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Updated: June 25, 2025
I did not foresee that two hours later a procession roaring "Mourir pour la Patrie" under the windows of the Hôtel des Affaires Étrangères would be fired into by accident, and that the émeute of February, 1848, would be converted into a revolution. It was nine o'clock in the evening. The lamps were lighted in the station.
Her voice was very sweet and true and there was real pathos in the words as she sang them. But as she went on, San Miniato noticed first that she repeated the second line, and then that she sang all the remaining melody to it, singing it over and over again with an amazing variety of expression, angrily, laughingly, ironically and sadly. " Tu sais que j'en vais mourir!"
The smouldering fire of discontent broke into fierce flame on August 25th, 1830, in the city of Brussels, during a performance of the opera "Muette de Portici," when the tenor was singing the inspired words of Massaniello: "Plutôt mourir que rester misérable, Pour un esclave est-il quelque danger? Tombe le joug qui nous accable, Et sous nos coups périsse l'étranger.
The thousand-and-one young gentlemen in blue neck-ties, who for a twelvemonth, in frantic strains, varying from basso profundo to piping tenor, had proclaimed their entire willingness to "mourir pour la patrie," were engrossed at their shops; innumerable fascinating trimmers of bonnets, who, like poor little "Dora," religiously believed the chief end of man consisted in "dancing continually ta la ra, ta la ra," sat busily plying the needle, elbow-deep in ribbons; the consumptive-looking flute-player before the foot-lights trilled out his spasmodic trickle of melody, and contemplated with melancholy pleasure the excited audience; the lank danseuse ogled and smirked at it behind them, and, with passionate gestures of her thin legs, implored its applause; men, women, and children, of all grades and degrees, crowded into the murky night; for a day was coming when the youths of the neck-ties would not agree to mourir on any account; when the flute-player would cease to be contemplative; when the danseuse would forget her attenuated extremities; when the whole world, where the grace of the Redeemer is known, would believe that the chief end of the hour, at least, consisted in "dancing continually ta la ra, ta la ra."
These two men were bitter and upright and narrow, like the worst of Scotsmen, and indeed, upon my heart, I fancy they were worse. The priest snorted aloud like a battle-horse. 'Et vous pretendez mourir dans cette espece de croyance? he demanded; and there is no type used by mortal printers large enough to qualify his accent. I humbly indicated that I had no design of changing.
A similar story is told of Louis XIV. who, noticing from the whispers of his courtiers that they believed him to be dying, ate an unusually large dinner on the very day of his death, and sarcastically observed, "Il me semble que pour un homme qui va mourir je ne mange pas mal." But, in spite of the precautions of Tiberius, Charicles informed Macro that the Emperor could not last beyond two days.
She sang it exquisitely, and to-night needed no pressing to do so, for her heart was full of the new song, composed under such circumstances of woe. Intense was the sympathy of the company, as she began: "'Petit rocher de la haute montagne, Je viens finir ici cette campagne! Ah! doux echos, entendez mes soupirs! En languissant je vais bientot mourir." There were no dry eyes as she concluded.
Austin, knee-deep in a dozen Sunday supplements, refused to stir; poor little Eileen was now convalescent from grippe, but still unsteady on her legs; her maid had taken the grippe, and now moaned all day: "Mon dieu! Mon dieu! Che fais mourir!" Boots Lansing called to see Eileen, but she wouldn't come down, saying her nose was too pink.
About ten o'clock that evening Lancelot and Tregarva were walking stealthily up a ride in one of the home-covers, at the head of some fifteen fine young fellows, keepers, grooms, and not extempore 'watchers, whom old Harry was marshalling and tutoring, with exhortations as many and as animated as if their ambition was 'Mourir pour la patrie.
Does not Tartuffe also manifest a sort of professional callousness when he says it is true, by the mouth of Orgon: Et je verrais mourir frere, enfants, mere et femme, Que je m'en soucierais autant que de cela! The device most in use, however, for making a profession ludicrous is to confine it, so to say, within the four corners of its own particular jargon.
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