Paris During the Terror

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 471, 14 May 1890, Page 3

Paris During the Terror

The shop windows in Paris during the Reign of Terror were filled with detestable caricatures of an anti-religious character (and here we may say that they did not greatly differ from what we behold at the present day on the Boulevards and in the Rue de Rivoli). There were no carriages to be seen anywhere excepting public fiacres of the poorest description, which correspond to our cabs. In 1794, to add to the existing terrors, a famine broke out, and long strings of people were now to be seen standing at the doors of the bakers and butchers for whole days and nights, patiently waiting their turn to purchase for an exorbitant sum the smallest pieces of bread and meat. Dugas says that, on the 4th of March, 1794, ‘ the butchers are selling meat for from 25 to 30 francs a pound. In the Rue Bons Enfants some people have been able to purchase it at this price, but it is looked upon as very cheap. There is plenty of fish, poultry, and even game, bub its price augments every day. You cannot make four steps in the street without being molested by men, women, and children imploring a few sous to buy food with. The restaurants are full of people, who prefer eating there to at home. It is less dangerous, for you are liable to have your house broken into on a report spreading that you have provisions hidden in your cellars or even under your bed.’ In August and July the state of the city much resembled that witnessed in 1870 during the siege. The cafes, however, remained open, ana were generally well frequented up to about seven in the evening, when the city was like A City of the Dead, as most of the streets had long since ceased to be illuminated, on account of the scarcity of oil, and it was most dangerous to go from one part of the town to another. Politicians who were obliged to attend to various political meetings generally went in bands, and made the streets re-echo with their uproarious singing of popular airs. Independently of those great dramatic and historical events —such, for instance, as th return of the Royal Family to Versailles, the pillage of the Tuileries, the awful massacres of September, the transference of the King, Queen, and Royal Family to the Temple, and the condemnation and execution of Louis XVI. and his unfortunate consort, Marie Antoinette— Paris was the stage of innumerable less conspicuous scenes of the most exciting and dramatic character. Every day was full of events of the most tragic description. A never-ending procession of victims passed down the Rue St. Honore to the Place de la Revolution— ci-devant Place Louis XY.— where

The Principal Guillotine had been erected. There were guillotines, however, in several other parts of the city, and it was no uncommon matter for a person going out shopping in the morning to meet with three or four processions of unhappy beiDgs proceeding to execution. A well-organised band of furies usually accompanied them, shouting and howling ineults and cries of ‘ Death !’ Early in 1794 protests, were made by residents along the lines of route to the guillotines that sensitive persons were beginning to avoid those streets, and that this did great harm to their commerce. They, therefore, petitioned that the routes should be ab least occasionaly changed. Later on, another request was made bo the National Assembly concerning the unhealthy condition of the Place de la Revolution,

® Literally Steeped in Blood, which emitted a horrible and dangerous stench. Strange, however, as it may seem, many of these executions, notably those of

important personages, were attended by great numbers of apparently respectable people, and the * Moniteur ’ contained many advertisements to the effect that ‘So-and-so hires out chairs to witness the execution of, say, Louis XVI,, or Mme. Roland, or indeed of any conspicuous person, at so much an hour.’ A contemporary engraving representing the execution of Louis XVI. shows us a crowd of well-dressed people, comfortably seated in their chairs, placed on a high and well built wooden stand, and not a few of them are using their opera-glasses. —‘ Saturday Review.’