PARIS ON FIRE

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume VI, Issue 184, 5 August 1871, Page 3

PARIS ON FIRE

[extracts from the " times' " special correspondent.] At dark on May 24, I climbed upon the top of the Hotel Chatham, aud a sight such, I trnsf, as I may never see again, met my view — the south-west of Paris was a sheet of flame, and I began to fear that the menaces which weliad scoffed at as idle threats were about to become a terrible reality. From Auteuil to Moutrouge the heavens were lit up by a serieß of conflagrations, which d ied away in sulphurous smoke: only to burst forth again with a loud report and spread still further westward. "We are at a loss to conceive what could be on fire. Passy seemed smouldering slowly, the real blaze being more in the direction of Luxembourg. It shot up in showers of sparks, revealing a dark mass of dome that loomed black against the sky. Thi we took to be the Pantheon, and rejoiced in the fact thafc the river lay between us and the advancing tide of flame. The smoke spread slowly but surely, and some one announced that the Pantheon had caught fire. We saw light shining through the roof, and presently an immense jet of flame shot straight up into tho sky, revealing a form wbich was at once recognised as the central paviliou of the Tuilleries. A cry of horror burst from the lips of the people who had assembled on the roof, at the discovery of the terrible truth, ahd wr gazed fascinated as the flames licked rapidly the mass of buildings, shooting up from time to time, in long-forked tongues, accompanied by heavy white clouds of naphtba-sraelling smoke. Although at so great a distance from the scene of operations, we could hear the roar and clatter of shivering slates and rafters, while we were so well lit up in our position on the roof that bullets began to whistle iu our direction, probably from the linesmen on the Opera House, who took us for members of the Commune celebrating our hideous victory.

Shells whizzed past us, rattling; down in neighboring streets, and we bpsan to f^el our Bituatition precarious. By this time the great pavilion was a mere skeleton of golden light cut by curved ribs of black, and crowned by a square gallery. It reminded me somewhat of St. Peter's when illuminated, St. Peter's, of course, appearing as a toy in contrast. I continued to Btare, scarce daring . to believe my eyes, when suddenly there was a vivid light ; the pavilion had sunk in with a crash, and a stream of sparks flew straight into the heavens, literally mixing with the stars. Steadily the fires advanced, with a certainty that indicated the presence of petroleum in large quantities, and we were forced to admit at last that the great collection of the Louvre was to be sacrified. Fortunately the pictures of the Italian school are hidden away; but who shall replace the antique statues— the Venus of Milo and the Polyhymnia — that are destined to be destroyed be the diabolical spite of the madmen who have been a terror to us for so long ? The sight and the reflections which it engendered were bo awful as to blind us to the presence of other conflagrations that were springing up along the line. A huge red bar, like a giant furnace, indicated that a large portion of the Quartier St. Germain was being destroyed, while a light in the Palais RoyaL and another in the Luxembourg suggested the idea that all Paris was indeed to be destroyed, and that at any moment our own quarter might be sent into the air through the agency of powder or petroleum in the sewers which run under the principal thoroughfares. Sick at heart I lay down, to be awakened shortly after by violent detonations. . And so evening wore into nigbt, and night became morning. Ah ! this morning t Its pale flush of aurora-bloom was darkest, most sombi*e night for the once proud, now stricken and humiliated city. When the sun rose, what saw he ? Not a fair fight — on that within the last year Sol has looked down more thau once. But black clouds flouted his rays — clouds that rose from the Paladium of France. Great God ! that men should be so mad as to strive to make universal ruio because their puny race of factiousness is run ! The flames from the Palace of the Tuilleries, kindled by damnable petroleum, insulted the soft rays of the morning, and cast lurid rays on the grimy recreant Frenchmen who skulked from their dastardly incendiarism to pop at countrymen from behind a barricade. How the place burned ! The flames revelled in the historical palace, whipped up by the rich furniture, burst out the plate-glass windows, brought down the fantastic roof. It was in the Prince Imperial's wing, facing the Tuilleries Gardens, where the demon of fire first had its dismal sway. By eight o'clock the whole of this wing was nearly burnt out. As I reached the end of ilie Rue Dauphine, the red belches of flames were bursting out from the corner of the Hue de Rivoli; the rooms occupied by the King of Prussia and his suite on the visit to France the year of the Exhibition. There is a furious burst of flame pouring out of the window where Bismarck used to sit and smoke. Crash ! It is an explosion or a fall of flooring that causes this burst of black smoke and red sparks in our faces ? GoJ knows what hell-de-vices may be within that burning pile ; it were well surely to give it a wide berth. And so eastward to the Place de Palais Royal, which is still unsafe by reason of shot and shell from the neighborhood of the Hotel de Ville. And there is the grand archway by which troops were wont to enter into the Place dv Carrousel — is the fire there yet ? Just there, and no "more. Could the archway be cut, the Louvre, with its artistic riches might still be spared. But there are none to help. The troops are lounging supine in the Rues, intent — and who shall blame weary, powder-grimed men ? — on bread and wine. And so the devastator leaps from chimney to chimney, from window to window. He is over the archway, now, snd I would not give two hours' purchase for all the riches of the Louvre. la the name of modern vandalism, what means that burst of smoke and jet of fire ? Alas, for art ! The Louvre is on fire independently. And so is the Palais Royal and the Hotel de Ville, where the Rump of the Commune are cowering amidst their incendiarism ; and the Ministry of Finance and many other public and private buildings besides, of which more anon. No wonder that Courbet, soi-dissant Minister of Arts, should have sent far and wide, among friends foreign and native, to find a place wherein to hide his head. Minister of Fine Arts ! Fine -art, truly, to burn the Louvre and its treasures. Are the dark ages descending upon us again ? The ages of the Goths and Visigoths, of the Vandals and the Huns? The acts* of last night were worse than .suicide. The injury of suicide is local and personal j the injury done by the burning of the Louvre is universal and world-wide.