THE HUMORS OF POLITICS.

Ah! what I envy the English is that security for the morrow, which they owe to a form of government no one, so to speak, thinks seriously of questioning.

The Englishman is the stanchest monarchist, and at the same time the freest man in the world, which proves that freedom is compatible with a monarchial government.  There is no French Legitimist more royalist than he, there is no French Republican more passionately fond of liberty; nay, I will go so far as to say that, in France, people would be treated as dangerous demagogues, who demanded certain liberties which the English have long possessed under a monarchy, and to defend which the most conservative of them would allow himself to be rent in pieces.

At first sight, the theory of government in England appears to be most simple; two great political parties, each having its leader, whose authority is uncontested, and who takes office amid the acclamations of half the nation.  Is the country threatened with danger, party spirit vanishes, Liberals and Conservatives disappear; the Englishman is supreme.

All this appears as simple as admirable.  I will show farther on, however, that if there is fixity in the form of the government, there cannot be any consistency in the politics of the country.

Things are forgotten to such an extent in England that I have rarely seen a Liberal paper revert to the fact that Lord Beaconsfield, the illustrious leader of the Conservative party, began his political life in the ranks of the Radicals, or Conservative papers remind people that Mr. Gladstone, the leader of the Liberals, began his brilliant career in the Conservative ranks.  At all events, I never saw anyone reproach these great statesmen with having turned their coats.  Lord Derby, who was Minister for Foreign Affairs under Lord Beaconsfield, was Colonial Minister in Mr. Gladstone’s Cabinet. Punch had a caricature on the subject, and there was an end of the matter.

Such proceedings would excite contempt or indignation in France; but to judge them in England from a French point of view would be absurd.

In France, political convictions rest on the form of government.  In England, everyone, or almost everyone, is of one mind on that subject; Conservatives and Liberals both will have a democracy, having for its object the material, moral, and intellectual progress of the people, with a monarchy to act as ballast.

The only difference that I see in the history of the two parties, during the last fifty years, is that the Conservatives willingly sacrifice their home policy to the prestige of a spirited foreign policy, while the Liberals pay more attention to internal politics, to the detriment, perhaps, of foreign ones.

Here it should be added that, when an Englishman accepts the task of forming a ministry, it is, in the eyes of his partisans, out of pure abnegation, to serve his country, and, in the eyes of his opponents, out of pure ambition, to serve his own interests.

The difference which separates a Monarchist and a Republican in France is an abyss that nothing can bridge over; the difference which separates a Liberal and a Conservative in England is but a trifling step.

So the candidate for Parliament, who rehearses, in petto, the little speech that he means to address to the electors, winds up with:  “Gentlemen, such are my political convictions, but, if they do not please you, let it be well understood between us that I am ready to change them.”  Or:  “Gentlemen, I used to be a Conservative, and at bottom I am a Conservative still, but Mr. Gladstone has appointed me a Civil Commissioner at a salary of L2000 a year, and I consider that a statesman who chooses his servants so well ought to be supported by all sensible men.  Besides, in my new capacity, it is not a party that I am serving, it is my country.”

To speak seriously, I really see very little either in the so-called Liberal or Conservative principles that can cause an Englishman to be anything more than the partisan of a certain group of men.

Under the circumstances, it is not surprising that English politics should, above all things, consist in doing in Office what has been valiantly fought in Opposition; it is a school of incisive, passionate debate-nothing more.  The following incident, which is as instructive as it is amusing, is sufficient proof of this: 

When Lord Beaconsfield deftly snatched Cyprus from the “unspeakable” Turk, in 1878, and, presenting it to John Bull, asked him to admire the fine catch, John’s Liberal sons turned up their noses, declared that the honesty of the proceeding was dubious, and vowed the place was not fit to send British soldiers to.  “It would hardly be humane to send our convicts there,” they said; “not even flies could stand the climate.”  Two years later the Tories went out of office, and the Liberals came to power.  What happened?  You think, perhaps, that the Liberals promptly restored the island to the Turks with their compliments and apologies.  Catch them!  Better than that.  No sooner were the Tories out of office than the yachts of three leading Liberals might have been seen sailing toward Cyprus, which, it would seem, a simple change of ministry had changed into a health resort.  In the beginning of May of the current year, the Liberal Government gave orders to the military authorities of the army of occupation in Egypt, to send to Cyprus all the sick soldiers, who were in a fit state to be transferred-not to finish them up, but actually to hasten their convalescence.

Ever since every householder has enjoyed electoral rights, each general election has placed the Opposition in power; and the enfranchisement of Mr. Gladstone’s new couches sociales is not likely to change this state of things, which is, indeed, very easy to account for.

The necessarily guarded speech of those in office does not catch the ear of the ignorant multitude so readily as the irresponsible talk of the Opposition.  The man in power has to defend a policy, the other attacks it right and left; it is he who has the popular rôle.  “Ah!” say the crowd, “smart fellow that! if we could only have him in Office, things would be done in a proper manner!  What has become of all the fine promises of the ministry?”

So they make up their minds to vote for the man who comes to them with fresh promises, and to throw overboard the one who has not been able to keep his.

If the Government has engaged in war, the Opposition proves to the people what a disastrous, or, at the best, what a useless war it was; if the Government has been able to maintain peace, the Opposition proves to the people that it was at the price of national honor.  The Opposition is always in the right.

To think that men of talent should lower themselves so far as to flatter the populace with such platitudes to obtain their favor!  How sad a sight is this vulgarization of politics!  And people often wonder how it is that, in democracies, the great thinkers, the genius of the nation, refrain from buying the favors of the people at the price of their dignity!  Unhappily, this is the fate of democracies; they can but seldom be ruled by the genius of the nation, by men who would not be appreciated by the masses.  No system lends itself better to the reign of unscrupulous mediocrity, for no other system obliges its chiefs to come and humble themselves before the ignorant populace, by giving them acrobatic performances in order to obtain their suffrages.

Under a democracy, everybody goes into politics, and everybody requires to be pleased.

The literary man, the scholar, the artist, all are criticised by more or less competent judges; but the statesman, who is there that does not criticise him?  Who does not take upon himself to judge him without appeal?  Who does not drag him in the mud?  Who does not cry, “Stop thief!” when he is bold enough to buy a dozen railway shares, like the smallest shopkeeper in the land?

No one says to himself, “The Prime Minister is not a fool; he ought to know what he is about; and even if he were a rogue, is it not to his interest to serve his country to the best of his ability?”

Why, even the schoolboy goes into politics nowadays.

I warrant that there is not a single man, in France or England, who does not believe himself perfectly capable of criticising the acts of his Prime Minister, and very few, who do not feel equal to filling his place, if, for the good of their country, they were called by their fellow-citizens to fulfill these arduous duties.

There is a great virtue, a virtue eminently English, which we French do not possess; respect for the man who is down.  Yet it is not that we lack magnanimity; but we also have our contrasts.  Generous, of a chivalric character, with a repugnance for any kind of meanness, we yet insult the fallen man and even bespatter the memory of one who has gone to the grave.  We consoled ourselves for Sedan by singing “C’est lé Sire de Fiche-ton-Camp.”  On the death of M. Thiers, a celebrated Bonapartist journalist exclaimed that he could jump for joy over the tomb of him who had just liberated his country.  Open the newspapers of to-day, and you will still see Gambetta’s memory insulted.

In England, they would have forgotten that Gambetta was a party man, and have remembered only his eloquence, which that of Mirabeau alone could have eclipsed, and which made him one of the brightest ornaments of contemporary France.

When Mr. Bright left the political arena for a world from whence jealousy is banished, and subscription lists were opened for erecting a statue to him, the Conservatives sent their contributions as well as the Liberals; they forgot the Radical, and remembered but the orator and the philanthropist.  At the death of Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield, it was Mr. Gladstone, the political enemy of the Tory chief, who pronounced the panegyric of that illustrious man in the House of Commons.

This is a sentiment that is found, it is interesting to notice, in all classes, even down to the English rough.  When two men of the lower classes fight, and one of them falls to the ground, the other waits until his adversary is up again, before returning to the attack.  Do not imagine, however, that this sentiment is born of magnanimous bravery, for this same man, who respects his fallen adversary, will, as soon as he reaches his hovel, seize his wife by her hair, knock her down, and literally kick her to death at the first provocation.

In the latter case, there is no combat; there is correction administered by the master to his slave.

If the English have more respect than we for the man who is down, it is because they forget much more quickly than ourselves.  Does this prove that they have less intelligence or more generosity?  No.  They are less impressionable, that is all.  The trace disappears more easily, because the impression is less deep.  I think this is one of the most remarkable differences between the two peoples.

In France, it is not an unwise act that ruins a political man-it is, above all things, a phrase blurted out in a moment of exultation.  An act is forgotten sooner or later; but an unfortunate phrase sticks to a man, and becomes part and parcel of him, his motto, written on his forehead in indelible characters, and which he carries with him to the grave.

Take the case of M. Emile Ollivier.  Since the fall of Thiers, we have had no minister, with the exception of Gambetta, whose political talent could be compared to that of the Liberal minister of Napoleon III.  And yet, M. Emile Ollivier little knows his compatriots, if he thinks it is possible for him ever again to enter the political arena.  To this very day, the masses ignore that it was he who proclaimed war with Prussia, but there is scarcely a child who does not know that he said “he contemplated the coming struggle with a light heart.”  M. Ollivier is, and will remain to the day of his death, the light-hearted man.  Ridicule kills in France, and M. Ollivier is ridiculous.  It is all over with him.

M. Jules Favre was a great orator, and for that reason one of the ornaments of his century.  This is forgotten.  He signed the disastrous conditions of peace dictated by Prince Bismarck.  That might have been overlooked.  But he had said beforehand that “not one inch of territory, not one stone of any French fortress, would he yield.”  This sentence was his political knell.

General Ducrot was a brave soldier.  On leaving Paris to go and attack the Prussians, he was so ill-advised as to declare that he would return “dead or victorious.”  However, he was still more ill-advised to come back alive and vanquished.  Here was another only fit to throw overboard.

Our history is full of similar incidents; actions pass away and are forgotten, words remain.  Ask any ordinary Frenchman, not well up in the history of France, who Mirabeau was.  He will tell you that Mirabeau was a representative of the people, who one day exclaimed at the Assemblée Constituante:  “We are here by the power of the people; nothing but the power of the bayonet shall remove us.”

The history of France might be written between inverted commas.

Louis XIV. has gone down to posterity with the formula:  “L’Etat c’est moi”; and Napoleon III. with that device, suggested by the irony of fate:  “L’Empire c’est la paix.”  Lamartine is the man who, outside the Hotel de Ville, cried:  “The tricolor flag has been round the world; the red flag has only been round the Champ de Mars.”  Thiers said:  “The Republican form of government is the one that divides us the least.”  Gambetta:  “Clericalism; that is the enemy.”

And to parody a celebrated proverb, I might say that French politics may be summed up in the words: 

Acta volant, verba manent.