le their sinister lucubrations
inspire us with disgust.

L.

During this time the walls resound with fun. Paris of the street and
gutter--Paris, Gavroche and blackguard, rolls with laughter before the
caricatures which ingenious salesmen stick with pins on shutters and
house doors. Who designed these wild pictures, glaringly coloured and
common, seldom amusing and often outrageously coarse? They are signed
with unknown names--pseudonyms doubtless; their authors, amongst whom it
is sad to think that artists of talent must be counted, are like women,
high born and depraved, mixing with their faces masked in hideous
orgies.

These vile pictures with their infamous calumnies keep up and even
kindle contempt and hatred in ignorant minds. Laughter is often far from
innocent. But the passers-by think little of this, and are amused enough
when they see Jules Favre's head represented by a radish, or the
_embonpoint_ of Monsieur Picard by a pumpkin. Where will all this
unwholesome stuff be scattered in a few days? Flown away and dispersed.
Eccentric amateurs will tear their hair at the impossibility of
obtaining for their collections these frivolous witnesses of troubled
times. I will make a few notes so as to diminish their despair as far as
I am able.

A green soil and a red sky--In a black coffin is a half-naked woman,
with a Phrygian cap on her head, endeavouring to push up the lid with
all her might. Jules Favre, lean, small, head enormous, under lip thick
and protruding, hair wildly flying like a willow in a storm, wearing a
dress coat, and holding a nail in one hand and a hammer in the other,
with his knee pressed upon the coffin-lid, is trying to nail it down, in
spite of the very natural protestations of the half-naked woman. In the
distance, and running towards them, is Monsieur Thiers, with a great
broad face and spectacles, also armed with a hammer. Below is written:
"If one were to listen to these accursed Republics, they would never
die." Signed, Faustin. Same author--Same woman. But this time she lies
in a bed hung with red flags for curtains. Her shoulders a little too
bare, perhaps, for a Republic, but she must be made attractive to her
good friends the Federals. At the head of the bed a portrait of
Rochefort; Rochefort is the favoured one of this lady, it seems. Were I
he, I should persuade her to dress a little more decently. Three black
men, in brigands' hats, their limbs dragging, and their faces