perhaps did really persuade himself that it was to the sentiments of republicanism that he had imbibed from his infancy that he owed his love of liberty and horror of enslavement, and that "he had never been able to endure the proud smugness, based on false prejudices, of the nobles."
The fall of royalty had caused him to lose his posts, notably that of director of the Queen's band, and the allowances on which he lived; he would have needed to be more of a Spartan than can be expected of one who wields the lyre, not to have wished to obtain some equivalent from the new régime. But what was more serious was that from August, 1792 the performance of Grétry's previous works became practically impossible. Bands of revolutionaries made themselves masters of all places where public performances were given and greeted with shouting and tumult every scene and every line that recalled,—even in the most insignificant and harmless manner, without any special intention of justifying them,—the picture of political and social institutions that had been over turned. Thus "O Richard, O my king" could no longer be sung in public because of the word King, and it can be readily understood that hardly any of Grétry's works could find grace with a censorship of which his librettists had been quite unable to foresee the peculiar susceptibilities. The revolutionary theatrical censorship adopted literally the point of view (if you can call it a view) of a certain citizen in our own day, who hearing a political speaker allude to the nobility of the scene where he was speaking (a part of France full of illustrious and ancient memories) noisily interrupted him with the words, "There's no nobility now." The Committee of Public Safety
