have watched a forester from Alsace while some one was singing ’Les malheurs de la France,’ at a baptismal party in the neighbourhood of Fontainebleau.  He arose from the table and took his son aside, close by where I was standing.  ‘Listen, listen,’ he said, bearing on the boy’s shoulder, ‘and remember this, my son.’  A little after he went out into the garden suddenly, and I could hear him sobbing in the darkness.

The humiliation of their arms and the loss of Alsace and Lorraine made a sore pull on the endurance of this sensitive people; and their hearts are still hot, not so much against Germany as against the Empire.  In what other country will you find a patriotic ditty bring all the world into the street?  But affliction heightens love; and we shall never know we are Englishmen until we have lost India.  Independent America is still the cross of my existence; I cannot think of Farmer George without abhorrence; and I never feel more warmly to my own land than when I see the Stars and Stripes, and remember what our empire might have been.

The hawker’s little book, which I purchased, was a curious mixture.  Side by side with the flippant, rowdy nonsense of the Paris music-halls, there were many pastoral pieces, not without a touch of poetry, I thought, and instinct with the brave independence of the poorer class in France.  There you might read how the wood-cutter gloried in his axe, and the gardener scorned to be ashamed of his spade.  It was not very well written, this poetry of labour, but the pluck of the sentiment redeemed what was weak or wordy in the expression.  The martial and the patriotic pieces, on the other hand, were tearful, womanish productions one and all.  The poet had passed under the Caudine Forks; he sang for an army visiting the tomb of its old renown, with arms reversed; and sang not of victory, but of death.  There was a number in the hawker’s collection called ‘Conscrits Francais,’ which may rank among the most dissuasive war-lyrics on record.  It would not be possible to fight at all in such a spirit.  The bravest conscript would turn pale if such a ditty were struck up beside him on the morning of battle; and whole regiments would pile their arms to its tune.

If Fletcher of Saltoun is in the right about the influence of national songs, you would say France was come to a poor pass.  But the thing will work its own cure, and a sound-hearted and courageous people weary at length of snivelling over their disasters.  Already Paul Deroulede has written some manly military verses.  There is not much of the trumpet note in them, perhaps, to stir a man’s heart in his bosom; they lack the lyrical elation, and move slowly; but they are written in a grave, honourable, stoical spirit, which should carry soldiers far in a good cause.  One feels as if one would like to trust Deroulede with something.  It will be happy if he can so far inoculate his fellow-countrymen that they may be trusted with their own future.  And in the meantime, here is an antidote to ‘French Conscripts’ and much other doleful versification.