ans, he has kept them back so long that
they are worthless. If he could not break through the Prussian lines a
month ago, _a fortiori_, he will not be able to do so now. They are
stronger, and he is weaker; for the inaction of the last few weeks, and
the surrender of Avron, would have been enough to damp the ardour of far
more veteran troops than those which he has under his command. The
outcry against this excellent but vain man grows stronger every day, and
sorry, indeed, must he be that he "rushed in where others feared to
tread." "Action, speedy action," shout the newspapers, much as the
Americans did before Bull's Run, or as M. Felix Pyat always calls it,
Run Bull. The generals well know that if they yield to the cry, there
will most assuredly be a French edition of that battle. In fact, the
situation may be summed up in a very few words. The generals have no
faith in their troops, and the troops have no faith in their generals.
Go outside the walls and talk to the officers and the soldiers who are
doing the real fighting, and who pass the day dodging shells, and the
night freezing in their tents. They tell you that they are prepared to
do their duty, but that they are doubtful of ultimate success. Come
inside, and talk to some hero who has never yet got beyond the ramparts,
Cato at Utica is a joke to him, Palafox at Saragossa a whining coward.
Since the forts have been bombarded, he has persuaded himself that he is
eating, drinking, and sleeping under the fire of the enemy. "Human
nature is a rum 'un," said Mr. Richard Swiveller; and most assuredly
this is true of French nature. That real civil courage and spirit of
self-sacrifice which the Parisians have shown, in submitting to hardship
and ruin rather than consent to the dismemberment of their country, they
regard as no title to respect. Nothing which does not strike the
imagination has any value in their eyes. A uniform does not make a
soldier; and although they have all arrayed themselves in uniform, they
are far worse soldiers than the peasantry who have been enrolled in the
Mobiles. To tell them this, however, would make them highly indignant.
Military glory is their passion, and it is an unfortunate one. To admire
the pomp and pride of glorious war no more makes a warrior than to
admire poetry makes a poet. The Parisian is not a coward; but his
individuality is so strongly developed that he objects to that
individuality being destroyed by some stray shot. To