The Arkansaw traveler., 1888-03-17

1t was uuElng the laSt 0ayS or the emperor; "the chestnut smoked in the pan," and Mime. Bordas sang "The Marseillaise. Never before had she flung out that hymn with such enthu- siasm, with equal frenzy. The work men, the paviers from the streets be- lieved themselves. to see vision, a resplendent vision of liberty incarnate j; and Tony Revillon said, in one of the daily journals:
 She comes to us from her mountains
 Where blows the breath of the sea;
 She knew as child the spirit
 That fills the breast of the free.
 Beauty and grace immortal
 Thou didst the soul enchain;
 Eager to follow thy gesture,
 We spuTn She si:a@S os gain
 March at the head of our columns,
 We follow wherever you goi
 For every man Is our brother,
 And every tyrant our foe.
 "At the head of our columns '" Alas! those columns were too soon in motion. It all came sooner than singer or poet dreamed. The war-the de- feat-the siege-event upon event, blow upon blow and last ot all the Commune, with its train of devils following. The foolish girl from Provence, whirled as bird in the tempest, drunk by the furor, the rush of the passions, the popularity of her songs-sung everywhere "La Marianne" the last outcry of the popular heart. She would have sung in the floods of the deluge; better still, in the tempest of fire. One day the surge of the revolution caught her in the street, and carried her, as a leaf is tossed by the pillow, into the very palace of the Tuileries. The populace poured in to give itself q carouse in the magnificent salons. Arms black with powder picked up "Marianne"-for to the insurgents Mime. Bordas was the very incarna- ton of Marianne, the spirit of the commune, and placed her upon the imperial throne under the red hang lngs of the empire. "Sing to us," shouted the crowd-"sing to us the last song which these doomed walls shall ever hear," and the little Proven cal, twisting red cap about her blonde tresses, broke out in the fierce strains of "La Canaille."
 A mighty cry followed the last re- frain: "Vive Ia Republique" Only one voice, lost somewhere in the crowd, answered in Provencal dialect :: "Vive Saint Gems !"
 Suddenly La Montelaise was as one before whose vision rises a thick mist. In her blue eyes two tears glistened, and her cheeks grew white as death.
 "Open the windows, give her air p cried some one, seeing that the blood ceased to flow from her heart. An, poor Rosette, it is not lack of air that disturbs thee it is the vision of St. Gems in the mountains it is the inno- cent joy of festivities among the vine yards of Provence it is all this which some unknown voice has chanced to call up from memory to overpower the present.
 Meanwhile the multitude, decking itself with the draperies of the impe- rial throne, surges through the yawn- ing doors of the palace. Round the doomed city the roar of the cannon grows more loud and ominous there are discordant cries in the sombre streets afar off one hears the thunder of the approaching batteries; an odor as of petroleum fills the throat and chokes tho breath, and now high towards the clouds roll the smoke and flame which burst from every win- dow, easement and door of the Tuil- cries.
 Poor child singer from the happy fields of Provence-thy voice is hushed; thy face is no longer seen upon crowded boulevard, and no bird sings above thy grave. That hour upon the throne of empire was thy last.-I The Independent.