t. I am told that this is
a fact, that it has happened more than fifty times at Montmartre,
Batignolles, and Belleville; yet I will not believe it.[50] I prefer to
believe that these tales are "inventions of Versailles" than to admit
the possibility of such infamy.

Come now, Cluseret, War Delegate, whatever he likes to call himself.
Where does he come from, what has he done, and what services has he
rendered, to give him a right thus to impose his sovereign wishes upon
us?

He is not a Frenchman; nor is he an American; for the honour of France I
prefer his being an American. His history is as short as it is
inglorious. He once served in the French army, and left, one does not
know why; then went to fight in America during the war. His enemies
affirm that he fought for the Slave States, his friends the contrary. It
does not seem very clear which side he was on--both, perhaps. Oh,
America! you had taken him from us, why did you not keep him? Cluseret
came back to us with the glory of having forsworn his country.
Immediately the revolutionists received him with open arms. Only think,
an American! Do you like America? People want to make an America
everywhere. Modern Republics have had formidable enemies to contend
with--America and the revolution of '98. We are sad parodists. We cannot
be free in our own fashion, but are always obliged to imitate what has
been or what is. But that which is adapted to one climate or country, is
it always that which is the fittest thing for another? I will return,
however, to this subject another time. America, who is so vaunted, and
whom I should admire as much as could reasonably be wished, if men did
not try to remodel France after her image, one must be blind not to see
what she has of weakness and of narrowness, amid much that is truly
grand. It was said to me once by some one, "The American mind may be
compared to a compound liqueur, composed of the yeast of Anglo-Saxon
beer, the foam of Spanish wines, and the dregs of the _petit-bleu_ of
Suresnes, heated to boiling point by the applause and admiration given
by the genuine pale ale, the true sherry, and authentic Chateau-Margaux
to these their deposits. From time to time the caldron seethes with a
little too much violence, and the bubbling drink pours over upon the old
world, bringing back to the pure source, to the true vintage, their
deteriorated products. Oh! The poor wines of France! How many
adulterations have they been submitt