gainst it, although it passed by a majority.

It is somewhat strange that the military man who, by the force of
circumstances, is the President of this Devil's own Government is by
nature more of a lawyer than even if he had been bred up to the trade.
His colleagues own in despair that he is their master in strength of
lungs, and that when they split straws into two he splits them into
four. In vain they fall back on their pens and indite letters and
proclamations, their President out-letters and out-proclaims them.
Trochu is indeed a sort of military Ollivier. He earned his spurs as a
military critic, Ollivier as a civil critic. Both are clever, and
eminently respectable in their private relations, and both are verbose,
unpractical, and wanting in plain common sense. Ollivier had a plan, and
so has Trochu. Ollivier complained when his plan failed, that it was the
fault of every one except himself, and Trochu is already doing the same.
Both protested against the system of rule adopted by their predecessors,
and have followed in their steps. Both were advocates of publicity, and
both audaciously suppressed and distorted facts to suit their
convenience. Ollivier is probably now writing a book to prove that he
was the wisest of ministers. Trochu, as soon as the siege is over, will
write one to prove that he was the best of generals. Ollivier insisted
that he could found a Liberal Government upon an Imperial basis, and
miserably failed. Trochu declares that he, and he alone, can force the
Prussians to raise the siege of Paris. When his plan has failed, as fail
it in all probability will, he still, with that serene assurance which
is the attribute of mediocrity, will insist that it ought to have
succeeded. "_Victrix causa Diis placuit, sed victa Catoni._" Those who
knew him in Brittany tell me that long before he became a personage, "le
plan de Trochu" was a standing joke throughout that province. The
General, it appears, is fond of piquet; whenever he sat down to play he
said, "j'ai mon plan." When he got up after losing the game, as was
usually the case, he went away muttering, "Cependant, mon plan etait
bon." He seemed to have this word "plan" on the brain, for no one who
ever played with him could perceive in his mode of handling the cards
the slightest trace of a plan. The mania was harmless as long as its
exhibition was confined to a game in which a few francs were to be won
or lost, but it becomes most serious in its c