While all France has been divided of late, it would be demanding a superhuman effort of urbanity and harmony from the Immortals to expect a concord of sweet sounds to be heard beneath the famed cupola. Politics have introduced their consequent animosity and bitterness here as elsewhere, and the academicians, like the rest of their compatriots, are ranged in two defiant and hostile camps. I am bound to say that the _élite_ is with the splendid and disinterested minority. It is sad to witness the extraordinary capers, the passion for popularity in which an intelligent man like M. Lemaître indulges, and to see him brandishing a wild pen and shouting in every tone of anger; so little dignity and common sense are left a Frenchman when hate and rancour hold him and when race-fury rolls over the land like a tidal wave, _Vive l’armée!_ This famous critic has betaken himself to a sort of politics invented for the hour—a feverish antagonism to foreigners and all foreign influences, and a passion for every form of sabred hero. He goes from the Clotilde to Notre Dame, from Notre Dame to the Madeleine, in the glorious attitude and humour of the Irishman at Donnybrook Fair, seeking for somebody in the crowd who will tread upon the tail of his coat. This offence may be committed by cheering the Republic or its President; then there is instant competition in pugilism. And so M. Lemaître, accompanied and admirably assisted by his no less heroic and patriotic fellow academician, M. Coppée, forgets academical urbanity in wild and incoherent abuse of living persons and respectable citizens who happen not to think as he does.