3it il^nttory (0f Mantes X AuKuarit THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK OF MR. M. A. TITMARSH AND EASTERN SKETCHES 31 Journeg from Cornell to Cairo THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK CHARACTER SKETCHES BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY WITH 170 ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR, THOMAS R. MACQUOID, J. P. ATKINSON, GEORGE CRUIKSHANK, JOHN LEACH, AND M. FITZGERALD boston college library CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. BOSTON SAMUEL E. CASSINO \ ' . ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. About half of the sketches in these volumes have already appeared in print, in various periodical works. A part of the text of one tale, and the plots of two others, have been borrowed from French originals ; the other stories, which are, in the main, true, and have been written upon facts and characters that came within the Author’s observation during a residence in Paris. As the remaining papers relate to public events which occurred during the same period, or to Parisian Art and Literature, he has ventured to give his publication the title which it bears. London, July 1, 1840. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 https://archive.org/details/parissketchbooko00thac_0 CONTENTS. THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. PAGE An Invasion of France 1 A Caution to Travellers 14 The Fetes of July 82 On the French School of Painting 41 The Painter’s Bargain 61 Cartouche 76 On some French Fashionable Novels 89 A Gambler’s Death Ill Napoleon and IIis System 122 The Story of Mary Ancel 137 Beatrice Merger 157 Caricatures and Lithography in Paris 165 Little Poinsinet 193 The Devil’s Wager 208 Madame Sand and the new Apocalypse 219 The Case of Peytel 245 Four Imitations of Beranger 273 French Dramas and Melodramas 283 Meditations at Versailles 305 vii CONTENTS . viii EASTERN SKETCHES. A JOURNEY FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. CHAPTER ’ PAGE Dedication 325 Preface 327 I. Vigo. — Thoughts at Sea — Sight of Land — Vigo — Spanish Ground — Spanish Troops — Pasagero . . 329 II. Lisbon — Cadiz. — Lisbon — The Belem Road — A School — Landscape — Palace of Necessidades — Cadiz — The Rock 336 III. The “Lady Mary Wood.” — British Lions — Travel- ling Friends — Bishop No. 2— “Good-by, Bishop” — The Meek Lieutenant — “ Lady Mary Wood ” . . . 346 IV. Gibraltar. — Mess-Room Gossip — Military Horticul- ture — “All's Well ” — A Release — Gibraltar — Malta — Religion and Nobility — Malta Relics — The Lazar- etto — Death in the Lazaretto 353 V. Athens. — Reminiscences of jvttim — The Peineus — Landscape — Basileus — England for Ever ! — Classic Remains — tvtttm again 366 VI. Smyrna. — First Glimpses of the East — First Emotions — The Bazaar — A Bastinado — Women — The Cara- van Bridge — Smyrna — The Whistler 375 VII. Constantinople. — Caiques — Eothen’s “ Misseri ” — A Turkish Bath — Constantinople — His Highness the Sultan — Ich mochte nicht der Sultan seyn — A Sub- ject fora Ghazul — The Child Murderer — Turkish Children — Modesty — The Seraglio — The Sultanas’ Puffs — The Sublime Porte — The Schoolmaster in Constantinople 384 VIII. Rhodes. — Jew Pilgrims — Jew Bargaining— Relics of Chivalry — Mahometanism Bankrupt — A Dragoman — A Fine Day — Rhodes 407 IX. The White Squall 415 CONTENTS . IX X. Telmessus — Beykout. — Telmessus — Halil Paslia — Beyrout — A Portrait — A Ball on Board — A Syrian Prince 419 XL A Day and Night in Syria. — Landing at Jaffa — Jaffa — The Cadi of Jaffa — The Cadi’s Divan — A Night-Scene at Jaffa — Syrian Night’s Entertainments, 42 n XII. From Jaffa to Jerusalem. — A Cavalcade — March- ing Order — A Tournament — Ramleh — Roadside Sketches — Rencontres — Abou Gosh — Night before Jerusalem 435 XIII. Jerusalem. — A Pillar of the Church — Quarters — Jewish Pilgrims — Jerusalem Jews — English Service — Jewish History — The Church of the Sepulchre — The Porch of the Sepulchre — Greek and Latin Legends — The Church of the Sepulchre — Bethlehem — The Latin Convent — The American Consul — Sub- jects for Sketching — Departnre — A Day’s March — Ramleh 445 XIV. From Jaffa to Alexandria. — Bill of Fare — From Jaffa to Alexandria 465 XV. To Cairo. — The Nile — First Sight of Cheops — The Ezbekiah — The Hotel d’ Orient — The Conqueror Waghorn — Architecture — The Chief of the Hag — A Street Scene — Arnaoots — A Gracious Prince — The Screw-Propeller in Egypt — The “ Rint ” in Egypt — The Maligned Orient — “The Sex”— Sub- jects for Painters — Slaves — A Hyde Park Moslem — Glimpses of the Harem — An Eastern Acquaintance — An Egyptian Dinner — Life in the Desert — From the Top of the Pyramid — Groups for Landscape — Pig- mies and Pyramids — Things to think of — Finis . . 472 ' ■ ■ ' ■ ' CONTENTS. THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK of 1842. CHAPTER PAGE Dedication iii I. A Summer Day in Dublin, or There and There- abouts 1 II. A Country-house in Kildare — Sketches of an Irish Family and Farm 24 III. From Carlow to Waterford 35 IV. From Waterford to Cork . 46 V. Cork— The Agricultural Show — Father Mathew, 57 VI. Cork— The Ursuline Convent 67 VII. Cork 76 VIII. From Cork to Bantry ; with an Account of the City of Skibbereen 89 IX. Rainy Days at Glengariff 101 X. From Glengariff to Killarney 109 XI. Killarney — Stag-hunting on the Lake . . . 119 XII. Killarney — The Races — Muckross 127 XIII. Tralee — Listowel — Tarbert 138 XIV. Limerick 145 XV. Galway — “ Kilroy’s Hotel” — Galway Nights’ Entertainments — First Night : An Evening with Captain Freeny 159 XVI. More Rain in Galway — A Walk There — And the Second Galway Night’s Entertainment, 178 v AN INVASION OF FRANCE. “ Caesar venit in Galliam summa diligentia ” BOUT twelve o’clock, just as the bell of the packet is tolling' a farewell to London Bridge, and warning off the black- guard-boys with the newspa- pers, who have been shoving Times , Herald , Penny Paul - Pry , Penny Satirist , Flare-up , and other abominations, into your face — just as the bell has tolled, and the Jews, strangers, people-taking-leave- of-their-families, and black- guard-boys aforesaid, are mak- ing a rush for the narrow plank which conducts from the paddle-box of the “ Emer- ald ” steamboat unto the quay — you perceive, staggering down Thames Street, those two hackney-coaches, for the arrival of which you have been praying, trembling, hoping, despairing, swearing — sw — , I beg your pardon, I believe the word is not used in polite company — and transpiring, for the last half-hour. Yes, at last, the two coaches draw near, and from thence an awful number of trunks, children, carpet-bags, nursery- maids, hat-boxes, band-boxes, bonnet-boxes, desks, cloaks, and an affectionate wife, are discharged on the quay. “ Elizabeth, take care of Miss Jane,” screams that worthy woman, who has been for a fortnight employed in getting this tremendous body of troops and baggage into marching order. “ Hicks ! Hicks ! for heaven’s sake mind the 1 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. babies ! ” — “ George — Edward, sir, if you go near that porter with the trunk, he will tumble down and kill you, you naughty boy ! — My love, do take the cloaks and umbrellas, and give a hand to Fanny and Lucy ; and I wish you would speak to the hackney-coachmen, dear, they want fifteen shillings, and count the packages, love, — twenty-seven packages, — and bring little Flo; where’s little Flo? — Flo ! Flo ! ” — ( Flo comes sneaking in ; she has been speak- ing a few parting words to a one-eyed terrier, that sneaks off similarly, landward.) As when the hawk menaces the hen-roost, in like man- ner, when such a danger as a voyage menaces a mother, she becomes suddenly endowed with a ferocious presence of mind, and bristling up and screaming in the front of her brood, and in the face of circumstances, succeeds, by her courage, in putting her enemy to flight ; in like manner you will always, I think, And your wife ( if that lady be good fox- twopence ) shrill, eager, and ill-humored, before, and during a great family move of this nature. Well, the swindling hackney-coachmen are paid, the mother leading on her regiment of little ones, and supported by her auxiliary nurse-maids, are safe in the cabin ; — you have counted twenty-six of the twenty-seven parcels, and have them on board, and that horrid man on the paddle-box, who, for twenty minutes past, has been roaring out, NOW, Sift ! — says, now, sir , no more. I never yet knew how a steamer began to move, being always too busy among the trunks and children, for the first half-hour, to mark any of the movements of the vessel. When these private arrangements are made, you And your- self opposite Greenwich ( farewell, sweet, sweet whitebait ! ), and quiet begins to enter your soul. Your wife smiles for the first time these ten days ; you pass by plantations of ship-masts, and forests of steam-chimneys ; the sailors are singing on board the ships, the bargees salute you with oaths, grins, and phrases facetious and familiar ; the man on the paddle-box roars, “ Ease her, stop her ! ” which myste- rious words a shrill voice from below repeats, and pipes out, “ Ease her, stop her ! ” in echo ; the deck is crowded with groups of figures, and the sun shines over all. The sun shines over all, and the steward comes up to say, “ Lunch, ladies and gentlemen ! Will any lady or gentle- man please to take anythink ? ” About a dozen do : boiled beef and pickles, and great red raw Cheshire cheese, tempt AN INVASION OF FRANCK 3 the epicure : little dumpy bottles of stout are produced, and fiz and bang about with a spirit one would never have looked for in individuals of their size and stature. The decks have a strange look ; the people on them, that is. Wives, elderly stout husbands, nurse-maids, and chil- dren predominate, of course, in English steamboats. Such may be considered as the distinctive marks of the English gentleman at three or four and forty : two or three of such groups have pitched their camps on the deck. Then there are a number of young men, of whom three or four have allowed their moustaches to begin to grow since last Friday ; for they are going “ on the Continent/’ and they look, therefore, as if their upper lips were smeared witli snuff. A danseuse from the opera is on her way to Paris. Fob lowed by her bonne and her little dog, she paces the deck, stepping out, in the real dancer fashion, and ogling all around. How happy the two young Englishmen are, who can speak French, and make up to her : and how all criticise her points and paces ! Yonder is a group of young ladies, 4 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK who are going to Paris to learn how to be governesses : those two splendidly dressed ladies are milliners from the Rue Richelieu, who have just brought over, and disposed of, their cargo of Summer fashions. Here sits the Rev. Mr. Snodgrass with his pupils, whom he is conducting to his establishment, near Boulogne, where, in addition to a clas- sical and mathematical education (washing included), the young gentlemen have the benefit of learning French among the French themselves. Accordingly, the young gentlemen are locked up in a great rickety house, two miles from Boulogne, and never see a soul, except the French usher and the cook. Some few French people are there already, preparing to be ill — ( I shall never forget a dreadful sight I once had in the little dark, dirty, six-foot cabin of a Dover steamer. Four gaunt Frenchmen, but for their pantaloons, in the cos- tume of Adam in Paradise, solemnly annomting themselves with some charm against sea-sickness)! — a few French men are there, but these, for the most part, and with a proper philosophy, go to the fore-cabin of the ship, and you see them on the fore-deck ( is that the name for that part of the vessel which is in the region of the bowsprit ) ? lowering in huge cloaks and caps ; snuffy, wretched, pale and wet ; and not jabbering now, as their wont is on shore. I never could fancy the Mounseers formidable at sea. There are, of course, many Jews on board. Who ever travelled by steamboat, coach, diligence, eilwagen, vetturino, mule-back, or sledge, without meeting some of the wander- ing race ? By the time these remarks have been made the steward is on the deck again, and dinner is ready ; and about two hours after dinner comes tea ; and then there is brandy-and-water, which he eagerly presses as a preventive against what may happen ; and about this time you pass the Foreland, the wind blowing pretty fresh ; and the groups on deck disap- pear, and your wife, giving you an alarmed look, descends, with her little ones, to the ladies’ cabin, and you see the steward and his boys issuing from their den under the paddle-box, with each a heap of round tin vases, like those which are called, I believe, in America, expectoratoons , only these are larger. The wind blows, the water looks greener and more beau- tiful than ever — ridge by ridge of long white rock passes AN INVASION OF FRANCE. 5 away. “ That’s Ramsgit,” says a man at the helm ; and, presently, “ That there’s Deal — it’s dreadful fallen off since the war ; ” and “ That’s Dover, round that there pint, only you can’t see it.” And, in the meantime, the sun has plumped his hot face into the water, and the moon has shown hers as soon as ever his back is turned, and Mrs. — (the wife in general), has brought up her children and self from the horrid cabin, in which she says it is impossible to breathe ; and the poor little wretches are, by the officious stewardess and smart steward (expectoratoonifer), accom- modated with a heap of blankets, pillows and mattresses, in the midst of which they crawl, as best they may, and from the heaving heap of which are, during the rest of the voyage, heard occasional faint cries, and sounds of puking woe ! Dear, dear Maria ! Is this the woman who, anon, braved the jeers and brutal wrath of swindling hackney-coachmen ; who repelled the insolence of haggling porters, with a scorn that brought down their demands at least eighteenpence ? Is this the woman at whose voice servants tremble ; at the sound of whose steps the nursery, ay, and mayhap the parlor, is in order ? Look at her now, prostrate, prostrate — no strength has she to speak, scarce power to push to her youngest one — her suffering, struggling Rosa, — to push to her the — the instrumentoon ! In the midst of all these throes and agonies, at which all the passengers, who have their own woes (you yourself — for how can you help them ? — you are on your back on a bench, and if you move all is up with you), are looking on indifferent — one man there is who has been watching you with the utmost care, and bestowing on your helpless family the tenderness that a father denies them. He is a foreigner, and you have been conversing with him, in the course of the morning, in French — which, he says, you speak remarkably well, like a native in fact, and then in English (which, after all, you find is more convenient). What can express your gratitude to this gentleman for all his goodness towards your family and yourself — you talk to him, he has served under the Emperor, and is, for all that, sensible, modest, and well-informed. He speaks, in- deed, of his countrymen almost with contempt, and readily admits the superiority of a Briton, on the seas and else- where. One loves to meet with such genuine liberality in a foreigner, and respects the man who can sacrifice vanity 6 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. to truth. This distinguished foreigner has travelled much; he asks whither you are going ? — where you stop ? if you have a great quantity of luggage on board ? — and laughs when he hears of the twenty-seven packages, and hopes you have some friend at the custom-house, who can spare you the monstrous trouble of unpacking that which has taken you weeks to put up. Nine, ten, eleven, the dis- tinguished foreigner is ever at your side ; you find him now, perhaps, (with characteristic ingratitude), something of a bore, but, at least, he has been most tender to the children and their mamma. At last a Boulogne light comes in sight, (you see it over the bows of the vessel, when, having bobbed violently upwards, it sinks swiftly down), Boulogne harbor is in sight, and the foreigner says, — The distinguished foreigner says, says he — “ Sare, eef you af no ’otel, I sail recommend you, milor, to ze ’Otel Betfort, in ze Quay, sare, close to the bathing-machines and custom-haoose. Good bets and fine garten, sare; table- d’hote, sare, a cinq heures ; breakfast, sare, in French or English style ; — I am the commissionaire, sare, and vill see to your loggish.” . . . Curse the fellow, for an impudent, swindling, sneak- ing French humbug! — Your tone instantly changes, and you tell him to go about his business : but at twelve o’clock at night, when the voyage is over, and the custom-house business done, knowing not whither to go, with a wife and fourteen exhausted children, scarce able to stand, and long- ing for bed, you find yourself, somehow, in the Hotel Bed- ford (and you can’t be better), and smiling chambermaids carry off your children to snug beds ; while smart waiters produce for your honor — a cold fowl, say, and a salad, and a bottle of Bordeaux and Seltzer-water. The morning conies — I don’t know a pleasanter feeling than that of waking with the sun shining on objects quite new, and (although you have made the voyage a dozen times), quite strange. Mrs. X. and you occupy a very light bed, which has a tall canopy of red “percale ; ” the windows are smartly draped with cheap gaudy calicoes and muslins ; there are little mean strips of carpet about the tiled floor of the room, and yet all seems as gay and as comfortable as may be — the sun shines brighter than you have seen it for a year, the sky is a thousand times bluer, and what a cheery clatter of shrill quick French voices comes up from the AN INVASION OF FRANCK . court-yard under the windows ! Bells are jangling ; a family, mayhap, is going to Paris, en poste , and wondrous is the jabber of the courier, the postilion, the inn waiters, and the lookers-on. The landlord calls out for “Quatre biftecks aux pommes pour le trente-trois,” — (0 my country- men, I love your tastes and your ways) ! — the chamber- maid is laughing and says, “Finissez done, Monsieur Pierre ! ” (what can they be about )? • — a fat Englishman has opened his window violently, and says, “ Dee dong, garsong, vooly voo me donny lo sho, on vooly voo pah ? ” He has been ringing for half an hour — the last energetic appeal succeeds, and shortly he is enabled to descend to the coffee- room, where, with three hot rolls, grilled ham, cold fowl, and four boiled eggs, he makes what he calls his first French breakfast. It is a strange, mongrel, merry place, this town of Bou- logne ; the little French fishermen’s children are beautiful, and the little French soldiers, four feet high, red-breeched, with huge pompons on their caps, and brown faces, and clear sharp eyes, look, for all their littleness, far more mili- tary and more intelligent than the heavy louts one has seen swaggering about the garrison towns in England. Yonder go a crowd of bare-legged fishermen ; there is the town idiot, mocking a woman who is screaming “ Fleuve du Tage,” at an inn-window, to a harp, and there are the little gamins mocking him. Lo ! these seven young ladies, with red hair and green veils, they are from neighboring Albion, and going to bathe. Here come three Englishmen, habitues evidently of the place, — dandy specimens of our country- men : one wears a marine dress, another has a shooting dress, a third has a blouse and a pair of guiltless spurs — all have as much hair on the face as nature or art can supply, and all wear their hats very much on one side. Believe me, there is on the face of this world no scamp like an English one, no blackguard like one of these half-gentlemen, so mean, so low, so vulgar, — so ludicrously ignorant and conceited, so desperately heartless and depraved. But why, my dear sir, get into a passion ? — Take things coolly. As the poet has observed, “ Those only is gentle- men who behave as sich ; ” with such, then, consort, be they cobblers or dukes. Don’t give us, cries the patriotic reader, any abuse of our fellow-countrymen (anybody else can do that), but rather continue in that good-humored, facetious, descriptive style with which your letter has com- 8 THE PARTS SKETCH BOOK . menced. — Your remark, sir, is perfectly just, and does honor to your head and excellent heart. There is little need to give a description of the good town of Boulogne, which, haute and basse, with the new light-house and the new harbor, and the gas-lamps, and the manufactures, and the convents, and the number of English and French residents, and the pillar erected in honor of the grand Armee d' Angleterre, so called because it didn't go to England, have all been excellently described by the facetious Coglan, the learned Dr. Millingen, and by innumerable guide-books besides. A fine thing it is to hear the stout old Frenchmen of Napoleon's time argue how that audacious Corsican would have marched to London, after swallowing Nelson and all his gun-boats, but for cette malheureuse guerre d'Espagne and cette glorieuse campagne d'Autriche , which the gold of Pitt caused to be raised at the Emperor's tail, in order to call him off from the helpless country in his front. Some Frenchmen go farther still, and vow that in Spain they were never beaten at all ; indeed, if you read in the Biographie des Hommes du Jour , article “Soult," you will fancy that, with the exception of the disaster at Yittoria, the campaigns in Spain and Portugal were a series of triumphs. Only, by looking at a map, it is observable that Vimeiro is a mortal long way from Toulouse, where, at the end of certain years of victories, we somehow find the honest Marshal. And what then ? — he went to Toulouse for the purpose of beating the English there, to be sure ; — a known fact, on which comment would be superfluous. However, we shall never get to Paris at this rate ; let us break off further palaver, and away at once. . . (During this pause, the ingenious reader is kindly requested to pay his bill at the Hotel at Boulogne, to mount the Diligence of Laffitte, Caillard and Company, and to travel for twenty-five hours, amidst much jingling of harness-bells and screaming of postilions). The French milliner, who occupies one of the corners, begins to remove the greasy pieces of paper which have enveloped her locks during the journey. She withdraws the “Madras" of dubious hue which has bound her head for the last five-and-twenty hours, and replaces it by the black velvet bonnet, which, bobbing against your nose, has hung from the Diligence roof since your departure from Boulogne. The old lady in the opposite corner, who has AN INVASION OF FRANCE . 9 been sucking bonbons, and smells dreadfully of anisette, arranges her little parcels in that immense basket of abominations which all old women carry in their laps. She rubs her mouth and eyes with her dusty cambric hand- kerchief, she ties up her nightcap into a little bundle, and replaces it by a more becoming head-piece, covered with withered artificial flowers, and crumpled tags of ribbon ; she looks wistfully at the company for an instant, and then places her handkerchief before her mouth : — her eyes roll strangely about for an instant, and you hear a faint clatter ing noise : the old lady has been getting ready her teeth, which had lain in her basket among the bonbons, pins, oranges, pomatum, bits of cake, lozenges, prayer-books, peppermint- water, copper money, and false hair — stowed away there during the voyage. The Jewish gentleman, who has been so attentive to the milliner during the journey, and is a traveller and bagman by profession, gathers to- gether his various goods. The sallow-faced English lad, who has been drunk ever since we left Boulogne yesterday, and is coming to Paris to pursue the study of medicine, swears that he rejoices to leave the cursed Diligence, is sick of the infernal journey, and d — d glad that the d — d voyage is so nearly over. “ Enjin /” says your neighbor, yawning, and inserting an elbow into the mouth of his right and left hand companion, “ nous voilcl. ” Nous Voila ! — We are at Paris ! This must account for the removal of the milliner’s curl-papers, and the fixing of the old lady’s teeth! — Since the last relais , the Diligence has been travelling with extraordinary speed. The pos- tilion cracks his terrible whip, and screams shrilly. The conductor blows incessantly on his horn, the bells of the harness, the bumping and ringing of the wheels and chains, and the clatter of the great hoofs of the heavy snorting Norman stallions, have wondrously increased within this, the last ten minutes ; and the Diligence, which has been proceeding hitherto at the rate of a league in an hour, now dashes gallantly forward, as if it would traverse at least six miles in the same space of time. Thus it is, when Sir Kobert maketh a speech at Saint Stephen’s — he useth his strength at the beginning, only, and the end. He gallopetli at the commencement ; in the middle he lingers ; at the close, again, he rouses the House, which has fallen asleep ; he cracketli the whip of his satire ; he shouts the shout of his patriotism ; and, urging his eloquence to its roughest 10 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK canter, awakens the sleepers, and inspires the weary, until men say, What a wondrous orator ! What a capital coach ! We will ride henceforth in it, and in no other ! But, behold us at Paris ! The Diligence has reached a rude-looking gate, or grille , flanked by two lodges; the French Kings of old made their entry by this gate ; some of the hottest battles of the late revolution were fought before it. At present, it is blocked by carts and peasants, and a busy crowd of men, in green, examining the packages before they enter, probing the straw with long needles. It is the Barrier of St. Denis, and the green men are the customs’-men of the city of Paris. If you are a country- man, who would introduce a cow into the metropolis, the city demands twenty-four francs for such a privilege : if you have a hundred-weight of tallow-candles, you must, previously, disburse three francs : if a drove of hogs, nine francs per whole hog : but upon these subjects Mr. Bulwer, Mrs. Trollope, and other writers, have already enlightened the public. In the present instance, after a momentary pause, one of the men in green mounts by the side of the conductor, and the ponderous vehicle pursues its journey. The street which we enter, that of the Faubourg St. Denis, presents a strange contrast to the dark uniformity of a London street, where everything, in the dingy and smoky atmosphere, looks as though it were painted in India-ink — black houses, black passengers, and black sky. Here, on the contrary, is a thousand times more life and color. Before you, shining in the sun, is a long glistening line of gutter , — not a very pleasing object in a city, but in a picture invaluable. On each side are houses of all dimen- sions and hues ; some of but one story ; some as high as the tower of Babel. From these the haberdashers ( and this is their favorite street) flaunt long strips of gaudy calicoes, which give a strange air of rude gayety to the street. Milk-women, with a little crowd of gossips round each, are, at this early hour of morning, selling the chief material of the Parisian cafe-au-lait. Gay wine-shops, painted red, and smartly decorated with vines and gilded railings, are filled with workmen taking their morning’s draught. That gloomy-looking prison on your right is a prison for women ; once it was a convent for Lazarists : a thousand unfortunate individuals of the softer sex now occupy that mansion : they bake, as we find in the guide- books, the bread of all the other prisons ; they mend and AN INVASION OF FRANCE . 11 wash the shirts and stockings of all the other prisoners ; they make hooks-and-eyes and pliosphorus-boxes, and they attend chapel every Sunday : — if occupation can help them, sure they have enough of it. Was it not a great stroke of the legislature to superintend the morals and linen at once, and thus keep these poor creatures con- tinually mending ? — But we have passed the prison long ago, and are at the Port St. Denis itself. There is only time to take a hasty glance as we pass : it commemorates some of the wonderful feats of arms of Lu- dovicus Magnus, and abounds in ponderous allegories — nymphs, and river-gods, and pyramids crowned with fleurs- de-lis ; Louis passing over the Rhine in triumph, and the Dutch Lion giving up the ghost in the year of our Lord 1672. The Dutch Lion revived, and overcame the man some years afterwards ; but of this fact, singularly enough, the inscriptions make no mention. Passing, then, round the gate, and not under it (after the general custom, in respect of triumphal arches), you cross the boulevard, which gives a glimpse of trees and sunshine, and gleaming white buildings ; then, dashing down the Rue de Bourbon Ville- neuve, a dirty street, which seems interminable, and the Rue St. Eustache, the conductor gives a last blast on his horn, and the great vehicle clatters into the court-yard, where the journey is destined to conclude. If there was a noise before of screaming postilions and cracked horns, it was nothing to the Babel-like clatter which greets us now. We are in a great court, which Hajji Baba would call the father of Diligences. Half a dozen other coaches arrive at the same minute — no light affairs, like your English vehicles, but ponderous machines, containing fifteen passengers inside, more in the cabriolet, and vast towers of luggage on the roof : others are loading : the yard is filled with passengers coming or departing; — bustling porters and screaming commissionaires. These latter seize you as you descend from your place, — twenty cards are thrust into your hand, and as many voices, jabbering with inconceivable swiftness, shriek into your ear, “Dis way, sare ; are you for ze * ? Otel of Rhin ? ’ ‘ Hotel de V Amlr- aute ! — 6 Hotel Bristol, ? sare ! — Monsieur , ‘ V Hotel de Lille ? ’ Saer-rrre ’ nom de JDieu , laissez passer ce petit , Monsieur ! Ow mosh loggish ave you, sare ? ” And now, if you are a stranger in Paris, listen to the words of Titmarsh. — If you cannot speak a syllable of French, 12 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK and love English comfort, clean rooms, breakfasts, and wait- ers ; if you would have plentiful dinners, and are not par- ticular (as how should you be )? concerning wine ; if, in this foreign country, you will have your English compan- ions, your porter, your friend, and your brandy-and-water — do not listen to any of these commissioner fellows, but with your best English accent, shout out boldly, “Meur- ice ! ” and straightway a man will step forward to conduct you to the Rue de Rivoli. Here you will find apartments at any price : a very neat room, for instance, for three francs daily ; an English breakfast of eternal boiled eggs, or grilled ham ; a non- descript dinner, profuse but cold ; and a society which will rejoice your heart. Here are young gentlemen from the universities ; young merchants on a lark ; large families of nine daughters, with fat father and mother ; officers of dragoons, and lawyers’ clerks. The last time we dined at “ Meurice’s ” we hobbed and nobbed with no less a person than Mr. Moses, the celebrated bailiff of Chancery Lane ; Lord Brougham was on his right, and a clergyman’s lady, with a train of white-haired girls, sat on his left, wonder- fully taken with the diamond rings of the fascinating stranger ! It is, as you will perceive, an admirable way to see Paris, especially if you spend your days reading the English papers at Galignani’s, as many of our foreign tourists do. But all this is promiscuous, and not to the purpose. If, AN INVASION OF FRANCE . 13 — to continue on the subject of hotel choosing, — if you love quiet, heavy bills, and the best table-d? hote in the city, go, 0 stranger ! to the “ Hotel des Princes ; ” it is close to the Boulevard, and convenient for Frascati’s. The “ Hotel Mirabeau ” possesses scarcely less attraction ; but of this you will find, in Mr. Bulwer’s “ Autobiography of Pelham,” a faithful and complete account. “ Lawson’s Hotel ” has likewise its merits, as also the “ Hotel de Lille,” which may be described as a “ second chop ” Meurice. If you are a poor student come to study the humanities, or the pleasant art of amputation, cross the water forth- with, and proceed to the “ Hotel Corneille,” near the Odeon, or others of its species ; there are many where you can live royally ( until you economize by going into lodg- ings ) on four francs a day ; and where, if by any strange chance you are desirous for a while to get rid of your countrymen, you will find that they scarcely ever pen- etrate. But above all, 0 my countrymen ! shun boarding-houses, especially if you have ladies in your train ; or ponder well, and examine the characters of the keepers thereof, before you lead your innocent daughters, and their mamma, into places so dangerous. In the first place you have bad dinners ; and, secondly, bad company. If you play cards, you are very likely playing with a swindler ; if you dance, you dance with a person with whom you had better have nothing to do. Note (which ladies are requested not to read). — In one of these establishments, daily advertised as most eligible for Phiglish, a friend of the writer lived. A lady, who had passed for some time as the wife of one of the inmates, suddenly changed her husband and name, her original husband remaining in the house, and saluting her by her new title. A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. MILLION dangers and snares await the traveller, as soon as he issues out of t that vast messagerie which we have just quitted : and as each man cannot do better than relate such events as have happened in the course of his own experience, and may keep the unwary from the path of danger, let us take this, the very earliest opportu- nity, of imparting to the public a little of the wis- dom which we painfully have acquired. And first, then, with regard to the city of Paris, it is to be remarked, that in that metropolis flourish a greater number of native and exotic swindlers than are to be found in any other European nursery. What young Englishman that visits it, but has not determined, in his heart, to have a little share of the gayeties that go on — just for once, just to see what they are like ? How many, when the horrible gambling dens were open, did resist a sight of them ? — nay, was not a young fellow rather flattered by a dinner invitation from the Salon, whither he went, fondly pre- tending that he should see “French society,” in the persons of certain Dukes and Counts who used to frequent the place ? My friend Pogson is a young fellow, not much worse, although perhaps a little weaker and simpler than his neighbors; and coming to Paris with exactly the same notions that bring many others of the British youth to that 14 A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. lo capital, events befell him there, last winter, which are strictly true, and shall here be narrated, by way of warn- ing to all. Pog, it must be premised, is a city man, who travels in drugs for a couple of the best London houses, blows the flute, has an album, drives his own gig, and is considered, both on the road and in the metropolis, a remarkably nice, intelligent, thriving young man. Pogson’s only fault is too great an attachment to the fair : — “ the sex,” as he says often, “will be his ruin: ” the fact is, that Pog never travels without a “ Don Juan” under his driving cushion, and is a pretty-looking young fellow enough. Sam Pogson had occasion to visit Paris, last October ; and it was in that city that his love of the sex had liked to have cost him dear. He worked his way down to Dover; placing, right and left, at the towns on his route, rhubarb, sodas, and other such delectable wares as his masters dealt in ( “ the sweetest sample of castor oil, smelt like a nose- gay — went off like wildfire — hogshead and a half at Eoch- ester, eight and twenty gallons at Canterbury,” and so on), and crossed to Calais, and thence voyaged to Paris in the coupe of the Diligence. He paid for two places, too, although a single man, and the reason shall now be made known. Dining at the table-d 9 Jiote at “ Quillacq’s ” — it is the best inn on the Continent of Europe — our little traveller had the happiness to be placed next to a lady, who was, he saw at a glance, one of the extreme pink of nobility. A large lady, in black satin, with eyes and hair as black as sloes, with gold chains, scent-bottles, sable tippet, worked pocket-handkerchief, and four twinkling rings on each of her plump white fingers. Her cheeks were as pink as the finest Chinese rouge could make them. Pog knew the article : he travelled in it. Her lips were as red as the ruby lip salve : she used the very best, that was clear. She was a fine-looking woman, certainly ( holding down her eyes, and talking perpetually of “ vies trente-deux arts ” ) ; and Pogson, the wicked young dog, who professed not to care for young misses, saying they smelt so of bread- and-butter, declared, at once, that the lady was one of his beauties ; in fact, when he spoke to us about her, he said, “ She’s a slap-up thing, I tell you ; a reg’lar good one ; one of m y sort ! ” And such was Pogson’s credit in all com- mercial rooms, that one of his sort was considered to surpass all other sorts. 1G THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. During dinner-time, Mr. Pogson was profoundly polite and attentive to the lady at his side, and kindly communi- cated to her, as is the way with the best-bred English on their first arrival “on the Continent,” all his impressions regarding the sights and persons he had seen. Such remarks having been made during half an hour’s ramble about the ramparts and town, and in the course of a walk down to the custom-house, and a confidential communica- tion with the commissionaire , must be, doubtless, very valuable to Frenchmen in their own country ; and the lady listened to Pogson’s opinions : not only with benevolent attention, but actually, she said, with pleasure and delight. Mr. Pogson said that there was no such thing as good meat in France, and that’s why they cooked their victuals in this queer way ; he had seen many soldiers parading about the place, and expressed a true Englishman’s abhorrence of an armed force; not that he feared such fellows as these — little whipper-snappers — our men would eat them. Here- upon the lady admitted that our Guards were angels, but that Monsieur must not be too hard upon the French ; “ her father was a General of the Emperor.” Pogson felt a tremendous respect for himself at the notion that he was dining with a General’s daughter, and instantly ordered a bottle of champagne to keep up his consequence. “ Mrs. Bironn, ma’am,” said he, for he had heard the waiter call her by some such name, “if you will accept a glass of champagne, ma’am, you’ll do me, I’m sure, a great Aonor : they say it’s very good, and a precious sight cheaper than it is on our side of the way, too — not that I care for money. Mrs. Bironn, ma’am, your health, ma’am.” The lady smiled very graciously, and drank the wine. “ Har you any relation, ma’am, if I may make so bold ; liar you anyways connected with the family of our immor- tal bard ? ” “ Sir, I beg your pardon.” “ Don’t mention it, ma’am : but Bironn and Byron are hevidently the same names, only you pronounce in the French way ; and I thought you might be related to his lordship : his horigin, ma’am, was of French extraction : ” and here Pogson began to repeat, — “ Hare thy heyes like thy mother’s, my fair child, Hada! sole daughter of my ’ouse and ’art ? “ Oh ! ” said the lady, laughing, “ you speak of Lor Byron ? ” A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 17 “Hautlior of ‘Don Juan/ 6 Child ’Arold,’ and ‘Cain/a Mystery,” said Pogson : — “ I do ; and hearing the waiter calling you Madam la Bironn, took the liberty of hasking whether you were connected with his lordship ; that’s hall : ” and my friend here grew dreadfully red, and began twiddling his long ringlets in his lingers, and examining very eagerly the contents of his plate. “ Oh, no : Madame la Baronne means Mistress Baroness ; my husband was Baron, and I am Baroness.” “ What ! ’ave I the honor — I beg your pardon, ma’am — is your ladyship a Baroness, and I not know it ? pray excuse me for calling you ma’am ” The Baroness smiled most graciously — with such a look as Juno cast upon unfortunate Jupiter when she wished to gain her wicked ends upon him — the Baroness smiled ; and, stealing her hand into a black velvet bag, drew from it an ivory card-case, and from the ivory card-case extracted a glazed card, printed in gold ; on it was engraved a coronet, and under the coronet the words BARONNE DE FLORVAL-DELVAL, N3E DE MELVAL-NORVAL. Rue Taitbout. The grand Pitt diamond — the Queen’s own star of the garter — a sample of otto-of-roses at a guinea a drop, would not be handled more curiously, or more respectfully, than this porcelain card of the Baroness. Trembling he put it into his little Bussia-leather pocket-book : and when he ventured to look up, and saw the eyes of the Baroness de Florval-Delval, nee de Melval-N orval, gazing upon him with friendly and serene glances, a thrill of pride tingled through Pogson’s blood : he felt himself to be the very happiest fellow “ on the Continent.” But Pogson did not, for some time, venture to resume that sprightly and elegant familiarity which generally forms the great charm of his conversation : he was too much frightened at the presence he was in, and contented himself by graceful and solemn bows, deep attention, and ejaculations of “Yes, my lady,” and “No, your ladyship,” for 2 18 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, some minutes after the discovery had been made. Pogson piqued himself on his breeding: “I hate the aristocracy/’ he said, “but that’s no reason why I shouldn’t behave like a gentleman.” A surly, silent little gentleman, who had been the third A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS . 19 at the ordinary, and would take no part either in the con- versation or in Pogson’s champagne, now took up his hat, and, grunting, left the room, when the happy bagman had the delight of a tete-cl-tete. The Baroness did not appear inclined to move : it was cold ; a fire was comfortable, and she had ordered none in her apartment. Might Pogson give her one more glass of champagne, or would her lady- ship prefer “ something hot.” Her ladyship gravely said, she never took anything hot. “ Some champagne, then ; a leetle drop ? ” She would ! she would ! O gods ! how Pogson’ s hand shook as he filled and offered her the glass ! What took place during the rest of the evening had better be described by Mr. Pogson himself, who has given us permission to publish his letter. “Quillacq’s Hotel ( pronounced Killyax), Calais. “Dear Tit, — I arrived at Cally, as they call it, this day, or, rather, yesterday ; for it is past midnight, as I sit thinking of a wonderful ad- venture that has just befallen me. A woman in course ; that’s always the case with me , you know : but oh, Tit! if you could but see her! Of the first family in France, the Florval-Delvals, beautiful as an angel, and no more caring for money than I do for split peas. “ I’ll tell you how it occurred. Everybody in France, you know, dines at the ordinary — it’s quite distangy to do so. There was only three of us to-day, however, — the Baroness, me, and a gent, who never spoke a word ; and we didn’t want him to, neither: do you mark that? “ You know my way with the women : champagne’s the thing; make ’em drink, make ’em talk — - make ’em talk, make ’em do anything. So I orders a bottle, as if for myself ; and, ‘ Ma’am,’ says I, 4 will you take a glass of Sham — just one? ’ Take it she did — for you know it’s quite distangy here : everybody dines at the table de hote , and everybody ac- cepts everybody’s wine. Bob Irons, who travels in linen on our circuit, told me that he had made some slap-up acquaintances among the genteel- est people at Paris, nothing but by offering them Sham. “ Well, my Baroness takes one glass, two glasses, three glasses — the old fellow goes — we have a deal of chat ( she took me for a military man, she said: is it not singular that so many people should?), and by ten o’clock we had grown so intimate, that I had from her her whole history, knew where she came from, and where she was going. Leave me alone with ’em : I can find out any woman’s history in half an hour. “And where do you think she is going? to Paris to be sure : she has her seat in what you call the coopy (though you’re not near so cooped in it as in our coaches. I’ve been to the office and seen one of ’em). She has her place in the coopy, and the coopy holds three ; so what does Sam Pogson do? — he goes and takes the other two. Ain’t I up to a thing or two ? Oh, no, not the least ; but I shall have her to myself the whole of the way. “We shall be in the French metropolis the day after this reaches you: please look out for a handsome lodging for me, and never mind the expense. And I say, if you could, in her hearing, when you came 20 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. down to the coach, call me Captain Pogson, I wish you would — it sounds well travelling, you know ; and when she asked me if I was not an officer, I couldn’t say no. Adieu, then, my dear fellow, till Monday, and vive le joy, as they say. The Baroness says I speak French charmingly, she talks English as well as you or I. “Your affectionate friend, “ S. Pogson.” This letter reached us duly, in our garrets, and we engaged such an appartment for Mr. Pogson, as beseemed a gentleman of his rank in the world and the army. At the appointed hour, too, we repaired to the Diligence office, and there beheld the arrival of the machine which con- tained him and his lovely Baroness. Those who have much frequented the society of gentle- men of his profession (and what more delightful)? must be aware, that, when all the rest of mankind look hideous, dirty, peevish, wretched, after a forty hours’ coach-journey, a bagman appears as gay and spruce as when he started ; having within himself a thousand little conveniences for the voyage, which common travellers neglect. Pogson had a little portable toilet, of which he had not failed to take advantage, and with his long, curling, flaxen hair, flowing under a seal-skin cap, with a gold tassel, with a blue and gold satin handkerchief, a crimson velvet waistcoat, a light green cut-away coat, a pair of barred brickdust-colored pantaloons, and a neat mackintosh, presented, altogether, as elegant and distingue an appearance as any one could desire. He had put on a clean collar at breakfast, and a pair of white kids as he entered the barrier, and looked, as he rushed into my arms, more like a man stepping out of a band-box, than one descending from a vehicle that has just performed one of the laziest, dullest, flattest, stalest, dirtiest journeys in Europe. To my surprise, there were two ladies in the coach with my friend, and not one , as I had expected. One of these, a stout female, carying sundry baskets, bags, umbrellas, and woman’s wraps, was evidently a maid-servant : the other, in black, was Pogson’s fair one, evidently. I could see a gleam of curl-papers over a sallow face, — of a dusky night- cap flapping over the curl-papers, — but these were hidden by a lace veil and a huge velvet bonnet, of which the crown- ing birds- of-paradise were evidently in a moulting state. She was encased in many shawls and wrappers; she put, hesitatingly, a pretty little foot out of the carriage — Pogson was by her side in an instant, and, gallantly putting one of A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 21 his white kids round her waist ; aided this interesting creat- ure to descend. I saw, by her walk, that she was five-and- forty, and that my little Pogson was a lost man. After some brief parley between them — in which it was charming to hear how my friend Samuel ivoald speak, what he called French, to a lady who could not understand one syllable of his jargon — the mutual hackney-coaches drew up; Madame la Baronne waved to the Captain a graceful French curtsy. “Ad you!” said Samuel, and waved his lily hand. “ Adyou-addimang .” A brisk little gentlemen, who had made the journey in the same coach with Pogson, but had more modestly taken a seat in the Imperial, here passed us, and greeted me with a “ How d’ye do ? ” He had shouldered his own little valise, and was trudging off, scattering a cloud of commis- sionaires, who would fain have spared him the trouble. “Do you know that chap ?” says Pogson ; “surly fellow, ain’t he ? ” “ The kindest man in existence,” answered I ; “ all the world knows little Major British.” “He’s a Major, is he?- — why, that’s the fellow that dined with us at Killyax’s ; it’s lucky I did not call myself Captain before him, he mightn’t have liked it, you know : ” and then Sam fell into a reverie ; — what was the subject of his thoughts soon appeared. “Did you ever see such a foot and ankle?” said Sam, after sitting for some time, regardless of the novelty of the scene, his hands in his pockets, plunged in the deepest thought. “ Isn’t she a slap-up woman, eh, now ? ” pursued he ; and began enumerating her attractions, as a horse-jockey would the points of a favorite animal. “You seem to have gone a pretty length already,” says I, “ by promising to visit her to-morrow.” “ A good length ? — I believe you. Leave me alone for that.” “ But I thought you were only to be two in the coupe, you wicked rogue.” “Two in the coopy? Oh! ah! yes, you know — why, that is, I didn’t know she had her maid with her (what an ass I was to think of a noblewoman travelling without one) ! and couldn’t, in course, refuse, when she asked me to let the maid in.” “ Of course not.” 22 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK . “ Couldn’t, you know, as a man of Aonor ; but I made up for all that,” said Pogson, winking slyly, and putting his hand to his little bunch of a nose, in a very knowing way. “ You did, and how ? ” “ Why, you dog, I sat next to her ; sat in the middle the whole way, and my back’s half broke, 1 can tell you : ” and thus, having depicted his happiness, we soon reached the inn where this back-broken young man was to lodge during his stay in Paris. The next day at five we met ; Mr. Pogson had seen his Baroness, and described her lodgings, in his own expressive way, as “ slap-up.” She had received him quite like an old friend; treated him to eau sucree , of which beverage he expressed himself a great admirer; and actually asked him to dine the next day. But there was a cloud over the ingenuous youth’s brow, and I inquired still farther. “Why,” said he, with a sigh, “I thought she was a widow ; and, hang it ! who should come in but her husband the Baron : a big fellow, sir, with a blue coat, a red ribbing, and such a pair of mustachios ! ” “ Well,” said I, “ he did’nt turn you out, I suppose ? ” “ Oh, no ! on the contrary, as kind as possible ; his lord- ship said that he respected the English army ; asked me what corps I was in, — said he had fought in Spain against us, — and made me welcome.” “ What could you want more ? ” Mr. Pogson at this only whistled ; and if some very pro- found observer of human nature had been there to read into this little bagman’s heart, it would, perhaps, have been mani- fest, that the appearance of a whiskered soldier of a husband had counteracted some plans that the young scoundrel was concocting. I live up a hundred and thirty-seven steps in the remote quarter of the Luxembourg, and it is not to be expected that such a fashionable fellow as Sam Pogson, with his pockets full of money, and a new city to see, should be always wandering to my dull quarters ; so that, although he did not make his appearance for some time, he must not be accused of any lukewarmness of friendship on that score. He was out, too, when I called at his hotel ; but once, I had the good fortune to see him, with his hat curiously on one side, looking as pleased as Punch, and being driven, in an open cab, in the Champs Elysees. “That’s another A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS . 23 tip-top chap,” said he, when we met at length. “ What do yon think of an Earl’s son, my boy? Honorable Tom Eingwood, son of the Earl of Cinqbars : what do you think of that, eh ? ” I thought he was getting into very good society. Sam was a dashing fellow, and was always above his own line of life ; he had met Mr. Eingwood at the Baron’s, and they’d been to the play together ; and the honorable gent, as Sam called him, had joked with him about being well to do in a certain quarter ; and he had had a game of billiards with the Baron, at the Estaminy , “ a very distangy place, where you smoke,” said Sam ; “ quite select, and frequented by the tip-top nobility ; ” and they were as thick as peas in a shell ; and they were to dine that day at Eingwood’s, and sup, the next night, with the Baroness. “ I think the chaps down the road will stare,” said Sam, “ when they hear how I’ve been coming it.” And stare, no doubt, they would ; for it is certain that very few commercial gentlemen have had Mr. Pogson’s advantages. The next morning we had made an arrangement to go out shopping together, and to purchase some articles of female gear, that Sam intended to bestow on his relations, when he returned. Seven needle-books, for his sisters ; a gilt buckle, for his mamma ; a handsome French cashmere shawl and bonnet, for his aunt (the old lady keeps an inn in the Borough, and has plenty of money, and no heirs ) ; and a toothpick case, for his father. Sam is a good fellow to all his relations, and as for his aunt, he adores her. Well, we were to go and make these purchases, and I arrived punctually at my time ; but Sam was stretched on a sofa, very pale and dismal. I saw how it had been. — “A little too much of Mr. Eingwood’s claret, I suppose ? ” He only gave a sickly stare. “ Where does the Honorable Tom live ? ” says I. “ Honorable /” says Sam, with a hollow, horrid laugh; “ I tell you, Tit, lie’s no more Honorable than you are. ” “ What, an impostor ? ” “No, no; not that. He is a real Honorable, only — ” “ Oh, ho ! I smell a rat — a little jealous, eh ? ” “Jealousy be hanged! I tell you he’s a thief ; and the Baron’s a thief $ and, hang me, if I think his wife is any better. Eight-and-thirty pounds he won of me before supper ; and made me drunk, and sent me home : — is that 24 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK honorable? How can I afford to lose forty pounds? It’s took me two years to save it up : if my old aunt gets wind of it, she’ll cut me off with a shilling : hang me ! ” and here Sam, in an agony, tore his fair hair. While bewailing his lot in this lamentable strain, his bell was rung, which signal being answered by a surly “come in,” a tall, very fashionable gentleman, with a fur coat, and a fierce tuft to his chin, entered the room. “ Pogson my buck, how goes it ? ” said he familiarly, and gave a stare at me : I was making for my hat. “ Don’t go, ” said Sam, rather eagerly ; and I sat down again. The Honorable Mr. Ringwood hummed and ha’d : and, at last, said he wished to speak to Mr. Pogson on business, in private if possible. “ There’s no secrets betwixt me and my friend,” cried Sam. Mr. Ringwood paused a little : — “ An awkward business that of last night,” at length exclaimed he. “ I believe it was an awkward business,” said Sam, dryly. “ I really am very sorry for your losses.” “ Thank you : and so am I, I can tell you,” said Sam. “You must mind, my good fellow, and not drink: for, when you drink, you will play high : by Gad, you led us in, and not we you.” “ I dare say, ” answered Sam, with something of peev- ishness ; “losses is losses : there’s no use talking about ’em when they’re over and paid.” “ And paid ? ” here wonderingly spoke Mr. Ringwood ; “why, my dear fel — what the deuce — has Florval been with you ? ” “ D — Florval ! ” growled Sam, “ I’ve never set eyes on his face since last night; and never wish to see him again.” “Come, come, enough of this talk; how do you intend to settle the bills which you gave him last night ? ” “ Bills ? what do you mean ? ” “ I mean, sir, these bills, ” said the Honorable Tom, producing two out of his pocket-book, and looking as stern as a lion. “ ‘ I promise to pay, on demand, to the Baron de Florval, the sum of four hundred pounds. October 20, 1838.’ ‘Ten days after date I promise to pay the Baron de et csetera et csetera, one hundred and ninety-eight pounds. Samuel Pogson.’ You didn’t say what regiment you were in.” A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 25 “ What ! ” shouted poor Sam, as from a dream, starting lip and looking preternatu rally pale and hideous. “D — it, sir, you don’t affect ignorance: you don’t pretend not to remember that you signed these bills, for money lost in my rooms : money lent to you, by Madam de Florval, at your own request ; and lost to her husband ? You don’t suppose, sir, that I shall be such an infernal idiot as to believe you, or such a coward as to put up with a mean subterfuge of this sort. Will you, or will you not, pay the money, sir ? ” “ I will not,” said Sam, stoutly ; “ it’s a d — d swin — ” Here Mr. Ringwood sprung up, clenching his riding- whip, and looking so fierce that Sam and I bounded back to the other end of the room. “ Utter that word again, and, by heaven, I’ll murder you ! ” shouted Mr. Ring wood, and looked, as if he would, too : “ once more, will you, or will you not, pay this money ? ” “ I can’t, ” said Sam faintly. “I’ll call again, Captain Pogson,” said Mr. Ringwood, “I’ll call again in one hour ; and, unless you come to some arrangement, you must meet my friend, the Baron de Flor- val, or I’ll post you for a swindler and a coward.” With this he went out : the door thundered to after him, and when the clink of his steps departing had subsided, I was enabled to look round at Pog. The poor little man had his elbows on the marble table, his head between his hands, and looked, as one has seen gentlemen look over a steam- vessel off Ramsgate, the wind blowing remarkably fresh : at last he fairly burst out crying. “If Mrs. Pogson heard of this,” said I, “what would become of the ‘ Three Tuns ? ’ ” (for I wished to give him a lesson). “ If your Ma, who took you every Sunday to meeting, should know that her boy was paying attention to married women ; — if Drench, Glauber and Co., your employers, were to know that their confidential agent was a gambler, and unfit to be trusted with their money, how long do you think your connection would last with them, and who would afterwards employ you ? ” To this poor Pog had not a word of answer ; but sat on his sofa whimpering so bitterly, that the sternest of moralists would have relented towards him, and would have been touched by the little wretch’s tears. Everything, too, must be pleaded in excuse for this unfortunate bagman : who, if he wished to pass for a captain, had only done so THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 26 because lie had an intense respect and longing for rank : if lie had made love to the Baroness, had only done so because he was given to understand by Lord Byron’s “Don Juan” that making love was a very correct, natty thing : and if he had gambled, had only been induced to do so by the bright eyes and example of the Baron and the Baroness. O ye Barons and Baronesses of England ! if ye knew what a number of small commoners are daily occupied in studying your lives, and imitating your aristocratic ways, how care- ful would ye be of your morals, manners, and conver- sation ! My soul was filled, then, with a gentle yearning pity for Pogson, and revolved many plans for his rescue : none of these seeming to be practicable, at last we hit on the very wisest of all, and determined to apply for counsel to no less a person than Major British. A blessing it is to be acquainted with my worthy friend, little Major British ; and heaven, sure, it was that put the Major into my head, when I heard of this awkward scrape of poor Fog’s. The Major is on half-pay, and occupies a modest apartment au quatribne , in the very hotel which Pogson had patronized at my suggestion ; indeed, I had chosen it from Major British’s own peculiar recommenda- tion. There is no better guide to follow than such a character as the honest Major, of whom there are many likenesses now scattered over the Continent of Europe : men who love to live well, and are forced to live cheaply, and who find the English abroad a thousand times easier, merrier, and more hospitable than the same persons at home. I, for my part, never landed on Calais pier without feeling that a load of sorrows was left on the other side of the water ; and have always fancied that black care stepped on board the steamer, along with the custom-house officers at Gravesend, and accompanied one to yonder black louring towers of Lon- don — so busy, so dismal, and so vast. British would have cut any foreigner’s throat who vent- ured to say so much, but entertained, no doubt, private sentiments of this nature ; for he passed eight months of the year, regularly, abroad, with head-quarters at Paris (the garrets before alluded to), and only went to England for the month’s shooting, on the grounds of his old colonel, now an old lord, of whose acquaintance the Major was passably inclined to boast. A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 27 He loved and respected, like a good staunch Tory as he is, every one of the English nobility ; gave himself certain little airs of a man of fashion, that were by no means disa- greeable ; and was, indeed, kindly regarded by such English aristocracy as he met, in his little annual tours among the German courts, in Italy or in Paris, where he never missed an ambassador’s night : he retailed to us, who didn’t go, but were delighted to know all that had taken place, accurate accounts of the dishes, the dresses, and the scandal which had there fallen under his observation. He is, moreover, one of the most useful persons in society that can possibly be ; for besides being incorrigibly duel- some on his own account, he is, for others, the most acute and peaceable counsellor in the world, and has carried more friends through scrapes and prevented more deaths than any member of the Humane Society. British never bought a single step in the army, as is well known. In ’14 he killed a celebrated French fire-eater, who had slain a young- friend of his, and living, as he does, a great deal with young- men of pleasure, and good old sober family people, he is loved by them both, and has as welcome a place made for him at a roaring bachelor’s supper at the “ Cafe Anglais, “ as at a staid dowager’s dinner-table in the Faubourg St. Honore. Such pleasant old boys are very profitable acquaintances, let me tell you; and lucky is the young man who has one or two such friends in his list. Hurrying on Pogson in his dress, I conducted him, pant- ing, up to Major’s quatrihne , where we were cheerfully bidden to come in. The little gentleman was in his travel- ling jacket, and occupied in painting, elegantly, one of those natty pairs of boots in which he daily promenaded the Boulevards. A couple of pairs of tough buff gloves had been undergoing some pipe-claying operation under his hands ; no man stepped out so spick and span, with a hat so nicely brushed, with a stiff cravat tied so neatly under a fat little red face, with a blue frock-coat so scrupulously fitted to a punchy little person, as Major British, about whom we have written these two pages. He stared rather hardly at my companion, but gave me a kind shake of the hand, and we proceeded at once to business. “ Major British,” said I, “ we want your advice in regard to an unpleasant affair which has just occurred to my friend Pogson.” “Pogson, take a chair.” 28 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. “ You must know, sir, that Mr. Pogson, coming from Calais the other day, encountered, in the diligence, a very handsome woman.” British winked at Pogson, who, wretched as he was, could not help feeling pleased. “ Mr. Pogson was not more pleased with this lovely creature than was she with him ; for, it appears, she gave him her card, invited him to her house, where he has been constantly, and has been received with much kindness.” “ I see,” says British. “Her husband the Baron ” “ Now it's coming,” said the Major, with a grin : “her husband is jealous, I suppose, and there is a talk of the Bois de Boulogne : my dear sir, you can’t refuse — you can’t refuse.” “ It’s not that,” said Pogson, wagging his head passion- ately. “Her husband the Baron seemed quite as much taken with Pogson as his lady was, and has introduced him to some very distingue friends of his own set. Last night one of the Baron’s friends gave a party in honor of my friend A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 29 Pogson, who lost forty-eight pounds at cards before he was made drunk, and heaven knows how much after.” “Not a shilling, by sacred heaven! — not a shilling!” yelled out Pogson. “ After the supper I ’ad such an ’eadacli’, I couldn’t do anything but fall asleep on the sofa.” “You ’ad such an ’eadache’, sir, ” says British sternly, who piques himself on his grammar and pronunciation, and scorns a cockney. “ Such a /headache, sir, ” replied Pogson, with much meekness. « The unfortunate man is brought home at two o’clock, as tipsy as possible, dragged up stairs, senseless, to bed, and, on waking, receives a visit from his entertainer of the night before — a lord’s son, Major, a tip-top fellow, — who brings a couple of bills that my friend Pogson is said to have signed.” “Well, my dear fellow, the thing’s quite simple, — he must pay them.” “I can’t pay them.” “ He can’t pay them,” said we both in a breath : “ Pogson is a commercial traveller, with thirty shillings a week, and how the deuce is he to pay five hundred pounds ?” “A bagman, sir! and what right has a bagman to gamble ? Gentlemen gamble, *sir ; tradesmen, sir, have no bnsiness with the amusements of the gentry. What busi- ness had you with barons and lord’s sons, sir ? — serve you right, sir.” “ Sir,” says Pogson, with some dignity, “ merit, and not birth, is the criterion of a man : I despise an hereditary aristocracy, and admire only Nature’s gentlemen. For my part, I think that a British mercli — ” “Hold your tongue, sir,” bounced out the Major, “and don’t lecture me ; don’t come to me, sir, with your slang about Nature’s gentlemen — Nature’s tomfools, sir! Did Nature open a cash account for you at a banker’s, sir ? Did Nature give you an education, sir? What do you mean by competing with people to whom Nature has given all these things ? Stick to your bags, Mr. Pogson, and your bagmen, and leave barons and their like to their own ways.” “Yes, but, Major,” here cried that faithful friend, who has always stood by Pogson ; “ they won’t leave him alone.” 30 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK . “ The honorable gent says I must fight if I don’t pay,” whimpered Sam. “ What ! fight you ? Do you mean that the honorable gent, as you call him, will go out with a bagman ?” “He doesn’t know I’m a — I’m a commercial man,” blushingly said Sam : “ he fancies I’m a military gent.” The Major’s gravity was guite upset at this absurd notion ; and he laughed outrageously. “ Why, the fact is, sir,” said I, ‘‘that my friend Pogson, knowing the value of the title of Captain, and being complimented by the Baron- ess on his warlike appearance, said, boldly, he was in the army. He only assumed the rank in order to dazzle her weak imagination, never fancying there was a husband, and a circle of friends, with whom he was afterwards to make an acquaintance; and then, you know, it was too late to with- draw.” “Pretty pickle you have put yourself in, Mr. Pogson, by making love to other men’s wives, and calling yourself names,” said the Major, who was restored to good humor. “ And pray, who is the honorable gent ? ” “The Earl of Cinqbars’ son,” says Pogson, “the Honor- ble Tom Bing wood.” “ I thought it was some such character ; and the Baron is the Baron de Florval-Delval ?” “ The very same.” “ And his wife a black-haired woman, with a pretty foot and ankle ; calls herself Athenais ; and is always talking about her trente-deux ans ? Why, sir, that woman was an actress on the Boulevard, when we were here in ’15. She’s no more his wife than I am. Delval’s name is Chicot. The woman is always travelling between London and Paris : I saw she was hooking you at Calais ; she has hooked ten men, in the course of the last two years, in this very way. She lent you money, didn’t she?” “Yes.” “And she leans on your shoulder, and whispers, ‘ Play half for me,’ and somebody wins it, and the poor thing is as sorry as you are, and her husband storms and rages, and insists on double stakes ; and she leans over your shoulder again, and tells every card in your hand to your adversary, and that’s the way it’s done, Mr. Pogson.” “ I’ve been ’ad, I see I ’ave,” said Pogson, very humbly. ‘‘Well, sir,” said the Major, “in consideration, not of you, sir — for, give me leave to tell you, Mr. Pogson, that you are a pitiful little scoundrel — in consideration for my A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS . 31 Lord Cinqbars, sir, with whom, I am proud to say, L am intimate/’ (the Major dearly loved a lord, and was, by his own showing, acquainted with half the peerage), “I will aid you in this affair. Your cursed vanity, sir, and want of principle, has set you, in the first place, intriguing with other men’s wives ; and if you had been shot for your pains, a bullet would only have served you right, sir. You must go about as an impostor, sir, in society; and you pay richly for your swindling, sir, by being swindled yourself : but, as I think your punishment has been already pretty severe, I shall do my best,- out of regard for my friend, Lord ■ Cinqbars, to prevent the matter going any far- ther ; and I recommend you to leave Paris without delay. Now let me wish you a £ good morning.” — Wherewith British made a majestic bow, and began giving the last touch to his varnished boots. We departed : poor Sam perfectly silent and chapfallen ; and I meditating on the wisdom of the half-pay philosopher, and wondering what means he would employ to rescue Pogson from his fate. What these means were I know not ; but Mr. Ringwood did not make his appearance at six ; and, at eight, a letter arrived for “Mr. Pogson, commercial traveller,” &c. &c. It was blank inside, but contained his two bills. Mr. Ring- wood left town, almost immediately, for Vienna; nor did the Major explain the circumstances which caused his departure ; but he muttered something about “ knew some of his old tricks,” “threatened police, and made him dis- gorge directly.” Mr. Ring wood is, as yet, young at his trade ; and I have often thought it was very green of him to give up the bills to the Major, who, certainly, would never have pressed the matter before the police, out of respect for his friend, Lord Cinqbars. THE FETES OF JULY. IN A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OE THE u BUNGAY BEACON.” Paris, July 30th, 1839. E have arrived here just in time for the fetes of July. — You have read, no doubt, of that glorious revolution which took place here nine years ago, and which is now commem- orated annually, in a pretty facetious manner, by gun- hring, student - processions, pole-climbing-for-silver-spoons, gold-watches and legs-of-mut- ton, monarchical orations, and what not, and sanctioned, more- over, by Chamber-of-Deputies, with a grant of a couple of hundred thousand francs to defray the expenses of all the crackers, gunfirings, and legs- is a new fountain in the Place Louis Quinze, otherwise called the Place Liouis Seize, or else the Place de la Revolution, or else the Place de la Concorde (who can say why) ? — which, I am told, is to run bad wine during certain hours to-morrow, and there would have been a review of the National Guards and the Line — only, since the Fieschi business, reviews are no joke, and so this lattter part of the festivity has been discontinued. Do you not laugh, 0 Pharos of Bungay, at the contin- uance of a humbug such as this ? — at the humbugging anniversary of a humbug ? The King of the Barricades is, next to the Emperor Nicholas, the most absolute Sovereign in Europe ; yet there is not in the whole of this fair king- dom of France a single man who cares sixpence about him, 32 THE F&TES OF JULY. 33 or his dynasty : except, mayhap, a few hangers-on at the Chateau, who eat his dinners, and put their hands in his purse. The feeling of loyalty is as dead as old Charles the Tenth ; the Chambers have been laughed at, the country has been laughed at, all the successive ministries have been laughed at (and you know who is the wag that has amused liimself with them all) ; and, behold, here come three days at the end of July, and canons think it neccessary to fire off, squibs and crackers to blaze and fizz, fountains to run wine, kings to make speeches, and subjects to crawl up greasy mats-de-cocagne in token of gratitude and rfyouis- sance publique ! — My dear sir, in their aptitude to swallow, to utter, to enact humbugs, these French people, from Maj- esty downwards, beat all the other nations of this earth. In looking at these men, their manners, dresses, opinions, politics, actions, history, it is impossible to preserve a grave countenance ; instead of having Carlyle to write a History of the French Revolution, I often think it should be handed over to Dickens or Theodore Hook : and oh ! where is the Rabelais to be the faithful historian of the last phase of the Revolution — the last glorious nine years of which we are now commemorating the last glorious three days ? I had made a vow not to say a syllable on the subject, although I have seen, with my neighbors, all the ginger- bread stalls down the Champs Elysees, and some of the “ catafalques ” erected to the memory of the heroes of July, where the students and others, not connected personally with the victims, and not having in the least profited by their deaths, come and weep ; but the grief shown on the first day is quite as absurd and fictitious as the joy exhibited on the last. The subject is one which admits of much wholesome reflection and food for mirth ; and, besides, is so richly treated by the French themselves, that it would be a sin and a shame to pass it over. Allow me to have the honor of translating, for your edification, an account of the first day’s proceedings — it is mighty amusing, to my thinking. “ CELEBRATION OF THE DAYS OF JULY. “ To-day (Saturday), funeral ceremonies, in honor of the victims of July, were held in the various edifices conse- crated to public worship. " These edifices, with the exception of some churches (especially that of the Petits-Peres), were uniformly hung 3 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK 54 with black on the outside ; the hangings bore only this in- scription : 27, 28, 29 July, 1830 — surrounded by a wreath of oak-leaves, “In the interior of the Catholic churches, it had only been thought proper to dress little catafalques, as for burials of .the third and fourth class. Very few clergy attended; but a considerable number of the National Guard. “ The Synagogue of the Israelites was entirely hung with black ; and a great concourse of people attended. The ser- vice was performed with the greatest pomp. “ In the Protestant temples there was likewise a very full attendance : apologetical discourses on the Revolution of July were pronounced by the pastors. “ The absence of M. de Quelen (Archbishop of Paris), and of many members of the superior clergy, was* remarked at Notre Dame. “ The civil authorities attended service in their several districts. “ The poles, ornamented with tri-colored flags, which for- merly were placed on Notre Dame, were, it is remarked, suppressed. The flags on the Pont Neuf were, during the ceremony, only half-mast high, and covered with crape. ” Et caetera, et caetera, et caetera. “ The tombs of the Louvre were covered with black hang- ings, and adorned with tri-colored flags. In front and in the middle was erected an expiatory monument of a pyra- midical shape, and surmounted by a funeral vase. “ These tombs were guarded by the Municipal Guard, the Troops of the Line, the Sergens de Ville ( town patrol) and a Brigade of Agents of Police in plain clothes, under the orders of peace-officer Vassal. “ Between eleven and twelve o’clock, some young men, to the number of 400 or 500, assembled on the Place de la Bourse, one of them bearing a tri-colored banner with an inscription, ‘To the Manes of July:’ ranging themselves in order, they marched five abreast to the Marche des In- nocens. On their arrival, the Municipal Guards of the Halle aux Draps, where the post had been doubled, issued out without arms, and the town-sergeants placed themselves before the market to prevent the entry of the procession. The young men passed in perfect order, and without say- ing a word — only lifting their hats as they defiled before the tombs. When they arrived at the Louvre they found the gates shut, and the garden evacuated. The troops were under arms, and formed in battalion. THE FETE 8 OF JULY 35 “ After the passage of the procession, the Garden was again open to the public.’ 7 And the evening and the morning were the first day. There’s nothing serious in mortality : is there, from the beginning of this account to the end thereof, aught but sheer, open, monstrous, undisguised humbug ? I said, before^ that you should have a history of these people by Dickens or Theodore Hook, but there is little need of professed wags; — do not the men write their own tale with an admirable Sancho-like gravity and naivete, which one could not desire improved ? How good is that touch of sly indignation about the little catafalques ! how rich the contrast presented by the economy of the Catholics to the splendid disregard of expense exhibited by the devout Jews ! and how touching the “ apologetical discourses on the Revolution, ” delivered by the Protestant pastors ! Fancy the profound affliction of the Gardes Municipaux. the Sergens de Ville, the police agents in plain clothes, and the troops with fixed bayonets, sobbing round the “ expiatory monuments of a pyramidieal shape, surmounted by funeral vases,” and compelled, by sad duty, to fire into the public who might wish to indulge in the same woe! 0 “ manes of July!” (the phrase is pretty and grammatical ) why did you with sharp bullets break those Louvre windows ? Why did you bayonet red-coated Swiss behind that fair white facade, and, braving cannon, musket, sabre, perspective guillotine, burst yonder bronze gates, rush through that peaceful picture-gallery, and hurl royalty, loyalty, and a thousand years of Kings, head-over-heels out of yonder Tuileries’ windows ? It is, you will allow, a little difficult to say: — there is, however, one benefit that the country has gained ( as for liberty of press, or person, diminished taxation, a juster representation, who ever thinks of them ) ? — one benefit they have gained, or nearly — abolition de la peine-de-mort pour delit politique : no more wicked guillotining for revolu- tions. A Frenchman must have his revolution — it is his nature to knock down omnibuses in the street, and across them to "fire at troops of the line — it is a sin to balk it. Did not the King send off Revolutionary Prince Napoleon in a eoach-and-four ? Did not the jury, before the face of God and justice, proclaim Revolutionary Colonel Yaudrey not guilty ? — One may hope, soon, that if a man shows decent courage and energy in half a dozen 6meut.es , he will get promotion and a premium. 36 THE PATHS SKETCH BOOK I do not (although, perhaps, partial to the subject), want to talk more nonsense than the occasion warrants, and will pray you to cast your eyes over the following anecdote, that is now going the round of the papers, and respects the commutation of the punishment of that Avretclied, fool-hardy Barbes, who, on his trial, seemed to invite the penalty which has just been remitted to him. You recollect the braggart’s speech: “When the Indian falls into the power of the enemy, he knows the fate that awaits him, and submits his head to the knife : — I am the Indian ! ” “Well — ” “ M. Hugo was at the Opera on the night the sentence of the Court of Peers, condemning Barbes to death, was pub- lished. The great poet composed the following verses : — ‘ Par votre ange envolee, ainsi qu’une colombe, Par le royal enfant, doux et frele roseau, Grace encore une fois ! Grace au nom de la tombe ! Grace au nom du beryeau ! ' * “M. Victor Hugo wrote the lines out instantly on a sheet of paper, which he folded, and simply despatched them to the King of the French by the penny-post. “ That truly is a noble A r oice, which can at all hours thus speak to the throne. Poetry, in old days, was called the language of the Gods — it is better named now — it is the language of the Kings. “But the clemency of the King had anticipated the letter of the Poet. His Majesty had signed the commu- tation of Barbes, while the poet was still Avriting. “Louis Philippe replied to the author of ‘Buy Bias’ most graciously, that he had already subscribed to a wish so noble, and that the verses had only confirmed his previous disposition to mercy. ” Koav in countries Avhere fools most abound, did one ever read of more monstrous, palpable folly ? In any country, save this, would a poet who chose to Avrite four crack- brained verses, comparing an angel to a dove, and a little * Translated for the benefit of country gentlemen : — “By your angel flown away just like a dove, By the royal infant, that frail and tender reed, Pardon yet once more ! Pardon in the name of the tomb! Pardon in the name of the cradle ! ” THE FETES OF JULY. 37 boy to a reed, and calling upon tlie chief magistrate, in the name of the angel, or dove (the Princess Mary), in her tomb, and the little infant in his cradle, to spare a criminal, have received a “ gracious answer ” to his nonsense ? Would he have ever despatched the nonsense ? and would any journalist have been silly enough to talk of “the noble voice that could thus speak to the throne, ” and the noble throne that could return such a noble answer to the noble voice ? You get nothing done here gravely and decently. Tawdry stage tricks are played, and braggadocio clap- traps uttered, on every occasion, however sacred or solemn : in the face of death, as by Barbes with his hideous Indian metaphor; in the teeth of reason, as by M. Victor Hugo with his twopenny-post poetry; and of justice, as by the King’s absurd reply to this absurd demand ? Suppose the Count of Paris to be twenty times a reed, and the Princess Mary a host of angels, is that any reason why the law should not have its course ? Justice is the God of our lower world, our great omnipresent guardian : as such it moves, or should move on majestic, awful, irresistible, having no passions — like a God: but, in the very midst of the path across which it is to pass, lo ! M. Victor Hugo trips for- ward, smirking, and says, O divine Justice ! I will trouble you to listen to the following trifling effusion of mine : — “Par votre ange envolee , ainsi qu’une, ” frc. Awful Justice stops, and, bowing gravely, listens to M. Hugo’s verses, and, with true Prench politeness, says, “ Mon cher Monsieur, these verses are charming, ravissans , delicieux , and, coming from such a celebrite Utteraire as yourself, shall meet with every possible attention — in fact had I required anything to confirm my own previous opinions, this charming poem, would have done so. Bon jour, mon cher Monsieur Hugo, au re voir ! ” — and they part : — J ustice taking off his hat and bowing, and the author of “Buy Bias” quite convinced that he has been treating with him eZ’ egal en egal. I can hardly bring my mind to fancy that anything is serious in France — it seems to be all rant, tinsel, and stage-play. Sham liberty, sham monarchy, sham glory, sham justice , — ou diable done la verite va-t-elle se nicher ? The last rocket of the fete of July has just mounted, exploded, made a portentous bang, and emitted a gorgeous 38 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK show of blue lights, and then (like many reputations) disappeared totally : the hundredth gun on the Invalid terrace has uttered its last roar — and a great comfort it is for eyes and ears that the festival is over. We shall be able to go about our every-day business again, and not be hustled by the gendarmes or the crowd. The sight which I have just come away from is as bril- liant, happy, and beautiful as can be conceived ; and if you want to see French people to the greatest advantage, you should go to a festival like this, where their manners, and innocent gayety, show a very pleasing contrast to the coarse and vulgar hilarity which the same class would exhibit in our own country — at Epsom race-course, for instance, or Greenwich Fair. The greatest noise that I heard was that of a company of jolly villagers from a place in the neighborhood of Paris, who, as soon as the fireworks were over, formed themselves into a line, three or four abreast, and so marched singing home. As for the fire- works, squibs and crackers are very hard to describe, and very little was to be seen of them : to me, the prettiest sight was the vast, orderly, happy crowd, the number of children, and the extraordinary care and kindness of the parents towards these little creatures. It does one good to see honest, heavy epiciers, fathers of families, playing with them in the Tuileries, or, as to-night, bearing them stoutly on their shoulders, through many long hours, in order that the little ones too may have their share of the fun. John Bull, I fear, is more selfish : he does not take Mrs. Bull to the public-house ; but leaves her, for the most part, to take care of the children at home. The fete, then, is over; the pompous black pyramid at the Louvre is only a skeleton now ; all the flags have been miraculously whisked away during the night, and the fine chandeliers which glittered down the Champs Ely sees for full half a mile, have been consigned to their dens and darkness. Will they ever be reproduced for other celebra- tions of the glorious 29th of July? — I think not; the Government which vowed that there should be no more persecutions of the press, was, on that very 29th, seiz- ing a Legitimist paper, for some real or fancied offence against it : it had seized, and was seizing daily, numbers of persons merely suspected of being disaffected (and you may fancy how liberty is understood, when some of these pris- oners, the other day, on coming to trial, were found guilty 39 THE FETES OF JULY. and sentenced to one day’s imprisonment, after thirty-six days' detention on suspicion ). I think the Government which follows such a system, cannot be very anxious abou* any farther revolutionary fetes, and that the Chamber may reasonably refuse to vote more money for them. Why should men be so mighty proud of having, on a certain day, cut a certain number of their fellow-countrymen’s throats ? The Guards and the Line employed this time nine years did no more than those who cannonaded the starving Lyonnese, or bayoneted the luckless inhabitants of the Rue Trans- nounain : — they did but fulfil the soldier’s honorable duty : — his superiors bid him kill and he killeth : — per- haps, had he gone to his work with a little more heart, the result would have been different, and then — would the conquering party have been justified in annually rejoicing- over the conquered ? Would we have thought Charles X. justified in causing fireworks to be blazed, and concerts to be sung, and speeches to be spouted, in commemoration of his victory over his slaughtered countrymen ? — I wish for my part they would allow the people to go about their business as on the other 362 days of the year, and leave the Champs Ely sees free for the omnibuses to run, and the Tuileries in quiet, so that the nurse-maids might come as usual, and the newspapers be read for a halfpenny apiece. Shall I trouble you with an account of the speculations of these latter, and the state of the parties which they represent ? The complication is not a little curious, and may form, perhaps, a subject of graver disquisition. The July fetes occupy, as you may imagine, a considerable part of their columns just now, and it is amusing to follow them one by one ; to read Tweedledum’s praise, and Tweedle- dee’s indignation — to read, in the Debats how the King was received with shouts and loyal vivats — in the Nation , how not a tongue was wagged in his praise, but, on the instant of his departure, how the people called for the “ Marseillaise ” and applauded that. — But best say no more about the fete. The Legitimists were always indignant at it. The high Philippist party sneers at and despises it; the Republicans hate it : it seems a joke against them. Why continue it ? — If there be anything sacred in the name and idea of loyalty, why renew this fete ? It only shows how a rightful monarch was hurled from his throne, and a dexterous usurper stole his precious diadem. If there be anything noble in the memory of a day, when 40 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK citizens, unused to war, rose against practised veterans, and, armed with the strength of their cause, overthrew them, why speak of it now ? or renew the bitter recollections of the bootless struggle and victory ? 0 Lafayette ! 0 hero of two worlds ! 0 accomplished Cromwell Grandison ! you have to answer for more than any mortal man who has played a part in history : two republics and one monarchy does the world owe to you; and especially grateful should your country be to you. Did you not, in ’90, make clear the path for honest Kobespierre, and in ’30, prepare the way for — [The Editor of the Bungay Beacon would insert no more of this letter which is, therefore, forever lost to the public.] ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING: WITH APPROPRIATE ANECDOTES, ILLUSTRATIONS, AND PHILOSOPHICAL DISQUISITIONS. IN A LETTER TO MR. MACGILP, OF LONDON. HE three collections of pictures at the Louvre, the Luxembourg, and the Ecole des Beaux Arts, contain a number of specimens of French art, since its com- mencement almost, and give the stranger a pretty fair opportu- nity to study and appreciate the school. The French list of paint- ers contains soimi very good names — no very great ones, ex- cept Poussin (unless the ad- mirers of Claude choose to rank him among great painters), — and I think the school was ' ' 1 never in so flourishing a con- dition as it is at the present day. They say there are three thousand artists in this town alone : of these a handsome minority paint not merely tolerably, but well understand their business : draw the figure accurately ; sketch with cleverness ; and paint portraits, churches, or restaurateurs’ shops, in a decent manner. To account for a superiority over England — which, I think, as regards art, is incontestable — it must be remem- bered that the painter’s trade, in France, is a very good 41 42 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK . one ; better appreciated, better understood, and, generally, far better paid than with us. There are a dozen excellent schools which a lad may enter here, and, under the eye of a practised master, learn the apprenticeship of his art at an expense of about ten pounds a year. In England there is no school except the Academy, unless the student can afford to pay a very large sum, and place himself under the tuition of some particular artist. Here, a young man. for his ten pounds, has all sorts of accessory instruction, models, &c. ; and has further, and for nothing, numberless incitements to study his profession which are not to be found in England : — the streets are filled with picture-shops the people themselves are pictures walking about; the churches, theatres, eating-houses, concert-rooms are covered with pictures : Nature itself is inclined more kindly to him, for the sky is a thousand times more bright and beau- tiful, and the sun shines for the greater part of the year. Add to this, incitements more selfish, but quite as power- ful : a French artist is paid very handsomely ; for five hundred a year is much where all are poor; and has a rank in society rather above his merits than below them, being caressed by hosts and hostesses in places where titles are laughed at and a baron is thought of no more account than a banker’s clerk. The life of the young artist here is the easiest, merriest, dirtiest existence possible. He comes to Paris, probably at sixteen, from his province ; his parents settle forty pounds a year on him, and pay his master ; he establishes himself in the Pays Eatin, or in the new quarter of Notre Dame de Lorette (which is quite peopled with painters); he arrives at his atelier at a tolerably early hour, and labors among a score of companions as merry and poor as himself. Each gentleman has his favorite tobacco-pipe ; and the pictures are painted in the midst of a cloud of smoke, and a din of puns and choice French slang, and a roar of choruses, of which no one can form an idea who has not been present at such an assembly. You see here every variety of coiffure that has ever been known. Some young men of genius have ringlets hanging over their shoulders — you may smell the tobacco with which they are scented across the street ; some have straight locks, black, oily, and redundant ; some have toupets in the famous Louis-Philippe fashion ; some are cropped close; some have adopted the present mode — which he ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING . 43 who would follow must, in order to do so, part his hair in the middle, grease it with grease, and gum it with gum, and iron it flat down over his ears ; when arrived at the ears, you take the tongs and make a couple of ranges of curls close round the whole head, — such curls as you may see under a gilt three-cornered hat, and in her Britannic Majesty’s coachman’s state wig. This is the last fashion. As for the beards, there is no end to them ; all my friends the artists have beards who can raise them ; and Nature, though she has rather stinted the bodies and limbs of the French nation, has been very liberal to them of hah*, as you may see by the following specimen.* Fancy these heads under all sorts of caps — Chinese caps, Mandarin caps, Greek skull-caps, English jockey-caps, Russian or Kuzzilbash caps, Middle-age caps (such as are called, in heraldry, caps of maintenance), Spanish nets, and striped worsted nightcaps. Fancy all the jackets you have ever seen, and you have before you, as well as pen can describe, the costumes of these indescrib- able Frenchmen. In this company and costume the French student of art passes his days and acquires knowledge ; how he passes his evenings, at what theatres, at what guinguettes , in company with what seducing little milliner, there is no need to say ; but I knew one who pawned his coat to go to a carnival * This refers to an illustrated edition of the work. 44 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK . ball, and walked abroad very cheerfully in his blouse for six weeks, until he could redeem the absent garment. These young men (together with the students of sciences) comport themselves towards the sober citizen pretty much as the German bursch towards the philister , or as the mili- tary man, during the empire, did to the pekin : — from the height of their poverty they look down upon him with the greatest imaginable scorn — a scorn, I think, by which the citizen seems dazzled, for his respect for the arts is intense. The case is very different in England, where a grocer’s daughter would think she made a mesalliance by marrying a painter, and where a literary man (in spite of all we can say against it) ranks below that class of gentry composed of the apothecary, the attorney, the wine-merchant, whose positions, in country towns at least, are so equivocal. As, for instance, my friend the Rev. James Asterisk, who has an undeniable pedigree, a paternal estate, and a living to boot, once dined in Warwickshire, in company with several squires and parsons of that enlightened county. Asterisk, as usual, made himself extraordinarily agreeable at dinner, and delighted all present with his learning and wit. “ Who is that monstrous pleasant fellow ? ” said one of the squires. “ Don’t you know ?” replied another. “It’s Asterisk, the author of so-and-so, and a famous contributor to such and such a magazine.” “ Good heavens ! ” said the squire, quite horrified! “a literary man ! I thought he had been a gen- tleman ! ” Another instance: M. Guizot, when he was Minister here, had the grand hotel of the Ministry, and gave entertain- ments to all the great de par le monde , as Brantome says, and entertained them in a proper ministerial magnificence. The splendid and beautiful Duchess of Dash was at one of his ministerial parties ; and went, a fortnight afterwards, as in duty bound, to pay her respects to M. Guizot. But it happened, in this fortnight, that M. Guizot was Minister no longer ; having given up his portfolio, and his grand hotel, to retire into private life, and to occupy his humble apartments in the house which he possesses, and of which he lets the greater portion. A friend of mine was present at one of the ex-Minister’s soirees , where the Duchess of Dash made her appearance. He says the Duchess, at her entrance, seemed quite astounded, and examined the prem- ises with a most curious wonder. Two or three shabby little rooms, with ordinary furniture, and a Minister en retraite , ON THE FRENCH SCflOOL OF PAINTING . 45 who lives by letting lodgings ! In our country was ever such a thing heard of ? No, thank heaven ! and a Briton ought to be proud of the difference. But to our muttons. This country is surely the paradise of painters and penny-a-liners ; and when one reads of M . Horace Vernet at Koine, exceeding ambassadors at Koine by his magnificence, and leading such a life as Kubens or Titian did of old ; when one sees M. Thiers’s grand villa in the Rue St. George (a dozen years ago he was not even a penny-a-liner : no such luck) ; when one contemplates, in imagination, M. Gudin, the marine painter, too lame to walk through the picture-gallery of the Louvre, accommo- dated, therefore, with a wheel-chair, a privilege of princes only, and accompanied — nay, for what I know, actually trundled — down the gallery by majesty itself — who does not long to make one of the great nation, exchange his native tongue for the melodious jabber of France ; or, at least, adopt it for his native country, like Marshal Saxe, Napoleon, and Anacharsis Clootz ? Noble people ! they made Tom Paine a deputy; and as for Tom Macaulay, they would make a dynasty of him. Well, this being the case, no wonder there are so many painters in France ; and here, at least, we are back to them. At the Ecole Koyale des Beaux Arts, you see two or three hundred specimens of their performances ; all the prize- men, since 1750, I think, being bound to leave their prize sketch or picture. Can anything good come out of the Koyal Academy ? is a question which has been considerably mooted in England (in the neighborhood of Suffolk Street especially). The hundreds of French samples are, I think, not very satisfactory. The subjects are almost all what are called classical : Orestes pursued by every variety of Furies ; numbers of little wolf-sucking Komuluses ; Hec- tors and Andromaches in a complication of parting em- braces, and so forth ; for it was the absurd maxim of our forefathers, that because these subjects had been the fashion twenty centuries ago, they must remain so in scecula saeculoruw; ; because to these lofty heights giants had scaled, behold the race of pigmies must get upon stilts and jump at them likewise ! and on the canvas, and in the theatre, the French frogs (excuse the pleasantry) were instructed to swell out and roar as much as possible like bulls. What was the consequence, my dear friend ? In trying to make themselves into bulls, the frogs make themselves THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK . 40 into jackasses, as might be expected. For a hundred and ten years the classical humbug oppressed the nation ; and you may see, in this gallery of the Beaux Arts, seventy years’ specimens of the dulness which it engendered. Now, as Nature made every man with a nose and eyes of his own, she gave him a character of his own too ; and yet we, 0 foolish race ! must try our very best to ape some one or two of our neighbors, whose ideas fit us no more than their breeches ! It is the study of nature, surely, that profits us, and not of these imitations of her. A man as a man, from a dustman up to iEschylus, is God’s work, and good to read, as all works of Nature are : but the silly animal is never content ; is ever trying to fit itself into another shape ; wants to deny its own identity, and has not the courage to utter its own thoughts. Because Lord Byron was wicked, and quarrelled with the world ; and found himself growing fat, and quarrelled with his victuals, and thus, naturally, grew ill-humored, did not half Europe grow ill-humored too ? Did not every poet feel his young affections withered, and despair and dark- ness cast upon his soul ? Because certain mighty men of old could make heroical statues and plays, must we not be told that there is no other beauty but classical beauty ? — must not every little whipster of a French poet chalk you out plays, “ Henriades,” and sucli-like, and vow that here was the real thing, the undeniable Kalon? The undeniable fiddlestick! For a hundred years, my dear sir, the world was humbugged by the so-called classi- cal artists, as they now are by what is called the Christian art (of which anon) ; and it is curious to look at the picto- rial traditions as here handed down. The consequence of them is, that scarce one of the classical pictures exhibited is worth much more than two-and-sixpence. Borrowed from statuary, in the first place, the color of the paintings seems, as much as possible, to participate in it ; they are mostly of a misty, stony green, dismal hue, as if they had been painted in a world where no color was. In every picture, there are, of course, white mantles, white urns, white columns, white statues — those oblige accomplish- ments of the sublime. There are the endless straight noses, long eyes, round chins, short upper lips, just as they are ruled down for you in the drawing-books, as if the latter were the revelations of beauty, issued by supreme author- ity from which there was no appeal. Why is the classical ON TUN FRENCH SCHOOL OF FAINTING . 47 reign to endure? Wliy is yonder simpering Venus de’ Medicis to be our standard of beauty, or the Greek trage- dies to bound our notions of the sublime ? There was no reason why Agamemnon should set the fashions, and remain avaij avSpwv to eternity : and there is a classical quotation, which you may have occasionally heard, begin- ning Pixere fortes , &c., which, as it avers that there were a great number of. stout fellows before Agamemnon, may not unreasonably induce us to conclude that similar heroes were to succeed him. Shakspeare made a better man when his imagination moulded the mighty figure of Mac- beth. And if you will measure Satan by Prometheus, the blind old Puritan’s work by that of the liery Grecian poet, does not Milton’s angel surpass iEschylus’s — surpass him by “ many a rood ? ” In the same school of the Beaux Arts, where are to be found such a number of pale imitations of the antique, Monsieur Thiers (and he ought to be thanked for it) has caused to be placed a full-sized copy of “The Last Judg- ment” of Michael Angelo and a number of casts from statues by the 'same splendid hand. There is the sublime, if you please — a new sublime — an original sublime — quite as sublime as the Greek sublime. See yonder, in the midst of his angels, the Judge of the world descending in glory; and near him, beautiful and gentle, and yet indescribably august and pure, the Virgin by his side. There is the “Moses,” the grandest figure that ever was carved in stone. It has about it something frightfully majestic, if one may so speak. In examining this, and the astonishing picture of “The Judgment,” or even a single figure of it, the spectator’s sense amounts almost to pain. I would not like to be left in a room alone with the “Moses.” How did the artist live amongst them, and create them ? How did he suffer the painful labor of invention ? One fancies that he would have been scorched up, like Semele, by .sights too tremendous for his vision to bear. One cannot imagine him, with our small physical endowments and weaknesses, a man like ourselves. As for the Ecole Eoyale des Beaux Arts, then, and all the good its students have done, as students, it is stark naught. When the men did anything, it was after they had left the academy, and began thinking for themselves. There is only one picture among the many hundreds that has, to my idea, much merit (a charming composition of Homer singing, 48 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. signed J ourdy) ; and the only good that the Academy has done by its pupils was to send them to Home, where they might learn better things. At home, the intolerable, stupid classicalities, taught by men who, belonging to the least erudite country in Europe, were themselves, from their profession, the least learned among their countrymen, only weighed the pupils down, and cramped their hands, their eyes, and their imaginations ; drove them away from nat- ural beauty, which, thank God, is fresh and attainable by us all, to-day, and yesterday, and to-morrow ; and sent them rambling after artificial grace, without the proper means of judging or attaining it. A word for the building of the Palais des Beaux Arts. It is beautiful, and as well finished and convenient as beau- tiful. With its light and elegant fabric, its pretty foun- tain, its archway of the Renaissance , and fragments of sculpture, you can hardly see, on a fine day, a place more riant and pleasing. Passing from thence up the picturesque Hue de Seine, let us walk to the Luxembourg, where bonnes, students, grisettes, and old gentlemen with pigtails, love to wander in the melancholy, quaint old gardens ; where the peers have a new and comfortable court of justice, to judge all the emeutes which are to take place ; and where, as everybody knows, is the picture-gallery of modern French artists, whom government thinks worthy of patronage. A very great proportion of the pictures, as we see by the catalogue, are by the students whose works we have just been to visit at the Beaux Arts, and who, having performed their pilgrimage to Rome, have taken rank among the pro- fessors of the art. I don’t know a more pleasing exhibi- tion ; for there are not a dozen really bad pictures in the collection, some very good, and the rest showing great skill and smartness of execution. In the same way, however, that it has been supposed that no man could be a great poet unless he wrote a very big poem, the tradition is kept up among the painters, and we have here a vast number of large canvases, with figures of the proper heroical length and nakedness. The anti- classicists did not arise in France until about 1827 ; and, in consequence, up to that period, we have here the old clas- sical faith in full vigor. There is Brutus, having chopped his son’s head off, with all the agony of a father, and then, calling for number two ; there is JEneas carrying off old ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING . 49 Anchises ; there are Paris and Venus, as naked as two Hottentots, and many more such choice subjects from Lem- priere. But the chief specimens of the sublime are in the way of murders, with which the catalogue swarms. Here are a few extracts from it : — 7. Beaume, Chevalier de la Legion d’Honneur. “ The Grand Dau- pliiness Dying.” 18. Blondel, Chevalier de la, &e. “Zenobia found Dead.” 36. Debay, Chevalier. “ The Death of Lucretia.” 38. Dejuinne. “ The Death of Hector.” 34. Court, Chevalier de la, &c. “ The Death of Caesar.” 39, 40, 41. Delacroix, Chevalier. “Dante and Virgil in the Infer- nal Lake,” “ The Massacre of Scio,” and “ Medea going to murder her Children.” 43. Delaroche, Chevalier. “ Joas taken from among the Dead.” 44. “ The Death of Queen Elizabeth.” 45. “Edward V. and his Brother” (preparing for death). 50. “ Hecuba going to be Sacrificed,” Drolling, Chevalier. 51. Dubois. “ Young Clovis found Dead.” 56. Henry, Chevalier. “ The Massacre of St. Bartholomew.” 75. Guerin, Chevalier. “ Cain, after the Death of Abel.” 83. Jacquand. “ Death of Adelaide de Comminges.” 88. “ The Death of Eudamidas.” 93. “The Death of Ilymetto.” 103. “ The Death of Philip of Austria.” — And so on. You see what woful subjects they take, and how pro- fusely they are decorated with knighthood. They are like the Black Brunswiekers, these painters, and ought to be called Chevaliers de la Mort . I don’t know why the merri- est people in the world should please themselves with such grim representations and varieties of murder, or why mur- der itself should be considered so eminently sublime and poetical. It is good at the end of a tragedy ; but, then, it is good because it is the end, and because, by the events foregone, the mind is prepared for it. But these men will have nothing but fifth acts ; and seem to skip, as unworthy, all circumstances leading to them. This, however, is part of the scheme — the bloated, unnatural, stilted, spouting, sham sublime, that our teachers have believed and tried tp pass off as real, and which your humble servant and other antiliumbuggists should heartily, according to the strength that is in them, endeavor to pull down. What, for instance could Monsieur Lafond care about the death of Eudamidas V What was Hecuba to Chevalier Drolling, or Chevalier Drolling to Hecuba ? I would lay a wager that neither of them ever conjugated tvtttg), and that their school learning 50 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK . carried them not as far as the letter, but only to the game of taw. How were they to be inspired by such subjects ? From having seen Talma and Mademoiselle Georges flaunt- ing in sham Greek costumes, and having read up the articles Eudamidas, Hecuba, in the “ Mythological Diction- ary.” What a classicism, inspired by rogue, gas-lamps, and a few lines in Lempriere, and copied, half from ancient stat- ues, and half from a naked guardsman at one shilling and sixpence the hour ! Delacroix is a man of a very different genius, and his “Medea ” is a genuine creation of a noble fancy. For most of the others, Mrs. Brownrigg, and her two female 7 prentices, would have done as well as the desperate Colchian with her T€Kva c^tArara. M. Delacroix has produced a number of rude, barbarous pictures ; but there is the stamp of genius on all of them, — the great poetical intention , which is worth all your execution. Delaroche is another man of high merit ; with not such a great heart , perhaps, as the other, but a flue and careful draughtsman, and an excellent arranger of his subject. “ The Death of Elizabeth ” is a raw young performance seemingly — not, at least, to my taste. The “ Enfaus d’Edouard ” is renowned over Europe, and has appeared in a hundred different ways in print. It is properly pathetic and gloomy, and merits fully its high reputation. This painter rejoices in such subjects — in what Lord Portsmouth used to call “black jobs.” He has killed Charles I. and Lady Jane Grey, and the Dukes of Guise, and I don’t know whom besides. He is, at present, occupied with a vast work at the Beaux Arts, where the writer of this had the honor of seeing him, — a little, keen- looking man, some flve feet in height. He wore, on this important occasion, a bandanna round his head, and was in the act of smoking a cigar. Horace Vernet, whose beautiful daughter Delaroche mar- ried, is the king of French battle-painters — an amazingly rapid and dexterous draughtsman, who has Napoleon and all the campaigns by heart, and has painted the Grenadier Fran^ais under all sorts of attitudes. His pictures on such subjects are spirited, natural, and excellent; and he is so clever a man, that all he does is good to a certain degree. His “Judith” is somewhat violent, perhaps. His “ Kebecca” most pleasing ; and not the less so for a little pretty affec- tation of attitude and needless singularity of costume. “ Raphael and Michael Angelo ” is as clever a picture as ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING . 51 can be — clever is just the word — the groups and drawing excellent, the coloring pleasantly bright and gaudy ; and the French students study it incessantly ; there are a dozen who copy it for one who copies Delacroix. His little scraps of wood-cuts, in the now publishing “ Life of Napo- leon / 7 are perfect gems in their way, and the noble price paid for them not a penny more than he merits. The picture, by Court, of “ The Death of Caesar / 7 is remarkable for effect and excellent workmanship : and the head of Brutus (who looks like Arman d Carrel) is full of energy. There are some beautiful heads of women, and some very good color in the picture. Jacquand 7 s “ Death of Adelaide de Comminges 77 is neither more nor less than beautiful. Adelaide had, it appears, a lover, who betook himself to a convent of Trappists. She followed him thither, disguised as a man, took the vows, and was not dis- covered by him till on her death-bed. The painter has told this story in a most pleasing and affecting manner : the pict- ure is full of onction and melancholy grace. The objects, too, are capitally represented ; and the tone and color very good. Decaisne 7 s “ Guardian Angel 77 is not so good in color, but is equally beautiful in expression and grace. A little child and a nurse are asleep : an angel watches the infant. You see women look very wistfully at this sweet picture ; and what triumph would a painter have more ? We must not quit the Luxembourg without noticing the dashing sea-pieces of Gudin, and one or two landscapes by Giroux (the plain of Grasivaudan), and “ The Prometheus 77 of Aligny. This is an imitation, perhaps ; as is a noble pict- ure of “ Jesus Christ and the Children / 7 by Flandrin : but the artists are imitating better models, at any rate ; and one begins to perceive that the odious classical dynasty is no more. Poussin’s magnificent “ Polyphemus 77 (I only know a print of that marvellous composition) has, perhaps, suggested the first-named picture ; and the latter has been inspired by a good enthusiastic study of the Boman schools. Of this revolution, Monsieur Ingres has been one of the chief instruments. He was, before Horace Yernet, presi- dent of the French Academy at Borne, and is famous as a chief of a school. When he broke up his atelier here, to set out for his presidency, many of his pupils attended him faithfully some way on his journey ; and some, with scarcely a penny in their pouches, walked through France and 52 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK across the Alps, in a pious pilgrimage to Rome, being determined not to forsake their old master. Such an action was worthy of them, and of the high rank which their profession holds in France, where the honors to be acquired by art are only inferior to those which are gained in war. One reads of such peregrinations in old days, when the scholars of some great Italian painter followed him from Venice to Rome, or from Florence to Ferrara. In regard of Ingres’s individual merit as a painter, the writer of this is not a fair judge, having seen but three pictures by him ; one being a plafond in the Louvre, which his disciples much admire. Ingres stands between the Imperio-Davido-classical school of French art, and the namby-pamby mystical German school, which is for carrying us back to Cranach and Differ, and which is making progress here. For everything here finds imitation ; the French have the genius of imitation and caricature. This absurd humbug, called the Christian or Catholic art, is sure to tickle our neighbors, and will be a favorite with them, when better known. My dear MacGilp, I do believe this to be a greater humbug than the humbug of David and Girodet, inasmuch as the latter was founded on Nature at least; whereas the former is made up of silly affectations, and improvements upon Nature. Here, for instance, is Chevalier Ziegler’s picture of “ St. Luke painting the Virgin.” St. Luke has a monk’s dress on, embroidered, however, smartly round the sleeves. The Virgin sits in an immense yellow-ochre halo, with her son in her arms. She looks preternaturally solemn ; as does St. Luke, who is eying his paint-brush with an intense ominous mystical look. They call this Catholic art. There is nothing, my dear friend, more easy in life. First take your colors, and rub them down clean, — bright carmine, bright yellow, bright sienna, bright ultramarine, bright green. Make the costumes of your figures as much as possible like the costumes of the early part of the fifteenth century. Paint them in with the above . colors ; and if on a gold ground, the more “ Catholic” your art is. Dress your apostles like priests before the altar; and remember to have a good commodity of crosiers, censers, and other such gimcracks, as you may see in the Catholic chapels, in Sutton Street and elsewhere. Deal in Virgins, and dress them like a burgomaster’s wife by Cranach or Van Eyck. Give them all long twisted tails to their gowns, ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING . 53 and proper angular draperies. Place all their heads on one side, with the eyes shut, and the proper solemn simper. At the back of the head, draw, and gild with gold-leaf, a halo or glory, of the exact shape of a cart-wheel : and you have the thing done. It is Catholic art tout crcbche , as Louis Philippe says. We have it still in England, handed down to us for four centuries, in the pictures on the cards, as the redoutable king and queen of clubs. Look at them : you will see that the costumes and attitudes are precisely similar to those which figure in the catholicities of the school of Overbeck and Cornelius. Before you take your cane at the door, look for one instant at the statue-room. Yonder is Jouffley’s “Jeune Fille confiant son premier secret a Venus. ” Charming, charming ! It is from the exhibition of this year only ; and I think the best sculpture in the gallery — pretty, fanciful, naive ; admirable in workmanship and imitation of Nature. I have seldom seen flesh better represented in marble. Examine, also, Jaley’s “Pudeur, ” JacquoFs “ Nymph, ” and Bude’s “ Boy with the Tortoise. ” These are not very exalted subjects, or what are called exalted, and do not go beyond simple, smiling beauty and nature. But what then ? Are we gods, Miltons, Michael Angelos, that can leave earth when we please, and soar to heights immeasurable ? No, my dear MacGilp ; but the fools of academicians would fain make us so. Are you not, and half the painters in London, panting for an opportunity to show your genius in a great “ historical picture ?” 0 blind race ! Have you wings ? Not a feather : and yet you must be ever puffing, sweating up to the tops of rugged hills; and arrived there, clapping and shaking your ragged elbows, and making as if you would fly ! Come down, silly Daedalus ; come down to the lowly places in which Nature ordered you to walk. The sweet flowers are springing there ; the fat muttons are waiting there ; the pleasant sun shines there ; be content and humble, and take your share of the good cheer. While we have been indulging in this discussion, the omnibus has gayly conducted us across the water ; and le garde qui veille a la pjorte du Louvre ne defend pas our entry. What a paradise this gallery is for French students, or foreigners who sojourn in the capital! It is hardly necessary to say that the brethren of the brush are not 54 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK usually supplied by Fortune with any extraordinary wealth, or means of enjoying the luxuries with which Paris, more than any other city, abounds. But here they have a luxury which surpasses all others, and spend their days in.a palace which all the money of all the Rothschilds could not buy. They sleep, perhaps, in a garret, and dine in a cellar ; but no grandee in Europe has such a drawing- room. Kings’ houses have, at best, but damask hangings, and gilt cornices. What are these to a wall covered with canvas by Paul Veronese, or a hundred yards of Rubens ? Artists from England, who have a national gallery that resembles a moderate-sized gin-shop, who may not copy pictures, except under particular restrictions, and on rare and particular days, may revel here to their hearts’ content. Here is a room half a mile long, with as many windows as Aladdin’s palace, open from sunrise till evening, and free to all manners and all varieties of study : the only puzzle to the student is to select the one he shall begin upon, and keep his eyes away from the rest. Fontaine’s grand staircase, with its arches, and painted ceilings and shining Doric columns, leads directly to the gallery; but is thought too line for working days, and is only opened for the public entrance on Sabbath. A little back stair (leading from a court, in which stand numerous bas-reliefs, and a solemn sphinx, of polished granite), is the common entry for students and others, who, during the week, enter the gallery. Hither have lately been transported a number of the works of French artists, which formerly covered the walls of the Luxembourg ( death only entitles the French painter to a place in the Louvre ) ; and let us confine ourselves to the Frenchmen only, for the space of this letter. I have seen, in a fine private collection at St. Germain, one or two admirable single figures of David, full of life, truth, and gayety. The color is not good, but all the rest excellent : and one of these so much-lauded pictures is the portrait of a washer-woman. “ Pope Pius, ” at the Louvre, is as bad in color as remarkable for its vigor and look of life. The man had a genius for painting portraits and common life, but must attempt the heroic ; failed signally ; and what is worse, carried a whole nation blundering after him. Had you told a Frenchman so, twenty years ago, he would have thrown the dementi in your teetli ; or, at least, laughed at you in scornful incredulity. They say of us ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING, 55 that we don’t know when we are beaten : they go a step further, and swear their defeats are victories. David was a part of the glory of the empire ; and one might as well have said then that “ Eomulus 93 was a bad picture, as that Toulouse was a lost battle. Old-fashioned people, who believe in the Emperor, believe in the Theatre Frangais, and believe Ducis improved upon Shakspeare, have the above opinion. Still, it is curious to remark, in this place, how art and literature become party matters, and political sects have their favorite painters and authors. Nevertheless, Jacques Louis David is dead. He died about a year after his bodily demise in 1825. The roman- ticism killed him. Walter Scott, from his Castle of Abbotsford, sent out a troop of gallant young Scotch adventurers, merry outlaws, valiant knights, and savage Highlanders, who, with trunk hosen and buff jerkins, fierce two-handed swords, and harness on their back, did challenge, combat, and overcome the heroes and demigods of Greece and Eome. Notre dame a la rescousse ! Sir Brian de Bois Guilbert has borne Hector of Troy clear out of his saddle. Andromache may weep : but her spouse is beyond the reach of physic. See ! Bobin Hood twangs his bow, and the heathen gods fly, howling. Montjoie St. Denis l down goes Ajax under the mace of Dunois ; and yonder are Leonidas and Eomulus begging their lives of Eob Eoy Macgregor. Classicism is dead. Sir John Froissart has taken Dr. Lempriere by the nose, and reigns sovereign. Of the- great pictures of David the defunct, we need not, then, say much. Eomulus is a mighty fine fellow, no doubt ; and if he has come out to battle stark naked (except a very handsome helmet), it is because the costume became him, and shows off his figure to advantage. But was there ever anything so absurd as this passion for the nude, which was followed by all the painters of the Davidian epoch ? And how are we to suppose yonder straddle to be the true characteristic of the heroic and the sublime? Eomulus stretches his legs as far as ever nature will allow ; the Horatii, in receiving their swords, think proper to stretch their legs too, and to thrust forward their arms, thus, — 56 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. Romulus’s is in the exact action of a telegraph ; and the Horatii are all in the position of the lunge. Is this the sublime ? Mr. Angelo, of Bond Street, might admire the attitude ; his namesake, Michael, I don’t think would. The little picture of “ Paris and Helen,” one of the mas- ter’s earliest, I believe, is likewise one of his best : the details are exquisitely painted. Helen looks needlessly sheepish, and Paris has a most odious ogle ; but the limbs of the male figure are beautifully designed, and have not the green tone which you see in the later pictures of the master. What is the meaning of this green ? Was it the fashion, or the varnish ? Girodet’s pictures are green ; Gros’s emperors and grenadiers have universally the jaun- dice. Gerard’s “ Psyche ” has a most decided green sick- ness ; and I am at a loss, I confess, to account for the enthusiasm which this performance inspired on its first appearance before the public. In the same room with it is Girodet’s ghastly “ Deluge,” and Gericault’s dismal “Medusa.” Gericault died, they say, for want of fame. He was a man who possessed a considerable fortune of his own ; but pined because no one in his day would purchase his pictures, and so acknowledge his talent. At present, a scrawl from his pencil brings an enormous price. All his works have a grand cachet : he never did anything mean. When he painted the “ Raft of the Medusa,” it is said he lived for a long time among the corpses which he painted, and that his studio was a second Morgue. If you have not seen the picture, you are familiar, probably, with Reynold’s admir- able engraving of it. A huge black sea ; a raft beating upon it ; a horrid company of men dead, half dead, writh- ing and frantic with hideous hunger or hideous hope ; and, far away, black, against a stormy sunset, a sail. The story is powerfully told, and has a legitimate tragic interest, so to speak, — deeper, because more natural, than Girodet’s green “Deluge,” for instance: or his livid “Orestes,” or red-hot “ Clytemnestra.” Seen from a distance the latter’s “ Deluge ” has a certain awe-inspiring air with it. A slimy green man stands on a green rock, and clutches hold of a tree. On the green man’s shoulders is his old father, in a green old age ; to him hangs his wife, with a babe on her breast, and dan- gling at her hair, another child. In the water floats a corpse ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING . 57 (a beautiful head) ; and a green sea and atmosphere envel- opes all this dismal group. The old father is represented with a bag of money in his hand ; and the tree, which the man catches, is cracking, and just on the point of giving way. These two points were considered very fine by the critics : they are two such ghastly epigrams as continually disfigure French Tragedy. For this reason I have never been able to read Eacine with pleasure, — the dialogue is so crammed with these lugubrious good things — melan- choly antitheses — sparkling undertakers 7 wit ; but this is heresy, and had better be spoken discreetly. The gallery contains a vast number of Poussin’s pictures ; they put me in mind of the color of objects in dreams, — a strange, hazy, lurid hue. How noble are some of his landscapes ! What a depth of solemn shadow is in yonder wood, near which, by the side of a black water, halts Diogenes. The air is thunder-laden, and breathes heavily. You hear ominous whispers in the vast forest gloom. Near it is a landscape, by Carel Dujardin, I believe, con- ceived in quite a different mood, but exquisitely poetical too. A horseman is riding up a hill, and giving money to a blowsy beggar-wencli. 0 matutini rores aurceque salu - bres ! in what a wonderful way has the artist managed to create you out of a few bladders of paint and pots of var- nish. You can see the matutinal dews twinkling in the grass, and feel the fresh, salubrious airs (“the breath of Nature blowing free,” as the corn-law man sings) blow- ing free over the heath ; silvery vapors are rising up from the blue lowlands. You can tell the hour of the morning and the time of the year : you can do anything but describe it in words. As with regard to the Poussin above mentioned, one can never pass it without bearing away a certain pleasing, dreamy feeling of awe and mus- ing; the other landscape inspires the spectator infallibly with the most delightful briskness and cheerfulness of spirit. Herein lies the vast privilege of the landscape- painter: he does not address you with one fixed par- ticular subject or expression, but with a thousand never contemplated by himself, and which only arise out of occasion. You may always be looking at the natural landscape as at a fine pictorial imitation of one ; it seems eternally producing new thoughts in your bosom, as it does fresh beauties from its own. I cannot fancy more delight- ful, cheerful, silent companions for a man than half a dozen THE TALUS SKETCH BOOK . 58 landscapes hung round his study. Portraits, on the con- trary, and large pieces of figures, have a painful, fixed, staring look, which must jar upon the mind in many of its moods. Fancy living in a room with David’s sans-culotte Leonidas staring perpetually in your face ! There is a little Watteau here, and a rare piece of fantastical brightness and gayety it is. What a delightful affectation about yonder ladies flirting their fans, and trailing about in their long brocades ! What splendid dandies are those, ever-smirking, turning out their toes, with broad blue ribbons to tie up their crooks and their pigtails, and wonderful gorgeous crimson satin breeches ! Yonder, in the midst of a golden atmosphere, rises a bevy of little round Cupids, bubbling up in clusters as out of a champagne-bottle, and melting away in air. There is, to be sure, a hidden analogy between liquors and pictures : the eye is deliciously tickled by these frisky Watteaus, and yields itself up to a light, smiling, gentlemanlike intoxica- tion. Thus, were we inclined to pursue further this mighty subject, yonder landscape of Claude, — calm, fresh, delicate, yet full of flavor, — should be likened to a bottle of Chateau Margaux. And what is the Poussin before spoken of but Bomanee Gelee ? — heavy, sluggish, — the lucious odor almost sickens you ; a sultry sort of drink ; your limbs sink under it ; you feel as if you had been drinking hot blood. An ordinary man would be whirled away in a fever, or would hobble off this mortal stage in a premature gout-fit, if he too early or too often indulged in such tremendous drink. I think in my heart I am fonder of pretty third- rate pictures than of your great thundering first-rates. Confess how many times you have ♦read Beranger, and how many Milton ? If you go to the “ Star and Garter,” don’t you grow sick of that vast, luscious landscape, and long for the sight of a couple of cows, or a donkey, and a few yards of common ? Donkeys, my dear MacGilp, since we have come to this subject, say not so; Bichmond Hill for them. Milton they never grow tired of ; and are as familiar with Baphael as Bottom with exquisite Titania. Let us thank heaven, my dear sir, for according to us the power to taste and appreciate the pleasures of mediocrity. I have never heard that we were great geniuses. Earthy are we, and of the earth ; glimpses of the sublime are but rare to us ; leave we them to great geniuses, and to the donkeys; and if it nothing profit us aerias tentdsse domos ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. f>9 along with them, let us thankfully remain below, being- merry and humble. I have now only to mention the charming “ Cruche Cassee ” of Greuze, which all the young ladies delight to copy ; and of which the color (a thought too blue, perhaps) is marvellously graceful and delicate. There are three more pictures by the artist, containing exquisite female heads and color ; but they have charms for French critics which are difficult to be discovered by English eyes ; and the pictures seem weak to me. A very fine picture by Bon Bollongue, “ Saint Benedict resuscitating a Child,” deserves particular attention, and is superb in vigor and richness of color. You must look, too, at the large, noble, melancholy landscapes of Philippe de Champagne ; and the two mag- nificent Italian pictures of Leopold Bobert : they are, per- haps, the very finest pictures that the French school has produced, — as deep as Poussin, of a better color, and of a wonderful minuteness and veracity in the representation of objects. Every one of Lesueur’s church-pictures is worth examin- ing and admiring ; the}^ are full of “ unction ” and pious mystical grace. “ Saint Scholastica ” is divine ; and the u Taking down from the Cross ” as noble a composition as ever was seen ; I care not by whom the other may be. There is more beauty, and less affectation, about this pict- ure than you will find in the performances of many Italian masters, with high-sounding names (out with it, and say Raphael at once). I hate those simpering Madonnas. I declare that the “ Jardiniere ” is a puking, smirking miss, with nothing heavenly about her. I vow that the “ Saint Elizabeth” is a bad picture, — a bad composition, badly drawn, badly colored, in a bad imitation of Titian, — a piece of vile affectation. I say, that when Raphael painted this picture two years before his death, the spirit of paint- ing had gone from out of him ; he was no longer inspired ; it was time that lie should die! ! There, — the murder is out! My paper is filled to the brim, and there is no time to speak of LesueuFs “ Cruci- fixion,” which is odiously colored, to be sure ; but earnest, tender, simple, holy. But such things are most difficult to translate into words ; — one lays down the pen, and thinks and thinks. The figures appear, and «take their places one by one : ranging themselves according to order, in light or in gloom, the colors are reflected duly in the little camera 00 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK obscura of the brain, and the whole picture lies there com- plete ; but can you describe it ? No, not if pens were fitch- brushes, and words were bladders of paint. With which, for the present, adieu. Your faithful M. A. T. To Mr. Robert MacGilp, Newman Street, London. THE PAINTER’S BARGAIN. MON GAMBOUGE was the son of Solomon Gambouge ; and as all the world knows, both father and son were astonishingly clever fellows at their profession. Sol- omon painted landscapes, which nobody bought ; and Simon took a higher line, and painted por- traits to admiration, only nobody came to sit to him. As he was not gaining five pounds a year by his profes- sion, and had arrived at the age of twenty, at least, Simon determined to better himself by taking a wife, — a plan which a number of other wise men adopt, in similar years and circumstances. So Simon prevailed upon a butcher’s daughter (to whom he owed considerable for cutlets) to quit the meat-shop and follow him. Griskinissa — such was the fair creature’s name — “ was as lovely a bit of mutton,” her father said, u as ever a man would wish to stick a knife into.” She had sat to the painter for all sorts of characters ; and the curious who possess any of Gam- bouge’s pictures will see her as Venus, Minerva, Madonna, and in numberless other characters : Portrait of a lady — Griskinissa ; Sleeping Nymph — Griskinissa, without a rag of clothes, lying in a forest ; Maternal Solicitude — Gris- kinissa again, with young Master Gambouge, who was by this time the offspring of their affections. The lady brought the painter a handsome little fortune of a couple of hundred pounds ; and as long as this sum 61 62 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. lasted no woman could be more lovely or loving. Hut want began speedily to attack their little household ; baker’s bills were unpaid ; rent was due, and the reckless landlord gave no quarter ; and, to crown the whole, her father, unnatural butcher ! suddenly stopped the supplies of mutton-chops ; and swore that his daughter, and the dauber, her husband, should have no more of his wares. At first they embraced tenderly, and, kissing and crying over their little infant vowed to heaven that they would do without : but in the course of the evening Griskinissa grew peckish, and poor Simon pawned his best coat. When this habit of pawning is discovered, it appears to the poor a kind of Eldorado. Gambouge and his wife were so delighted, that they, in course of a month, made away with her gold chain, her great warming-pan, his best crim- son plush inexpressibles, two wigs, a washhand basin and ewer, fire-irons, window-curtains, crockery, and arm-chairs. Griskinissa said, smiling, that she had found a second father in her unde , — a base pun, which showed that her mind was corrupted, and that she was no longer the tender, simple Griskinissa of other days. I am sorry to say that she had taken to drinking ; she swallowed the warming-pan in the course of three days, and fuddled herself one whole evening with the crimson plush breeches. Drinking is the devil — the father, that is to say, of all vices. Griskinissa’s face and her mind grew ugly together ; her good humor changed to bilious, bitter discontent ; her pretty, fond epithets, to foul abuse and swearing ; her tender blue eyes grew watery and blear, and the peach-color on her cheeks fled from its old habitation, and crowded up into her nose, where, with a number of pimples, it stuck fast. Add to this a dirty, draggle-tailed chintz ; long, matted hair, wandering into her eyes, and over her lean shoulders, which were once so snowy, and you have the picture of drunkenness and Mrs. Simon Gambogue. Poor Simon, who had been a gay, lively fellow enough in the days of his better fortune, was completely cast down by his present ill luck, and cowed by the ferocity of his wife. From morning till night the neighbors could hear this woman’s tongue, and understand her doings ; bellows went skimming across the room, chairs were flumped down on the floor, and poor Gambouge’s oil and varnish pots went clattering through the windows, or down the stairs. THE PAINTERS BARGAIN 63 The baby roared all day ; and Simon sat pale and idle in a corner, taking a small sup at the brandy-bottle, when Mrs. Gambouge was out of the way. One day, as he sat disconsolately at his easel, furbishing up a picture of his wife, in the character of Peace, which he had commenced a year before, he was more than ordi- narily desperate, and cursed and swore in the most pathetic manner. “ O miserable fate of genius ! ” cried he, “ was I, a man of such commanding talents, born for this ? to be bullied by a fiend of a wife ; to have my masterpieces neglected by the* world, or sold only for a few pieces ? Cursed be the love which has misled me ; cursed be the art which is unworthy of me ! Let me dig or steal, let me sell myself as a soldier, or sell myself to the Devil, I should not be more wretched than I am now ! ” “ Quite the contrary, ” cried a small, cheery voice. u What ! ” exclaimed Gambouge, trembling and surprised. “ Who’s there ? — where are you ? — who are you ? ” “You were just speaking of me, ” said the voice. Gambouge held, in his left hand, his palette; in his right, a bladder of crimson lake, which he was about to squeeze out upon the mahogany. “ Where are you? ” cried he again. 64 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK “ S-q-u-e-e-z-e !” exclaimed the little voice. Gambouge picked out the nail from the bladder, and gave a squeeze ; when, as sure as I’m living, a little imp spurted out from the hole upon the palette, and began laughing in the most singular and oily manner. When first born he was little bigger than a tadpole ; then he grew to be as big as a mouse ; then he arrived at the size of a cat; and then he jumped off the palette, and, turning head over heels, asked the poor painter what he wanted with him. The strange little animal twisted head over heels, and fixed himself at last upon the top of Garnbouge’s easel, — smearing out, with his heels, all the white and vermilion which had just been laid on the allegoric portrait of Mrs. Gambouge. “ What ! ” exclaimed Simon, “ is it the — ” “ Exactly so ; talk of me, you know, and I am always at hand : besides, I am not half so black as I am painted, as you will see when you know me a little better.” “ Upon my word, ” said the painter, “ it is a very singular surprise which you have given me. To tell truth, I did not even believe in your existence.” The little imp put on a theatrical air, and with one of Mr. Maeready’s best looks, said, — “ There are more things in heaven and earth, Gambogio, Than are dreamed of in your philosophy.” Gambouge, being a Frenchman, did not understand the quotation, but felt somehow strangely and singularly inter- ested in the conversation of his new friend. Diabolus continued : “ You are a man of merit, and want money ; you will starve on your merit ; you can only get money from me. Come, my friend, how much is it ? I ask the easiest interest in the world : old Mordecai, the usurer, has made you pay twice as heavily before now: nothing but the signature of a bond, which is a mere ceremony, and the transfer of an article which, in itself, is a supposition — a valueless, windy, uncertain property of yours, called by some poet of your own, I think, an animula , vagala, blan- dula — bah! there is no use beating about the bush — I mean a soul. Come, let me have it; you know you will sell it some other way, and not get such good pay for your bargain ! ” — and, having made this speech, the Devil THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN . 65 pulled out from his fob a sheet as big as a double Times , only there was a different stamp in the corner. It is useless and tedious to describe law documents : lawyers only love to read them ; and they have as good in Chitty as any that are to be found in the Devil’s own ; so nobly have the apprentices emulated the skill of the master. Suffice it to say, that poor Gambouge read over the paper, and signed it. He was to have all he wished for seven years, and at the end of that time was to become the property of the — — ; Probffieti that during the course of the seven years, every single wish which he might form should be gratified by the other of the contracting parties ; otherwise the deed became null and nonavenue, and Gam- bouge should be left “ to go to the his own way.” “ You will never see me again,” said Diabolus, in shak- ing hands with poor Simon, on whose fingers he left such a mark as is to be seen at this day — “ never, at least, unless you want me ; for everything you ask will be performed in the most quiet and every-day manner : believe me, it is the best and most gentlemanlike, and avoids anything like scandal. But if you set me about anything which is extraor- dinary, and out of the course of nature, as it were, come I must, you know ; and of this you are the best judge.” So saying, Diabolus disappeared ; but whether up the chimney, through the key-hole, or by any other aperture or contrivance, nobody knows. Simon Gambouge was left in a fever of delight, as, heaven forgive me ! I believe many a worthy man would be, if he were allowed an oppor- tunity to make a similar bargain. “ Heigho ! ” said Simon. “ I wonder whether this be a reality or a dream. — I am sober, I know ; for who will give me credit for the means to be drunk ? and as for sleeping. I 7 m too hungry for that. I wish I could see a capon and a bottle of white wine.” “Monsieur Simon !” cried a voice on the landing-place. “ C’est ici, ” quoth Gambouge, . hastening to open the door. He did so ; and lo ! there was a restaurateur's boy at the door, supporting a tray, a tin-covered dish, and plates on the same ; and, by its side, a tall amber-colored flask of Sauterne. “I am the new boy, sir, ” exclaimed this youth, on enter- ing; “but I believe this is the right door, and you asked for these things. ” Simon grinned, and said, “ Certainly, I did ash for these 66 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK things. ” But such was the effect which his interview with the demon had had on his innocent mind, that he took them, although he knew they were for old Simon, the Jew dandy, who was mad after an opera girl, and lived on the floor beneath. “ Go, my boy, ” he said ; u it is good : call in a couple of hours, and remove the plates and glasses. ” The little waiter trotted down stairs, and Simon, sat greedily down to discuss the capon and the white wine. He bolted the legs, he devoured the wings, he cut every morsel of flesh from the breast; — seasoning his repast with pleasant draughts of wine, and caring nothing for tin inevitable bill which was to follow all. “ Ye gods ! ” said he, as he scraped away at the backbone “ what a dinner ! what wine! — and how gayly served v too ! ” There were silver forks and spoons, and the rem- nants of the fowl were upon a silver dish. “Why the money for this dish and these spoons,” cried Simon, “ would keep me and Mrs. G. for a month ! I wish ” — THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN . 67 and here Simon whistled, and turn 3d round to see that no one was peeping — “ I wish the plate were mine. ” Oh, the horrid progress of the Devil! “ Here they are,” thought Simon to himself ; “ why should not I take them?” and take them he did. “ Detection, ” said he, is not so bad as starvation ; and I would as soon live at the galleys as live with Madame Gambouge. ” So Gambouge shovelled dish and spoons into the flap of his surtout, and ran down stairs as if the Devil were behind him — as, indeed, he was. He immediately made for the house of his old friend the pawnbroker — that establishment which is called in France the Mont de Piete. “I am obliged to come to you again, my old friend, ” said Simon, “ with some family plate, of which I beseech you to take care. ” The pawnbroker smiled as he examined the goods. “ I can give you nothing upon them, ” said he. “What!” cried Simon; “not even the worth of the silver ? ?? “No; I could buy them at that price at the ‘Cafe Morisot, ’ Due de la Verrerie, where, I suppose, you got them a little cheaper. ” And, so saying, he showed to the guilt-stricken Gambouge how the name of that coffee-house was inscribed upon every one of the articles which he wished to pawn. The effects of conscience are dreadful indeed. Oh ! how fearful is retribution, how deep is despair, how bitter is remorse for crime — when crime is found out ! — otherwise, conscience takes matters much more easily. Gambouge cursed his fate, and swore henceforth to be virtuous. “ But, hark ye, my friend, ” continued the honest broker, “ there is no reason why, because I cannot lend upon these things, I should not buy them : they will do to melt, if for no other purpose. Will you have half the money ? — speak, or I peach. ” Simon’s resolves about virtue were dissipated instantane- ously. “ Give me half, ” he said, “ and let me go. — What scoundrels are these pawnbrokers ! ” ejaculated he, as he passed out of the accursed shop, “ seeking every wicked pretext to rob the poor man of his hard-won gain. ” When he had marched forwards for a street or two, Gambouge counted the money which he had received, and found that he was in possession of no less than a hundred francs. It was night, as he reckoned out his equivocal 68 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. gains, and he counted them at the light of a lamp. He looked up at the lamp, in doubt as to the course he should next pursue : upon it was inscribed the simple number, 152. “A gambling-house, ” thought Gambouge. “I wish I had half the money that is now on the table, up stairs.” He mounted, as many a rogue has done before him, and found half a hundred persons busy at a table of rouge et noir. Gambouge’s five napoleons looked insignificant by the side of the heaps which were around him ; but the effects of the wine, of the theft, and of the detection by the pawnbroker, were upon him, and he threw down his capital stoutly upon the 0 0. It is a dangerous spot that 0 0, or double zero ; but to Simon it was more lucky than to the rest of the world. The ball went spinning round — in “ its predestined circle rolled, ” as Shelley has it, after Goethe — and plumped down at last in the double zero. One hundred and thirty- five gold napoleons ( louis they were then ) were counted out to the delighted painter. “ Oh, Diabolus ! ” cried he, “ now it is that I begin to believe in thee ! Don’t talk about merit,” he cried ; “talk about fortune. Tell me not about heroes for the future — tell me of zeroes. ” And down went twenty napoleons more upon the 0. The Devil was certainly in the ball : round it twirled, and dropped into zero as naturally as a duck pops its head into a pond. Our friend received five hundred pounds for his stake ; and the croupiers and lookers-on began to stare at him. There were twelve thousand pounds upon the table, Suffice it to say, that Simon won half, and retired from the Palais Royal with a thick bundle of bank-notes crammed into his dirty three-cornered hat. He had been but half an hour in the place, and he had won the revenues of a prince for half a year ! Gambouge, as soon as he felt that he was a capitalist, and that he had a stake in the country, discovered that he was an altered man. He repented of his foul deed, and his base purloining of the restaurateur’s plate. “ 0 honesty ! ” he cried, “how unworthy is an action like this of a man who has a property like mine ! ” So he went back to the pawnbroker with the gloomiest face imaginable. “My friend, ” said he, “ I have sinned against all that I hold most sacred : I have forgotten my family and my religion. Here is thy money. In the name of heaven, restore me the plate which I have wrongfully sold thee ! ” THE PAIN TEWS BARGAIN. 69 But the pawnbroker grinned, and said, “Nay Mr. Gam- bouge, I will sell that plate for a thousand francs to you, or I will never sell it at all. ” “ Well, ” cried Gambouge, “thou art an inexorable ruffian, Troisboules ; but I will give thee all I am worth. ” And here he produced a billet of five hundred francs. “ Look, ” said he, “ this money is all I own ; it is the pay- ment of two years’ lodging. To raise it, I have toiled for many months ; and, failing, I have been a criminal. 0 heaven ! I stole that plate that I might pay my debt, and keep my dear wife from wandering houseless. But I cannot bear this load of ignominy — I cannot suffer the thought of this crime. I will go to the person to whom I did wrong. I will starve, I will confess ; but I will, I will do right ! ” The broker was alarmed. “ Give me thy note, ” he cried ; “here is the plate.” “Give me an acquittal first,” cried Simon, almost broken-hearted ; “ sign me a paper, and the money is yours.” So Troisboules wrote according to Gambouge’s dictation : “ Received, for thirteen ounces of plate, twenty pounds. ” “ Monster of iniquity ! ” cried the painter, “ fiend of wickedness ! thou art caught in thine own snares. Hast thou not sold me five pounds’ worth of plate for twenty ? Have I it not in my pocket ? Art thou not a convicted dealer in stolen goods ? Yield, scoundrel, yield thy money, or I will bring thee to justice ! ” The frightened pawnbroker bullied and battled for a while; but he gave up his money at last, and the dispute ended. Thus it will be seen that Diabolus had rather a hard bargain in the wily Gambouge. He had taken a victim prisoner, but he had assuredly caught a Tartar. Simon now returned home, and, to do him justice, paid the bill for his dinner, and restored the plate. And now I may add (and the reader should ponder upon this, as a profound picture of human life), that Gambouge, since he had grown rich, grew likewise abundantly moral. He was a most exemplary father. He fed the poor, and was loved by them. He scorned a base action. And I have no doubt that Mr. Thurtell, or the late lamented Mr. Greenacre, in similar circumstances, would have acted like the worthy Simon Gambouge. 70 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. There was but one blot upon his character — he hated Mrs. Gam. worse than ever. As he grew more benevolent, she grew more virulent : when he went to plays, she went to Bible societies, and vice versa : in fact, she led him such a life as Xantippe led Socrates, or as a dog leads a cat in the same kitchen. With all his fortune — for, as may be supposed, Simon prospered in all worldly things — he was the most miserable dog in the whole city of Paris. Only in the point of drinking did he and Mrs. Simon agree ; and for many years, and during a considerable number of hours in each day, he thus dissipated, partially, his domestic chagrin. 0 philosophy ! we may talk of thee : but, except at the bottom of the wine-cup, where thou liest like truth in a well, where shall we find thee ? He lived so long, and in his worldly matters prospered so much, there was so little sign of devilment in the accomplishment of his wishes, and the increase of his pros- perity, that Simon, at the end of six years, began to doubt whether he had made any such bargain at all, as that which we have described at the commencement of this history. He had grown, as we said, very pious and moral. He went regularly to mass, and had a confessor into the bargain. He resolved, therefore, to consult that reverend gentleman, and to lay before him the whole matter. “ I am inclined to think, holy sir,” said Gambouge, after he had concluded his history, and shown how, in some miraculous way, all his desires were accomplished, “that, after all, this demon was no other than the creation of my own brain, heated by the effects of that bottle of wine, the cause of my crime and my prosperity.” The confessor agreed with him, and they walked out of church comfortably together, and entered afterwards a cafe , where they sat down to refresh themselves after the fatigues of their devotion. A respectable old gentleman, with a number of orders at his button-hole, presently entered the room, and sauntered up to the marble table, before which reposed Simon and his clerical friend. “ Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, as he took a place opposite them, and began reading the papers of the day. “ Bah ! ” said he, at last, — “ sont-ils grands ces journaux Anglais ? Look, sir,” he said, handing over an immense sheet of The Times to Mr. Gambouge, “ was ever anything so monstrous ? ” THE PAINTERS BARGAIN. 71 Gambouge smiled, politely, and examined the proffered page. “ It is enormous / 7 he said ; “ but I do not read English . 77 “ Nay , 77 said the man with the orders, “ look closer at it, Signor Gambouge; it is astonishing how easy the language is . 77 Wondering, Simon took the sheet of paper. He turned pale as he looked at it, and began to curse the ices and the waiter. “ Come, M. l’Abbe , 77 he said ; “ the heat and glare of this place are intolerable . 77 The stranger rose with them. “ An plaisir de vous revoir, mon cher monsieur , 77 said he; “I do not mind speaking before the Abbe here, who will be my very good friend one of these days ; but I thought it necessary to refresh your memory, concerning our little business trans- action six years since ; and could not exactly talk of it at church , as you may fancy . 77 Simon Gambouge had seen, in the double-sheeted Times , the paper signed by himself, which the little Devil had pulled out of his fob. There was no doubt on the subject ; and Simon, who had but a year to live, grew more pious, and more careful than ever. He had consultations with all the doctors of the Sorbonne and all the lawyers of the Palais. But his mag- nificence grew as wearisome to him as his poverty had been before; and not one of the doctors whom he consulted could give him a pennyworth of consolation. Then he grew outrageous in his demands upon the Devil, and put him to all sorts of absurd and ridiculous tasks ; but they were all punctually performed, until Simon could invent no new ones, and the Devil sat all day with his hands in his pockets doing nothing. One day, Simon’s confessor came bounding into the room, with the greatest glee. “ My friend , 77 said he, “ I have it ! Eureka ! — I have found it. Send the Pope a hundred thousand crowns, build a new Jesuit college at Pome, give a hundred gold candlesticks to St. Peter’s; and tell his Holi- ness you will double all if he will give you absolution ! 77 Gambouge caught at the notion, and hurried off a courier to Pome ventre d terre. His Holiness agreed to the request of the petition, and sent him an absolution, written out with his own fist, and all in due form. 72 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. “Now,” said he, “foul fiend, I defy you ! arise, Diabolus ! your contract is not worth a jot : the Pope has absolved me, and I am safe on the road to salvation.” In a fervor of gratitude he clasped the hand of his confessor, and em- braced him : tears of joy ran down the cheeks of these good men. They heard an inordinate roar of laughter, and there was Diabolus sitting opposite to them holding his sides, and lashing his tail about, as if he would have gone mad with glee. “ Why,” said he, “ what nonsense is this ! do you sup- pose I care about that ? ” and he tossed the Pope\s missive into a corner. “M. l’Abbe knows,” he said, bowing and grinning, “ that though the Pope’s paper may pass current here , it is not worth twopence in our country. What do I care about the Pope’s absolution ? You might just as well be absolved by your under butler.” “ Egad,” said the Abbe, “ the rogue is right — I quite forgot the fact, which he points out clearly enough.” “No, no, Gambouge,” continued Diabolus, with horrid familiarity, “ go thy ways, old fellow, that cock won't fight.” And he retired up the chimney, chuckling at his wit and his triumph. Gambouge heard his tail scuttling all the way up, as if he had been a sweeper by profession. Simon was left in that condition of grief in which, accord- ing to the newspapers, cities and nations are found when a murder is committed, or a lord ill of the gout — a situa- tion, we say, more easy to imagine than to describe. To add to his woes, Mrs. Gambouge, who was now first made acquainted with his compact, and its probable conse- quences, raised such a storm about his ears, as made him wish almost that his seven years were expired. She screamed, she scolded, she swore, she wept, she went into such fits of hysterics, that poor Gambouge, who had com- pletely knocked under to her, was worn out of his life. He was allowed no rest, night or day : he moped about his fine house, solitary and wretched, and cursed his stars that he ever had married the butcher’s daughter. It wanted six months of the time. A sudden and desperate resolution seemed all at once to have taken possession of Simon Gambouge. He called his family and his friends together — he gave one of the great- est feasts that ever was known in the city of Paris — he gayly presided at one end of his table, while Mrs. Gam., THE PAINTER’S BARGAIN. 73 splendidly arrayed, gave herself airs at the other extremity. After dinner, using the customary formula, he called upon Diabolus to appear. The old ladies screamed and hoped he would not appear naked ; the young ones tittered, and longed to see the monster : everybody was pale with expectation and affright. A very quiet, gentlemanly man, neatly dressed in black, made his appearance, to the surprise of all present, and bowed all round to the company. “I will not show my credentials ” he said, blushing, and pointing to his hoofs, which were cleverly hidden by liis pumps and shoe-buckles, “ unless the ladies absolutely wish it; but I am the person you want, Mr. Gambouge ; pray tell me what is your will.” “You know,” said that gentleman, in a stately and de- termined voice, “ that you are bound to me, according to our agreement, for six months to come.” “ I am,” replied the new comer. “ You are to do all that I ask, whatsoever it may be, or you forfeit the bond which I gave you ? ” “ It is true.” “You declare this before the present company ?” “ Upon my honor, as a gentleman,” said Diabolus, bow- ing, and laying his hand upon his waistcoat. A whisper of applause ran round the room : all were charmed with the bland manners of the fascinating stranger. “ My love,” continued Gambouge, mildly addressing his lady, “ will you be so polite as to step this way ? You know I must go soon, and I am anxious, before this noble company, to make a provision for one who, in sickness as in health, in poverty as in riches, has been my truest and fondest companion.” Gambouge mopped his eyes with his handkerchief — all the company did likewise. Diabolus sobbed audibly, and Mrs. Gambouge sidled up to her husband’s side, and took him tenderly by the hand. “ Simon ! ” said she, “ is it true ? and do you really love your Griskinissa ? ” Simon continued solemnly : “ Come hither, Diabolus ; you are bound to obey me in all things for the six months during which our contract has to run; take, then, Griskin- issa Gambouge, live alone with her for half a year, never leave her from morning till night, obey all her caprices, follow all her whims, and listen to all the abuse which falls from her infernal tongue. Do this, and I ask no more of you ; I will deliver myself up at the appointed time,” 74 THE PAlllS SKETCH BOOK. Not Lord G , when flogged by Lord B ■, in the House, — not Mr. Cartlitch, of Astley’s Amphitheatre, in his most pathetic passages, could look more crestfallen, and howl more hideously, than Diabolus did now. “ Take another year, Gambouge,” screamed he ; “ two more — ten more — a century ; roast me on Lawrence’s gridiron, boil me in holy water, but don’t ask that : don’t, don’t bid me live with Mrs. Gambouge ! ” THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN . 75 Simon smiled sternly. “ I have said it,” he cried ; “ do this, or our contract is at an end.” The Devil, at this, grinned so horribly that every drop of beer in the house turned sour : he gnashed his teeth so frightfully that every person in the company wellnigh fainted with the cholic. He slapped down the great parch- ment upon the floor, trampled upon it madly, and lashed it with his hoofs and his tail : at last, spreading out a mighty pair of wings as wide as from here to Kegent Street, he slapped Gambouge with his tail over one eye, and vanished, abruptly, through the key-hole. Gambouge screamed with pain and started up. “You drunken, lazy scoundrel ! ” cried a shrill and well-known voice, “ you have been asleep these two hours : ” and here he received another terrific box on the ear. It was too true, he had fallen asleep at his work ; and the beautiful vision had been dispelled by the thumps of the tipsy Griskinissa. Nothing remained to corroborate his story, except the bladder of lake, and this was spirted all over his waistcoat and breeches. “I wish,” said the poor fellow, rubbing his tingling cheeks, “that dreams were true;” and he went to work again at his portrait. My last accounts of Gambouge are, that he has left the arts, and is footman in a small family. Mrs. Gam. takes in washing ; and it is said that her continual dealings with soap-suds and hot water have been the only things in life which have kept her from spontaneous combustion. CARTOUCHE. HAVE been much interested with an account of the exploits of Monsieur Louis Dominic Cartouche, and as Newgate and the highways are so much the fashion with us in Eng- land, we may be allowed to look abroad for histories of a similar ten- dency. It is pleasant to find that virtue is cosmopolite, and may exist among wooden-shoed Papists as well as honest Church-of-England men. Louis Dominic was born in a quar- ter of Paris called the Courtille, says the historian whose work lies before me ; — born in the Courtille, and in the year 1693. Another biographer asserts that he was born two years later, and in the Marais; — of respectable parents, of course. Think of the talent that our two countries produced about this time : Marlborough, Villars, Mandrin, Turpin, Boileau, Dry den, Swift, Addison, Moliere, Racine, Jack Sheppard, and Louis Cartouche, — all famous within the same twenty years, and fighting, writing, robbing & Venvi ! Well, Marlborough was no chicken when he began to show his genius; Swift was but a dull, idle, college lad; but if we read the histories of some other great men mentioned in the above list — I mean the thieves, espe- cially — we shall find that they all commenced very early : they showed a passion for their art, as little Raphael did, or little Mozart ; and the history of Cartouche’s knaveries begins almost with his breeches. Dominic’s parents sent him to school at the college of Clermont (now Louis le Grand) ; and although it has never 76 CARTOUCHE. 77 been discovered that the Jesuits, who directed that semi- nary, advanced him much in classical or theological knowl- edge, Cartouche, in revenge, showed, by repeated instances, his own natural bent and genius, which no difficulties were strong enough to overcome. His first great action on record, although not successful in the end, and tinctured with the innocence of youth, is yet highly creditable to him. He made a general swoop of a hundred and twenty night- caps belonging to his companions, and disposed of them to his satisfaction ; but as it was discovered that of all the youths in the college of Clermont, he only was the pos- sessor of a cap to sleep in, suspicion (which, alas ! was confirmed ) immediately fell upon him : and by this little piece of youthful naivety a scheme, prettily conceived and smartly performed, was rendered naught. Cartouche had a wonderful love for good eating, alid put all the apple-women and cooks, who came to supply the students, under contribution. Hot always, however, desir- ous of robbing these, he used to deal with them, occasion- ally, on honest principles of barter ; that is, whenever he could get hold of his schoolfellows’ knives, books, rulers, or playthings, which he used fairly to exchange for tarts and gingerbread. It seemed as if the presiding genius of evil was deter- mined to patronize this young man ; for before he had been long at college, and soon after he had, with the greatest difficulty, escaped from the nightcap scrape, an opportunity occurred by which he was enabled to gratify both his pro- pensities at once, and not only to steal, but to steal sweet- meats. It happened that the principal of the college received some pots of Harbonne honey, which came under the eyes of Cartouche, and in which that young gentleman, as soon as ever he saw them, determined to put his fingers. The president of the college put aside his honey-pots in an apartment within his own ; to which, except by the one door which led into the room which his reverence usually occupied, there was no outlet. There was no chimney in the room ; and the windows looked into the court, where there was a porter at night, and where crowds passed by day. What was Cartouche to do ? — have the honey he must. Over this chamber, which contained what his soul longed after, and over the president’s rooms, there ran a set of unoccupied garrets, into which the dexterous Cartouche 78 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK penetrated. These were divided from the rooms below, acording to the fashion of those days, by a set of large beams, which reached across the whole building, and across which rude planks were laid, which formed the ceiling of the lower story and the floor of the upper. Some of these planks did young Cartouche remove ; and having descended by means of a rope, tied a couple of others to the neck of the honey-pots, climbed back again, and drew up his prey in safety. He then cunningly fixed the planks again in their old places, and retired to gorge himself upon his booty. And, now, see the punishment of avarice ! Every- body knows that the brethren of the order of Jesus are bound by a vow to have no more than a certain small sum of money in their possession. The principal of the college of Clermont had amassed a larger sum, in defiance of this rule : and where do you think the old gentleman had hidden it ? In the honey-pots ! As Cartouche dug his spoon into one of them, he brought out, besides a quantity of golden honey, a couple of golden louis, which with ninety-eight more of their fellows, were comfortably hidden in the pots. Little Dominic, who, before, had cut rather a poor figure among his fellow-students, now appeared in as fine clothes as any of them could boast of ; and when asked by his parents, on going home, how he came by them, said that a young nobleman of his schoolfellows had taken a violent fancy to him, and made him a present of a couple of his suits. Cartouche the elder, good man, went to thank the young nobleman ; but none such could be found, and young Cartouche disdained to give any explanation of his manner of gaining the money. Here, again, we have to regret and remark the inadver- tence of youth. Cartouche lost a hundred louis — for what ? For a pot of honey not worth a couple of shillings. Had he fished out the pieces, and replaced the pots and the honey, he might have been safe, and a respectable citizen all his life after. The principal would not have dared to confess the loss of his money, and did not, openly ; but he vowed vengeance against the stealer of his sweetmeat, and a rigid search was made. Cartouche, as usual, w T as fixed upon ; and in the tick of his bed, lo ! there were found a couple of empty honey-pots ! From this scrape there is no knowing how he would have escaped, had not the president himself been a little anxious to hush the matter up ; and accordingly, young Cartouche was made to disgorge the CARTOUCHE . 79 residue of his ill-gotten gold pieces, old Cartouche made up the deficiency, and his son was allowed to remain unpun- ished — until the next time. This, you may fancy, was not very long in coming ; and though history has not made us acquainted with the exact crime which Louis Dominic next committed, it must have been a serious one ; for Cartouche, who had borne philo- sophically all the whippings and punishments which were administered to him at college, did not dare to face that one which his indignant father had in pickle for him. As he was coming home from school, on the first day after his crime, when he received permission to go abroad, one of his brothers, who was on the look-out for him, met him at a short distance from home, and told him what was in preparation ; which so frightened this young thief, that he declined returning home altogether, and set out upon the wide world to shift for himself as he could. Undoubted as his genius was, he had not arrived at the full exercise of it, and his gains were by no means equal to his appetite. In whatever professions he tried, — whether he joined the gipsies, which he did, — whether he picked pockets on the Pont ISTeuf, which occupation history attrib- utes to him, — poor Cartouche was always hungry. Hungry and ragged, he wandered from one place and profession to another, and regretted the honey-pots at Clermont, and the comfortable soup and bouilli at home. Cartouche had an uncle, a kind man, who was a mer- chant, and had dealings at Rouen. One day, walking on the quays of that city, this gentleman saw a very miser- able, dirty, starving lad, who had just made a pounce upon some bones and turnip-peelings, that had been flung out on the quay, and was eating them as greedily as if they had been turkeys and truffles. The worthy man examined the lad a little closer. 0 heavens ! it was their runaway prodi- gal — it was little Louis Dominic! The merchant was touched by his case ; and forgetting the nightcaps, the honey-pots, and the rags and dirt of little Louis, took him to his arms, and kissed and hugged him with the tenderest affection. Louis kissed and hugged too, and blubbered a great deal : he was very repentant, as a man often is when he is hungry ; and he went home with his uncle, and his peace was made ; and his mother got him new clothes, and filled his belly, and for a while Louis was as good a son as might be. 80 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK But why attempt to balk the progress of genius ? Louis’s was not to be kept down. He was sixteen years of age by this time — a smart, lively young fellow, and, what is more, desperately enamored of a lovely washerwoman. To be successful in your love, as Louis knew, you must have some- thing more than mere flames and sentiment ; — a washer, or any other woman, cannot live upon sighs only ; but must have new gowns and caps, and a necklace every now and then, and a few handkerchiefs and silk stockings, and a treat into the country or to the play. Now, how are all these things to be had without money ? Cartouche saw at once that it was impossible ; and as his father would give him none, he was obliged to look for it elsewhere. He took to his old courses, and lifted a purse here, and a watch there ; and found, moreover, an accommodating gentleman, who took the wares off his hands. This gentleman introduced him into a very select and agreeable society, in which Cartouche’s merit began speed- ily to be recognized, and in which he learnt how pleasant it is in life to have friends to assist one, and how much may be done by a proper division of labor. M. Cartouche, in fact, formed part of a regular company or gang of gentlemen, who were associated together for the pupose of making war on the public and the law. Cartouche had a lovely young sister, who was to be married to a rich young gentleman from the provinces. As is the fashion in France, the parents had arranged the match among themselves ; and the young people had never met until just before the time appointed for the marriage, when the bridegroom came' up to Paris with his title- deeds, and settlements, and money. Now there can hardly be found in history a finer instance of devotion than Cartouche now exhibited. He went to his captain, ex- plained the matter to him, and actually, for the good of his country, as it were (the thieves might be called his country ), sacrificed his sister’s husband’s property. Infor- mations were taken, the house of the bridegroom was reconnoitred, and, one night, Cartouche, in company with some chosen friends, made his first visit to the house of his brother-in-law. • All the people were gone to bed ; and, doubtless, for fear of disturbing the porter, Cartouche and his companions spared him the trouble of opening the door, by ascending quietly at the window. They arrived at the room where the bridegroom kept his great chest, and set CARTOUCHE . 81 industriously to work, filing and picking the locks which defended the treasure. , The bridegroom slept in the next room ; but however tenderly Cartouche and his workmen handled their tools, from fear of disturbing his slumbers, their benevolent design. was disappointed, for awaken him they did; and quietly slipping out of bed, he came to a place where he had a complete view of all that was going on. He did not cry out, or frighten himself sillily ; but, on the contrary, contented himself with watching the countenances of the robbers, so that he might recognize them on another occa- sion; and, though an avaricious man, he did not feel the slightest anxiety about his money-chest ; for the fact is, he had removed all the cash and papers the day before. As soon, however, as they had broken all the locks, and found the nothing which lay at the bottom of the chest, he shouted with such a loud voice, “Here, Thomas ! — John ! — officer ! — keep the gate, fire at the rascals ! ” that they, incontinently taking fright, skipped nimbly out of window, and left the house free. Cartouche, after this, did not care to meet his brother-in- law, but eschewed all those occasions on which the latter was to be present at his father’s house. The evening before the marriage came ; and then his father insisted upon his appearance among the other relatives of the bride’s and bridegroom’s families, who were all to assemble and make merry. Cartouche was obliged to yield ; and brought with him one or two of his companions, who had been, by the way, present in the affair of the empty money- boxes ; and though he never fancied that there was any danger in meeting his brother-in-law, for he had no idea that he had been seen on the night of the attack, with a natural modesty, which did him really credit, he kept out of the young bridegroom’s sight as much as he could, and showed no desire to be presented to him. At supper, how- ever, as he was sneaking modestly down to a side-table, his father shouted after him, “Ho, Dominic, come hither, and sit opposite to your brother-in-law : ” which Dominic did, his friends following. The bridegroom pledged him very gracefully in a bumper ; and was in the act of making him a pretty speech, on the honor of an alliance with such a family, and on the pleasures of brother-in-lawship in general, when, looking in his face — ye gods! he saw the very man who had been filing at his money-chest a few 6 82 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. nights ago ! By his side, too, sat a couple more of the gang. The poor fellow turned deadly pale and sick, and, setting his glass down, ran quickly out of the room, for he thought he was in company of a whole gang of robbers. And when he got home, he wrote a letter to the elder Car- touche, humbly declining any connection with his family. Cartouche the elder, of course, angrily asked the reason of such an abrupt dissolution of the engagement; and then, much to his horror, heard of his eldest son’s doings. “ You would not have me marry into such a family ? ” said the ex-bridegroom. And old Cartouche, an honest old citizen, confessed, with a heavy heart, that he would not. What was he to do with the lad ? He did not like to ask for a lettre de cachet , and shut him up in the Bastile. He deter- mined to give him a year’s discipline at the monastery of St. Lazare. But how to catch the young gentleman ? Old Cartouche knew that, were he to tell his son of the scheme, the latter would never obey, and, therefore, he determined to be very cunning. He told Dominic that he was about to make a heavy bargain with the fathers, and should require a wit- ness ; so they stepped into a carriage together, and drove unsuspectingly to the Bue St. Denis. But, when they arrived near the convent, Cartouche saw several ominous figures gathering round the coach, and felt that his doom was sealed. However, he made as if he knew nothing of the conspiracy ; and the carriage drew up, and his father descended, and, bidding him wait for a minute in the coach, promised to return to him. Cartouche looked out ; on the other side of the way, half a dozen men were posted, evidently with the intention of arresting him. Cartouche now performed a great and celebrated stroke of genius, which, if he had not been professionally employed in the morning, he never could have executed. He had in his pocket a piece of linen, which he had laid hold of at the door of some shop, and from which he quickly tore three suitable stripes. One he tied round his head, after the fashion of a nightcap ; a second round his waist, like an apron ; and with the third he covered his hat, a round one, with a large brim. His coat and his periwig he left behind him in the carriage ; and when he stepped out from it (which he did without asking the coachman to let down the steps), he bore exactly the appearance of a cook’s boy carrying a dish; and with this he slipped through the CARTOUCHE . 83 exempts quite unsuspected, and bade adieu to the Lazarists and his honest father, who came out speedily to seek him, and was not a little annoyed to find only his coat and wig. With that coat and wig, Cartouche left home, father, friends, conscience, remorse, society, behind him. He dis- covered (like a great number of other philosophers and poets, when they have committed rascally actions) that the world was all going wrong, and he quarrelled with it out- right. One of the first stories told of the illustrious Cartouche, when he became professionally and openly a robber, redounds highly to his credit, and shows that he knew how to take advantage of the occasion, and how much he had improved in the course of a very few years’ experi- ence. His courage and ingenuity were vastly admired by his friends ; so much so, that, one day, the captain of the band thought fit to compliment him, and vowed that when he (the captain) died, Cartouche should infallibly be called to the commands n-chief. This conversation, so flattering to Cartouche, was carried on between the two gentlemen, as they were walking, one night, on the quays by the side of the Seine. Cartouche, when the captain made the last remark, blushingly protested against it, and pleaded his extreme youth as a reason why his comrades could never put entire trust in him. “ Psha, man!” said the captain, “ thy youth is in thy favor ; thou wilt live only the longer to lead thy troops to victory. As for strength, bravery, and cunning, wert thou as old as Methuselah, thou couldst not be better provided than thou art now, at eighteen.” What was the reply of Monsieur Cartouche ? He answered, not by words, but by actions. Drawing his knife from his gir- dle, he instantly dug it into the captain’s left side, as near his heart as possible; and then, seizing that imprudent commander, precipitated him violently into the waters of the Seine, to keep company with the gudgeons and river- gods. When he returned to the band, and recounted how the captain had basely attempted to assassinate him, and how he, on the contrary, had, by exertion of superior skill, overcome the captain, not one of the society believed a word of his history ; but they elected him captain forth- with. I think his Excellency Don Eafael Maroto, the pacificator of Spain, is an amiable character, for whom his- tory has not been written in vain. Being arrived at this exalted position, there is no end of the feats which Cartouche performed 5 and his band reached 84 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. to such a pitch of glory, that if there had been a hundred thousand, instead of a hundred of them, who knows but that a new and popular dynasty might not have been founded, and “ Louis Dominic, premier Empereur des Fran-