he head he grumbles out: "I don't want any of your
kings!" This coarse sketch is graphic and not without merit.

Horror of horrors! "Council of Revision of the Amazons of Paris," this
next is called. Oh! if the brave Amazons are like these formidable
monstrosities, it would be quite sufficient to place them in the first
rank, and I am sure that not a soldier of the line, not a guardian of
the peace, not a _gendarme_ would hesitate a moment at the sight, but
all would fly without exception, in hot haste and in agonised terror,
forgetting in their panic even to turn the butt ends of their muskets in
the air. One of these Amazons--but how has my sympathy for the amateurs
of collections led me into the description of these creatures of
ugliness and immodesty?--one of them.... but no, I prefer leaving to
your imagination those Himalayan masses of flesh, and pyramids of
bone--these Penthesileas of the Commune of Paris that are before me.

Ah! Here is choleric old "Father Duchesne" in a towering passion, with
short legs, bare arms, and rubicund face, topped with an immense red
cap. In one hand he holds a diminutive Monsieur Thiers and stifles him
as if he were a sparrow. Here, the drawing is not only vile, but stupid
too.

This time we have the nude, and it is not the Republic, but France that
is represented. If the Republic can afford to bare her shoulders, France
may dispense with drapery entirely. She has a dove which she presses to
her bosom. On one side is a portrait of Monsieur Rochefort. Again! Why
this unlovely-looking journalist is a regular Lovelace. Finally, two
cats (M. Jules Favre and M. Thiers) are to be seen outside the garret
window with their claws ready for pouncing. "Poor dove!" is the tame
inscription below the sketch.[56]

[Illustration: LITTLE PARIS AND HIS PLAYTHINGS. NURSE. Mais! sacre
vingt-cinq mille noms d'un moutard! What will you want next?

PETIT PARIS. I'll have the moon!]

Next we find a Holy Family, by Murillo. Jules Favre, as Joseph, leads
the ass by the reins, and a wet-nurse, who holds the Comte de Paris in
her arms instead of the infant Jesus, is seated between the two
panniers, trying to look at once like Monsieur Thiers and the Holy
Virgin. The sketch is called "The Flight.... to Versailles." Oh! fie!
fie! Messieurs the Caricaturists, can you not be funny without trenching
on sacred ground?

We might refer to dozens more. Some date from the day when Paris shook
off the Empire, and