment, and his countenance beamed with delight. He had seen his desire on his enemy."

Facsimile of a "Pigeon-post" letter sent by Henry Labouchere to his mother during the siege of Paris.
Facsimile of a "Pigeon-post" letter sent by Henry Labouchere to his mother during the siege of Paris.

Meanwhile the Prussians came nearer and nearer. On the 10th, they entered Laon, and General Hame, who was in command, surrendered the citadel in order to save the city. On that day the Republican Government issued an order to all owners of provisions and forage in the neighbourhood to move their goods into the capital. On the 18th the Crown Prince and the third army were at Chaumes, and two days later the long march of the Prussians was ended. The Crown Prince took up his headquarters at Versailles. The Daily News correspondent, Archibald Forbes, who had accompanied the third army from Wörth to Sedan, and from Sedan to Paris, informed Fleet Street that: "The fortune of war has brought the Prussians to the Hampton Court of the French capital—has placed them at the very gates of Paris. I need say no further word to make the situation more striking. Here are the dark blue uniforms and the spiked helmets in the stately avenues of Versailles. The barracks of the Imperial Guard give ample quarters to King William's soldiery, and there have been found immense stores of hay and oats which will make the Prussian horses fat, if only rest enough be given them for feeding."

From that day until the end of the siege no regular mail went out of Paris. Balloons and pigeons carried the news of the imprisoned inhabitants into the provinces and beyond the seas. Sometimes a letter would be successfully fixed between the double soles of a crafty man's boots,[6] who would, on some pretext or another, succeed in making his way through the Prussian lines, or a note would be rolled up into a ball and be concealed in a pot of pomade and so proceed in unctuous quiet on its way out of the prison into the open. Henry Labouchere, some twenty-five years later, described how he managed to get his letters to the Daily News.[7]

"More of my letters reached their destination, I believe, than those of other correspondents. The reason was this. The correspondents waited on Jules Favre, and asked him to afford them facilities for sending their letters. He kindly said that he would, and told us that whenever a balloon started we might give them, made up in a parcel, to the man in charge, who would make it his business to transmit them to their destination so soon as the balloon touched land outside. There was a complacent smile on his countenance when we gratefully accepted this offer that led me to suspect that, whatever might happen to the letters, they were not likely to reach the newspaper offices to which they were addressed, unless they lauded everything. So, instead of falling a victim to this confidence trick, I placed my letters under cover to a friend in London, and put them into a post-box, calculating that, as each balloon took out about twenty thousand letters, those posted in the ordinary way would not be opened."

The letters, posted as Labouchere described above, were written on tissue paper and addressed to Miss Henrietta Hodson. She, immediately on receipt of the manuscript, carried it to Fleet Street, where it was rightly considered copy of the very first order.

Labouchere, as soon as the siege had really begun, tried in vain to induce General Trochu to allow him to accompany him on his rides to the ramparts of the city, pointing out that the newspaper correspondents were always allowed to accompany the Prussian staffs. Trochu would not hear of the scheme, and explained that he himself had been within an inch of being shot because he had had the impudence to say that he was the Governor of Paris.

"From Trochu," writes Labouchere, on September 25, "I went to pay a few calls. I found every one engaged in measuring the distance from the Prussian batteries to his particular house. One friend I found seated in a cellar with a quantity of mattresses over it, to make it bomb-proof. He emerged from his subterraneous Patmos to talk to me, ordered his servant to pile on a few more mattresses, and then retreated. Anything so dull as existence here it is difficult to imagine. Before the day is out one gets sick and tired of the one single topic of conversation. We are like the people at Cremorne waiting for the fireworks to begin; and I really do believe that if this continues much longer, the most cowardly will welcome the bombs as a relief from the oppressive ennui."

A letter to his mother,[8] dated September 26, gives the following account of his life in Paris: "I wrote a day or two ago by balloon, but probably my letter is in the moon. A man is going to try and get through the lines with this, and a letter to the Daily News. We are all right here. The Prussians fire at the forts, but as yet they have not bombarded the town. Provisions are already very dear. It is rather dull—in fact a little bombarding would be a relief to our ennui. Everybody is swaggering about in uniform. I went round the inner barricades a day or two ago with the citizen Rochefort."

A few days later he wrote to the Daily News: "The presence of the Prussians at the gates, and the sound of the cannon, have at last sobered this frivolous people. Frenchmen indeed cannot live without exaggeration, and for the last twenty-four hours they have taken to walking about as if they were guests at their own funerals. It is hardly in their line to play the justum et tenacem of Horace. Always acting, they are now acting the part of Spartans. It is somewhat amusing to see the stern gloom on the face of patriots one meets, who were singing and shouting a few days ago—more particularly as it is by no means difficult to distinguish beneath this outward gloom a certain keen relish, founded upon the feeling that the part is being well played."

On the evening of the same day Labouchere took his strolls abroad, and came to the Avenue de L'Impératrice, where he found a large crowd gazing upon the Fort of Mont Valérien. This fort, from being the strongest for defence, was particularly beloved by the Parisians. "They love it as a sailor loves his ship," writes Labouchere. He witnessed the following incident: "If I were near enough," said a young girl, "I would kiss it." "Let me carry your kiss to it," responded a Mobile, and the pair embraced, amid the cheers of the people around them.

The question of domestic economy had not yet become a pressing one, as far as the "besieged resident" was concerned. He was lodged au quatrième at the Grand Hotel, and wrote during the first week of the siege: "I presume if the siege lasts long enough, dogs, rats, and cats will be tariffed. I have got a thousand francs with me. It is impossible to draw upon England; consequently, I see a moment coming when, unless rats are reasonable, I shall not be able to afford myself the luxury of one oftener than once a week." And a fortnight later he writes: "My landlord presents me every week with my bill. The ceremony seems to please him, and does me no harm. I have pasted upon my mantelpiece the decree of the Government adjourning payment of rent, and the right to read and re-read this document is all that he will get from me until the end of the siege. Yesterday I ordered myself a warm suit of clothes; I chose a tailor with a German name, so I feel convinced he will not venture to ask for payment under the present circumstances, and if he does he will not get it. If my funds run out before the siege is over, I shall have at least the pleasure to think that this has not been caused by improvidence."

He wrote to his mother on October 10, as follows: "I send this by balloon. The smaller the letter, the more chance it has to go. We are all thriving in here, though we have heard absolutely nothing from the outside world for a fortnight. I don't know if my letters to the Daily News arrive. Yesterday, I could only get sheeps' trotters and pickled cauliflower for dinner. We boast awfully of what we are going to do, but, as yet, all our sorties have been driven back, and our forts stun our ears by firing upon stray rabbits and Uhlans. If ever my letters to the Daily News do not arrive and come back here, I shall be shot, but I don't think that they will. I am convinced that the provisions will soon give out. We go about saying that we cannot be beaten, because we have made a 'pact with death.'"

And again on the 21st: "We are getting on very well here. Nothing has come in since the commencement of the siege, and no one can get out. They say there are provisions to last until February, so we shall have a dose of our own society. About one sixth of the town is now commanded by the Prussian batteries, but we don't know whether they will fire or not. I am living very well on horse and cat—the latter excellent—like rabbit, only better. Our people brag very much, but do little more. The Ultras are going ahead—they have taken now to denouncing crucifixes, which they call ridiculous nudities—a mayor has had them all removed—he then announced that no marriages were to take place in his arrondissement—marriage being an insult upon honourable citizens who did not approve of this relic of superstition. This was a little too much, so he was removed, and we are now free to marry or not according to our tastes. I am the intimate friend of Louis Blanc, so no one touches me."

One of the most curious things about these letters by balloon was the irregularity in their delivery. It was not merely that one balloon reached friendly or neutral territory in safety, while another did not. Of half a dozen letters coming by the same balloon, two would be delivered, say, on the 6th of the month, one on the 10th, two on the 15th, and the last on the 20th. This greatly puzzled the recipients at the time. The explanation turned out to be that the bag containing the first letter had been sent off immediately the aeronaut descended, whereas the others underwent a variety of adventures. Frequently a balloon fell at or near a place of German occupation. The aeronaut would come down at a run, hurry off with one bag, and give the others to friendly peasants, who secreted them until an opportunity occurred for getting them safely to the nearest post-town. Usually the letters came in beautiful order, without a speck upon them to show an unusual mode of transit. One batch, however, had to be fished out of the sea, off the Cornish coast. In one case a letter was delivered in wonderfully quick time. Dispatched from Paris on a Monday night, it was delivered in London on the following evening.[9]

Apparently his "made in Germany" suit did not wear as well as might have been expected, for it was only December when he described his wardrobe as follows:

"My pea-jacket is torn and threadbare, my trousers are frayed at the bottom, and of many colours—like Joseph's coat. As for my linen, I will only say that the washer-women have struck work, as they have no fuel. I believe my shirt was once white, but I am not sure. I invested a few weeks ago in a pair of cheap boots. They are my torment. They have split in various places, and I wear a pair of gaiters—purple, like those of a respectable ecclesiastic—to cover the rents. I bought them on the Boulevard, and at the same stall I bought a bright blue handkerchief which was going cheap; this I wear round my neck. My upper man resembles that of a dog-stealer, my lower man that of a bishop. My buttons are turning my hair grey. When I had more than one change of raiment these appendages remained in their places, now they drop off as though I were a moulting fowl. I have to pin myself together elaborately, and whenever I want to get anything out of my pocket, I have cautiously to unpin myself, with the dread of falling to pieces before my eyes."

In another place Labouchere describes his head-dress, which was quite eccentric enough to fit in with the rest of his travesty: "I have bought myself a sugar-loaf hat of the first Republic, and am consequently regarded with deference. 'The style is the man,' said Buffon; had he lived here now he would rather have said, 'The hat is the man.' An English doctor who goes about in a regulation chimney-pot has already been arrested twenty-seven times. I, thanks to my revolutionary hat, have not been arrested once. I have only to glance from under its brim at any one for him to quail."

The extracts which Labouchere copied from the newspapers for the benefit of his London readers are extremely amusing, and give, as no other method of narration could have done, a good idea of the spirit which the leaders of the people thought fit to try and promulgate amongst the Parisians. One morning, for instance, he learned that "Moltke is dead, that the Crown Prince is dying of a fever, that Bismarck is anxious to negotiate but is prevented by the obstinacy of the King, that three hundred Prussians from the Polish provinces have come over to our side, that the Bavarian and Würtemberg troops are in a state of incipient rebellion. From the fact that the Prussian outposts have withdrawn to a greater distance from the forts, it is probable that they despair of success, and in a few days will raise the siege. Most of the newspapers make merry over the faults in grammar in a letter which has been discovered from the Empress to the Emperor, although I doubt whether there is one Frenchman in the world who could write Spanish as well as the Empress does French."

The New Year's address to the Prussians, published in the Gaulois, is a masterpiece of journalistic invective, and the relish with which the besieged resident copied it for the benefit of his London readers may well be imagined:

"You Prussian beggars, you Prussian scoundrels, you bandits and you Vandals, you have taken everything from us; you have ruined us; you are starving us; you are bombarding us; and we have a right to hate you with a royal hatred. Well, perhaps one day we might have forgiven you your rapine and your murders; our towns that you have sacked; your heavy yokes; your infamous treasons. The French race is so light of heart, so kindly, that we might perhaps in time have forgotten our resentments. What we never shall forget will be this New Year's Day, which we have been forced to pass without news from our families. You, at least, have had letters from your Gretchers, astounding letters, very likely, in which the melancholy blondes with blue eyes make a wonderful literary salad, composed of sour kraut, berlin wool, forget-me-nots, pillage, bombardment, pure love, and transcendental philosophy. But you like all this just as you like jam with your mutton. You have what pleases you. Your ugly faces receive kisses by the post. But you kill our pigeons, you intercept our letters, you shoot at our balloons with your absurd fusils de rempart, and you burst out into a heavy German grin when you get hold of one of our bags, which are carrying to those we love our vows, our hopes, our remembrances, our regrets, our hearts." And so on.

Labouchere had not a high opinion of French journalism during the investment. "A French journalist," he says, "even when he is not obliged to do so, generally invents his facts, and then reasons upon them with wonderful ingenuity. One would think that just at present a Parisian would do well to keep his breath to cool his own porridge. Such, however, is not his opinion. He thinks that he has a mission to guide and instruct the world, and this mission he manfully fulfils in defiance of Prussians and Prussian cannons. It is true, that he knows rather less of foreign countries than an intelligent Japanese Daimio may be supposed to know of Tipperary, but, by some curious law of nature, the less he knows of a subject, the more strongly does he feel impelled to write about it. I read a very clever article this morning pointing out that if we are not on our guard, our Empire in India will come to an end by a Russian fleet attacking it from the Caspian Sea. When one thinks how very easy it would have been for the author not to have written about the Caspian Sea, one is at once surprised and grateful to him for having called our attention to the danger which menaces us in that quarter of the globe."

His estimate of General Trochu was, on the whole, the fairest that was made at the period. During the earliest days of the siege it was supposed that Trochu had a plan, and, on being questioned about it, he admitted that he had. He went on to say that he guaranteed its success, but that he should reveal it to no one, until the right moment—in fact, he had deposited it for safety with his notary, Maître Duclos, who, in the event of his being killed, would produce it. As time wore on and no plan was forthcoming from the General, it became very evident that it could have been nothing more elaborate than a determination to capitulate as soon as Paris was starved out. When the siege was nearly five weeks old Labouchere wrote:

"Every day this siege lasts, convinces me that Gen. Trochu is not the right man in the right place. He writes long-winded letters, utters Spartan aphorisms, and complains of his colleagues, his generals, and his troops. The confidence which is felt in him is rapidly diminishing. He is a good, respectable man, without a grain of genius, or of that fierce, indomitable energy which sometimes replaces it. He would make a good minister of war in quiet times, but he is about as fit to command in the present emergency as Mr. Cardwell[10] would be. His two principal military subordinates, Vinoy and Ducrot, are excellent Generals of division, but nothing more. As for his civilian colleagues they are one and all hardly more practical than Professor Fawcett. Each has some crotchet of his own, each likes to dogmatise and to speechify, and each considers the others to be idiots, and has a small following of his own, which regards him as a species of divinity. They are philosophers, orators, and legists, but they are neither practical men nor statesmen." And when the siege was over he summed up the case for Trochu thus: "What will be the verdict of history on the defence? Who knows! On the one hand, the Parisians have kept a powerful army at bay for longer than was expected; on the other hand, every sortie that they have made has been unsuccessful—every attempt to arrest the approach of the besiegers has failed. Passively and inertly they have allowed their store of provisions to grow less and less, until they have been forced to capitulate, without their defences having been stormed, or the cannon silenced. The General complains of his soldiers, the soldiers complain of their General; and on both sides there is cause of complaint. Trochu is not a Todleben. His best friends describe him as a weak sort of military Hamlet, wise of speech, but weak and hesitating in action—making plans and then criticising them, instead of accomplishing them. As a commander his task was a difficult one; when the siege commenced he had no army; when the army was formed it was encompassed by earthworks and redoubts so strong that even better soldiers would have failed to carry them. As a statesman, he never was master of the situation. He followed rather than led public opinion. Success is the criterion of ability in this country, and poor Trochu is as politically dead as though he never had lived."

As time wore on the question of meals in the besieged city naturally became one of absorbing moment. "I went," says Labouchere, on December 21, "to see what was going on in the house of a friend of mine, in the Avenue de L'Impératrice, who has left Paris. The servant who was in charge told me that up there they had not been able to obtain bread for three days, and that the last time he had presented his ticket, he had been given about half an inch of cheese. 'How do you live then?' I asked. After looking mysteriously round to see that no one was watching us, he took me down into the cellar, and pointed to some meat in a barrel. 'It is half a horse,' he said, in the tone of a man who is showing some one the corpse of his murdered victim. 'A neighbouring coachman killed him, and we salted him down, and divided him.' Then he opened a closet in which sat a huge cat. 'I am fattening her up for Christmas day; we mean to serve her up, surrounded with mice like sausages,' he observed." On January 6 Labouchere notes: "Yesterday I had a slice of Pollux for dinner. Pollux and his brother Castor are two elephants, which have been killed. It was tough, coarse, and oily, and I do not recommend English families to eat elephant as long as they can get beef or mutton. Many of the restaurants are closed, owing to want of fuel. They are recommended to use lamps; but although French cooks can do wonders with very poor materials, when they are called upon to cook an elephant with a spirit lamp the thing is almost beyond their ingenuity. Castor and Pollux's trunks sold for forty-five francs a pound; the other parts of the interesting twins fetched about ten francs a pound."

He wrote to his mother on January 8[11]: "Here we still are. For the last few days the Prussians have taken to throwing shells into the town, which makes things more lively. I do not think it can last much longer. It is awfully cold, for all the wood is freshly cut and will not burn. The washerwomen have struck as they have no fuel, so we all wear very dirty shirts. I am in a great fright of my money giving out, as none is to be got here. My dress is seedy—in fact falling to pieces. I think I have eaten now of every animal which Noah had in his ark.[12] Since the bombardment the cannon makes a great noise. All night it is as if doors were slamming. Outside the walls it is rather pretty to see the batteries exchanging shots. We have heard nothing from England since September, except from scraps of paper picked out of dead Prussians' pockets." Labouchere was always ready to recall to his memory for conversational purposes the strange food he ate during the siege of Paris. Donkey apparently was his favourite dish. This is what he said on the subject:

"A donkey is infinitely better eating than beef or mutton, indeed I do not know any meat which is better. This was so soon discovered by the French, during the siege of Paris, that donkey meat was about five times the price of horse meat. At Voisin's there was almost every day a joint of cold donkey for breakfast, and it was greatly preferred to anything else. Let any one who doubts the excellence of cold donkey slay one of these weak-minded animals, cook him, and eat him." Rats he did not appreciate so much: "The objection to them is that when cooked their flesh is gritty. This objection is, however, somewhat Epicurean, for, except for this grittiness, they are a wholesome and excellent article of food. I am surprised that there is not a society for the promotion of eating rats. Why should not prisoners be fed with these nourishing and prolific little animals?"

His account of how he got a leg of mutton into Paris after the capitulation, when, in spite of the siege being raised, the difficulties of procuring food were almost as insurmountable as before, was one of his most amusing contes. He rode out to Versailles,[13] where he procured the longed-for joint, but, when he started on his return journey, a sentinel of Versailles refused to allow the meat to leave the town, and actually took it away from him. Desperately he decided to appeal to the better side of the Prussian's nature, and explained to him that he was in love, indeed, that to love was the fate of all mortals. The warrior sighed and pensively assented: Labouchere judged that he was most likely thinking of his distant Gretchen, and shamelessly followed up his advantage: "My lady love is in Paris," he proceeded pathetically, "long have I sighed in vain. I am taking her now a leg of mutton—on this leg hangs all my hope of bliss—if I present myself to her with this token of my devotion she may yield to my suit. Oh, full of feeling, beloved of beauteous women, German warrior, can you refuse me?" Of course the sentinel yielded, and the correspondent, who, needless to say, had no lady love in the capital, bore it off in triumph. He enjoyed it for dinner that evening in company with Mr. Frank Lawley and Mr. Denis Bingham, in whose journal for that day occurs the following entry:

"On their return from Versailles together, Labouchere and Lawley brought me a leg of mutton. And what a treat it was for our small household and dear neighbours! And an Italian lady brought us a large loaf of white bread, and we feasted and were merry, and measured our girths, and promised ourselves that we would soon get into condition again, for we were lamentably pulled down."[14]

On February 10, Labouchere took his departure from Paris, feeling, as he said, much as Daniel must have done on emerging from the den of lions. Baron Rothschild procured for him a pass which enabled him to take the Amiens train at the goods station within the walls of the city, instead of driving, as those who were less fortunate were obliged to do, to Gonesse. The train was drawn up before a shed in the midst of oceans of mud. It consisted of one passenger carriage, and of a long series of empty bullock vans. He entered one of the latter as the passenger van was already crowded. At Breteuil the train waited for above an hour, and Labouchere, impatient of the delay, perceiving a Prussian train puffing up, managed to induce an official to allow him to get into the luggage van, by which means he was able to proceed on his way to the destination. "Having started from Paris as a bullock, I reached Amiens at twelve o'clock as a carpet-bag," was the way he described his journey.

At Abbeville the train passed out of the Prussian lines into the French, and Calais was reached at 7 P.M. "Right glad" was the Paris correspondent, to use his own words, to "eat a Calais supper and to sleep on a Calais bed."[15]

In his last letter to the Daily News during the war, Mr. Labouchere lodged one other Parthian shot in the city whose hospitality he had been enjoying: "I took my departure from Paris," he wrote, "leaving without any very poignant regret, its inhabitants wending their way to the electoral 'urns,' the many revolving in their minds how France and Paris are to manage to pay the little bill which their creditor outside is making up against them; the few—the very few—determined to die rather than yield, sitting in the cafés on the boulevard, which is to be, I presume, their last ditch."

In one of his earliest numbers of Truth, Mr. Labouchere gave a characteristic account of how he behaved under fire. It is worth quoting as illustrative of the naïve frankness with which he always described those instinctive little actions of human nature which more sophisticated persons usually pretend never occur. "I was at some of the engagements during the Franco-Prussian War. The first time that I was under fire, I felt that every shell whizzing through the air would infallibly blow me up. Being a non-combatant, in an unconcerned sort of way, as if I had business to attend to elsewhere, I effected a strategical movement to the rear. But, as no shell had blown me up, I came to the conclusion that no shell would blow me up, and accepted afterwards as a natural state of things which did not concern me, the fact that these missiles occasionally blew up other people."

[1] Times, January 17, 1912.

[2] Truth, January 24, 1912.

[3] The Emperor's plan of campaign was to mass 150,000 men at Metz; 100,000 at Strassburg, and 50,000 at the Camp at Châlons. It was then his intention to unite the armies at Metz and Strassburg, and to cross the Rhine at Maxau, to force the States of South Germany to observe neutrality. He would then have pushed on to encounter the Prussians. But the army at Metz, instead of 150,000 men, only mustered 100,000; that of Strassburg only 40,000 instead of 100,000; whilst the corps of Marshal Canrobert had still one division at Paris, and another at Soissons; his artillery as well as his cavalry were not ready. Further no army corps was even yet completely furnished with the equipments necessary for taking the field.—Campagne de 1870; des Causes qui ont amené la Capitulation de Sedan. Par un Officier attaché à l'État Major-Général. Bruxelles.

[4] Quotations in this chapter not otherwise specified have been taken from the columns of the Daily News, August, 1870-January, 1871.

[5] He had been undergoing a term of imprisonment for certain articles written in the Marseillaise.

[6] I quote a few lines—the only legible ones—from a letter, addressed to his mother, which Labouchere sent out of Paris, fastened between the double sole of a man's boot. It looks as if the bearer must have waded through water, and the marks of the cobbler's nails are visible all over it. "November 6, 1870. This goes out in a citizen's boot. If he is caught, he will be shot, which is his affair—only you will not get it. The position is utterly hopeless. We shall be bombarded in a week. This hotel has two hundred wounded in it. I got into the Hôtel de Ville on Monday with the mob. Such a scene. I have got a pass from General Vinoy, so I get a good view of all the military operations.... I do not know if my letters to the D. N. arrive...."

[7] J. M'Carthy and Sir J. Robinson, The Daily News Jubilee. A Retrospect of Fifty Years of the Queen's Reign.