Karl Marx

A Sigh from the Tuileries

Written around March 8, 1859.

From the English.

["New-York Daily Tribune" No. 5594 of March 26, 1859, leading article]

Emperor Napoleon must indeed have been in a very melancholy condition, for not only has he written a most lachrymose letter, but he has written it to Sir F. Head, who is not among the most cheerful of the insignificant statesmen, and he has had it printed in the London *Times*, which is not the merriest among the British newspapers. This makes the whole affair about the most solemn thing that ever issued from the serene land of Gaul and that in foggy England resembles a funeral procession. “My dear Sir Francis” is the cordial address of the Emperor to the baronet of bubbles and “My dear Sir Francis” stands in the subscription. Sir Francis, it appears, had previously written certain letters to the London *Times* in defence of the Emperor—no doubt excellent letters, as communications spontaneously offered to the press are apt to be, but which we cannot remember having read or even cursorily noticed and of which, we are sure, little or nothing was said in the British Parliament. Sire Napoleon has received these productions from the author, and as great men are often grateful for small gifts, such as strops or other cheese, Sire Napoleon is terribly grateful for Sir Francis Head’s articles.

The Emperor is very glad that he is not forgotten in England, and remembers with emotion the days when the tradesmen of that country trusted him as no vagabond prince was ever trusted before.

“Today,” he says, “I clearly perceive the cares which power brings with it, and one of the greatest cares surrounding me consists in seeing myself misunderstood and misjudged by those whom one esteems most highly and with whom one wishes to live on good terms.”

He then openly declares liberty to be humbug.

“I deeply regret,” he says, “that liberty, like all good things, has its excesses. Why does she endeavour, instead of making known the truth, to obscure it with all her might? Why does she, instead of kindling and quickening generous sentiments, sow suspicion and hatred?”

And the Emperor, seeing his sacred person assailed in this way by liberty, thanks the dear Sir Francis for not having hesitated to oppose such false accusations energetically in a loyal and impartial manner.

Now, without entering at all into the political details of his present grief, we do not understand how Sire Napoleon III could expect to be always in good humour and in cheerful spirits. Were the experiences of the family of which he is an alleged member of such a bright and sunny nature that, when he sought to obtain the throne of France and staked his life, his liberty, and all the money he could borrow on small invasions, he could suppose that a rosy garland of sybaritic pleasures, human goodwill, and personal well-being, the blessings of John Bull and the forced deference of Europe, awaited him? Had he never heard the remark of the divine William:

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown?

Did he suppose that, of all men, he in particular was called by destiny and duty to endure headaches in the Tuileries for the good of the people? Why then had he to throw himself on the broad bosom of the honourable Sir F. Head and cry because the much-coveted crown presses on his brow? And if he deems it necessary to write to the *Times*, why does he not do it himself, instead of through the medium of a decayed baronet? He has kicked poor etiquette out of doors more than once. Could he not do so once more?

The mournful pose—if we may use such an undignified expression with respect to persons of high office—was a favourite with his uncle and seems to be tolerably copied by the nephew. The founder of the family <Napoleon I> was accustomed to enlarge at great length, with many tears and with almost morbid sentimentality, upon his sufferings, troubles, trials, dangers, and particularly upon the bad treatment which perfidious Albion meted out to him. But he never succeeded, we believe, in getting a letter addressed to an Englishman into the London *Times*. He succeeded in being honestly laughed at in England and just as honestly mourned in France, and sometimes he brought it about that the laughter stuck in the throats of his tittering neighbours. But if he had never done anything better than write letters to the Sir Francis Heads of his day, he would probably have been relieved from his agonising duties in the Tuileries at a much earlier period than that which carried him to the peaceful shores of St. Helena.