Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 / https://archive.org/details/parissketchbooko00thac_1 I - , y^'-vA' I I' :r 1 '. i,. j ■ .* ■/' ' ' , ' ■( ' Marshal Sollt. THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK OF MR. M. A. TITMARSH AND EASTERN SKETCHES A JOURNEY FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK CHARACTER SKETCHES BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY NEW YORK A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER 5 oofi ■ ' 7 H >1 B ^ ^ jKrrV'y'-*'^ - ■'XA OV»/. * ‘. * s^'“: • '■■'rf’: * '^ * */ i>? , ^ . > i- VflVinUOt iX.;^ \yyy-^ n^ini ' uq; M n .■ v:d ''‘'v’S-? . x iss VAiJMM':; STr ;u -f., ..'■iaSi yv.-^ CONTENTS. THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. Page An Invasion of France . 5 A Caution to Travellers 16 The Fetes of July 32 On the French School of Painting 40 The Painter’s Bargain 58 Cartouche 71 On some French Fashionable Novels 82 A Gambler’s Death 102 Napoleon and his System ...C...111 The Story of Mary Ancel 124 Beatrice Merger . . 142 Caricatures and Lithography in Paris 149 Little Poinsinet 175 The Devil’s Wager 188 Madame Sand and the new Apocalypse ,...198 The Case of Peytel 221 Four Imitations of Beranger . 248 French Dramas and Melodramas 258 Meditations at Versailles 276 CONTENTS. EASTERN SKETCHES. A JOURNEY FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. Chapter Page Dedication 293 Preface 295 I. Vigo. — Thoughts at Sea — Sight of Land — Vigo — Spanish Ground — Spanish Troops — Pasagero . . . 297 II. Lisbon — Cadiz. — Lisbon — The P)elein Road — A School — Landscape — Palace of Necessidades — Cadiz — The Rock 303 III. The “Lady Mary Wood.” — British Lions — Travel- ling Friends — Bishop No. 2 — “Good-by, Bishop” — The Meek Lieutenant — “ Lady Mary Wood ” . . . 311 IV. Gibraltar. — Mess-Room Gossip — Military Horticul- ture — “ All’s Well ” — A Release — Gibraltar — klalta — Religion and Nobility — Malta Belies — The Lazaretto — Death in the Lazaretto 317 V. Athens. — Reminiscences of tvtttco — The Peirseus — Landscape — Basileus — England for Ever! — Classic Remains — ruTrreo again 328 VI. Smyrna — First Glimpses of the East. — First Emo- tions — The Bazaar — A Bastinado — IVomen — The Caravan Bridge — Smyrna — The Whistler .... 336 VII. CoNSTAN'i ixoPLE. — Catques — Eothen’s “ Misseri ” — A TurhLli Bath — Constantinople — His Highness the Sultan — Ich mochte nicht der Sultan seyn — A Sub- ject for a Ghazul — The Child-Murderer — Turkish Children — IModesty — The Seraglio — The Sultanas’ Puffs — The Sublime Porte — The Schoolmaster in Constantinople 344 VIII. Rhodes. — Jew Pilgrims — Jew Bargaining — Relics of Chivalry — IMahometanism Bankrupt — A Drago- man — A Fine Day — Rhodes 863 Chapter CONTENTS. Page 370 IX. The White Squall X. Telmessus — Beyrout. — Telmessus — Halil Pasha — Beyrout — A Portrait — A Ball on Board — A Syrian Prince 373 XI. A Day and Night ix Syria. — Landing at Jaffa — Jaffa — The Cadi of Jaffa — The Cadi’s Divan — A Night-Scene at Jaffa — Syrian Night’s Entertainments XII. From Jaffa to Jerusalem. — A Cavalcade — March- ing Order — A Tournament — Ramleh — Roadside Sketches — Rencontres — Abou Gosh — Night before Jerusalem 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 — Subjects for Sketching — Departure — A Day’s March — Ramleh 3o6 XIV. From Jaffa to Alexandria. — B ill of Fare — From Jaffa to Alexandria XV. To Cairo. — The Nile — First Sight of Cheops — The Ezbekieh — The Hotel d’Orieut — 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 . , 41S 380 387 vti .'I s.>(..l-^!->‘»:‘. •• I' ' • V 5rT’-'‘Aif't’^ ^ c. . . .■iC^s.- vw: •;'' •- ■' , d.uia, ■ •<.*»'!:’• ';* ■■ -‘r’/i wi4X •r,. iQ' ■■»- • . : 'v ^ ^ ■ " ■ ■*• '••■. , -,, ■- . / A/ -\V -ff 1 >'U E;.fc OU' .4*i*#-n'^ .4,-/,, '•/ *. .* " }l .: .,- .-rr rr^ii 4 S 5 - '’I 7 V .’v ^ » *■-.("' fc'in <■ •;•. • 32S « '*‘ vv % _ - T- • . V'yC. ' > rrfT It THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, DEDICATORY LETTER TO M. ARETZ, TAILOR, Etc. 27, RUE RICHELIEU, PARIS. Sir, — It becomes every man in his station to acknowledge and praise virtue wheresoever he may find it, and to point it out for the admiration and example of his fellow-men. Some months since, when you pre&.^nted to the writer of these pages a small account for coats and pantaloons manu- factured by you, and when you were met by a statement from 3’our creditor, that an immediate settlement of your bill would be extremely inconvenient to him; your reply was, “Mon Dieu. Sir, let not that annoy you ; if }’ou want money, as a gentleman often does in a strange country, I have a thousand- franc note at m}^ house which is quite at 3^our service.” History' or experience. Sir, makes us acquainted with so few actions that can be compared to yours, — an offer like this from a stranger and a tailor seems to me so astonishing, — that you must pardon me for thus making 3^0111' virtue public, and acquainting the English nation with 3^our merit and 3"our name. Let me add, Sir, that von live on the first floor; that your clothes and fit are excellent, and 3"our charges moderate and just ; and, as a humble tribute of my admiration, permit me to lay these volumes at 3^our feet. Your obliged, faithful servant, M. A. TITMARSH. . K‘ J ,"'‘'""h yi IC :-:i •f.; fj/. ■■' ,:■ ■[■d 'i^ .c-;i-j-?<\. ') . ^ ■hi'^ • :*'' ;>'ri'i’vy ^'' b}' . '■- ■■oii'O'vt, ;j *'*('./.! rr// '*;!» Oi i’> ;,•.• ■> • ' W‘^k’< - * :'•• • .Jl'- ^ifr-Xiy^ ‘:..^ il •''■'■ lilyl*! ii. -Cir.:;”- . ■■ .: 7 «-‘t-. < >. -■■ ti„i'.C,v .u''^ ■Ji'v', ■ ‘ .■'. -'.vi'./ ■> .J fi -I>' 7 U'-'^*"'-'. ^rJCl! 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' '.l77r.'I0,:\/ jii .'■>»aiHls»7 Xr! <■! :7:t ' jsliif -,Ac 7 >' if:; ■ , -.,■ • 47: .-‘s. :'■': uf‘M iiiiM •>,74 AN INVASION OF FRANCE. “ Caesar venit in Galliam summa diligentii.” About twelve o’clock, just ns the bell of the packet is tolling a farewell to London Ihidgc, and warning olf the blackguard- boys with the newspapers, who have been shoving Times ^ Herald^ Penny Paul-Pry^ Penny Satirist^ Flare-ii'p^ and other abomina- tions, into your face — just as the bell has tolled, and the Jews, strangers, people-taking-leave-of-their-fainilies, and blackguard- boys aforesaid, are making a rush for the narrow plank which conducts from the paddle-box of the ‘ ‘ Emerald ” steamboat unto the qua}' — you perceive, staggering down Thames Street, those two hackne}'-coaches, for the arrival of which you have been praying, trembling, hoping, despairing, swearing — sw — , I beg your pardon, 1 believe the word is not used in polite com- pany — 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 qua}’. “ Elizabeth, take care of Miss Jane,” screams that worthy woman, who has l)een for a fortnight employed in getting this tremendous body of troops and baggage into marching order. “ Hicks ! Hicks ! for heaven’s sake mind the 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 pack- ages, love — twenty-seven packages, — and bring little Flo ; where’s little Flo ? — Flo 1 Flo 1 ” — (Flo comes sneaking in ; 6 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. she has been speaking a few parting words to a one-eyed terrier, that sneaks off similarly, landward.) As when the hawk menaces the hen-roost, in like manner, when such a danger as a voyage menaces a mother, she becomes suddenh' endowed with a ferocious presence of mind, and brist- ling up and screaming in the front of her brood, and in the face of circumstances, succeeds, b}" her courage, in putting her enem}' to flight ; in like manner 3'ou will always, I think. And your wife (if that lady be good for twopence) shrill, eager, and ill-humored, before, and during a great famil}- move of this nature. Well, the swindling hackne^'-coachmen are paid, the mother leading on her regiment of little ones, and supported b}^ her auxiliary nurse-maids, are safe in the cabin; — }’ou have counted twent}’-six of the twent3^-seven parcels, and have them on board, and that horrid man on the paddle-box, who, for twent3" minutes past, has been roaring out, NOW, SIR ! — sa3’s, now^ sir^ no more. I never 3’et knew how a steamer began to move, being always too bus3" 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 3^ourself opposite Greenwich (farewell, sweet, sweet whitebait !), and quiet begins to enter 3’our soul. Your wife smiles for the first time these ten da3’s ; 3*011 pass by plantations of ship-masts, and forests of steam-chimneys ; the sailors are singing on board the ships, the bargees salute 3*011 with oaths, grins, and phrases facetious and familiar; the man on the paddle-box roars, “Ease her, stop her ! ” which m3*sterious "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 an3^ad3* or gentleman please to take an3*think? ” About a dozen do : boiled beef and pickles, and great red raw Cheshire cheese, tempt the epicure : little dump3* bottles of stout are produced, and fizz and bang about with a spirit one would never have looked for in individu- als of their size and stature. The decks have a strange look ; the people on them, that is. Wives, elderly stout husbands, nurse-maids, and children pre- dominate, of course, in English steamboats. Such ma3* be con- sidered as the distinctive marks of the English gentleman at three or four and fort3* : two or three of such groups have pitched their camps on the deck. Then there are a number of 3*oung men, of whom three or four have allowed their mous- AN INVASION OF FRANCE. 7 taches to begin to grow since last F riday ; for they are going ‘‘ on the Continent,” and the}' look, therefore, as if their upper lips were smeared with smilf. A danseuse from the opera is on her wa}' to Paris. Followed 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 Fi'ench, and make up to her : and how all criticise her points and [)aces ! V'onder is a group of 3'oung ladies, who are going to Paris to learn how to be governesses : those two splendidl}- 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 con- ducting to his establishment, near Boulogne, where, in addition to a classical and mathematical education (washing included), the}'oung gentlemen have the benefit of learning French among the French themselves. According!} , 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 FAench people are there already, preparing to be ill — (I never shall forget a dreadful sight I once had in the little dark, dirty, six-foot cabin of a DoA^er steamer. Four gaunt Frenchmen, but for their pantaloons, in the costume of Adam in Paradise, solemnly anointing themselves with some charm against sea-sickness !) — a few Frenchmen 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, Avretched, 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 wandering 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 disappear, and your wife, giv- ing 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 8 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. vases, like those which are called, I believe, in America, expec- toratoons^ only these are larger. The wind blows, the water looks greener and more beautiful than ever — ridge by ridge of long white rock passes away. “That’s Ramsgit,” says the man at the helm ; and, presentl}% “ That there’s Deal — it’s dreadful fallen off since the war; ” and “That’s Dover, round that there pint, only 3’ou 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 saj’s it is impossible to breathe ; and the poor little wretches are, b^' the officious stewardess and smart steward (expecto- ratoonifer), accommodated with a heap of blankets, pillows, and mattresses, in the midst of which they crawl, as best the}' 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 }'ou 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 con- versing 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 gentle- man for all his goodness towards your family and yourself — you talk to him, he has served under the Emperor, and is, fcr 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 elsewhere. AN INVASION OF FRA.NCE. 9 One loves to meet with such genuine liberality in a foreigner, and respects the man who can sacrifice vauit}' to truth. This distinguished foreigner has travelled mucii ; he asks whither 3'ou are going? — where 3011 stop? if you have a great quantity of luggage on board ? — and laughs when he hears of the twent3'- seven packages, and hopes 3’ou have some friend at the custom- house, who can si)are 3'Ou the monstrous trouble of unpacking that which has taken 3011 weeks to put up. Nine, ten, eleven',, ' the distinguished foreigner is ever at your side ; you find liimi now, perhaps, (with characteristic ingratitude,) something of a^ bore, but, at least, he has been most tender to the children awdi 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 savs, — The distinguished foreigner sa3’s, says he — “ Sare, eef 3’ou af no ’otel, I sail recoinincnd 3 011, milor, to ze ^Otel Betfort, in ze Qua3% sare, close to the bathing-machines and custom-ha- oose. Good bets and fine garten, sare ; table-d’hote, sare, a cinq heures ; breakfast, sare, in French or English st3'lc ; — I am the commissionaire, sare, and vill see to your loggish.”’ . . . Curse the fellow, for an impudent, swindling, sneaking. French humbug! — Your tone instantl3' changes, and 3'ou tell' him to go about his business : l)ut at tweh^e o’clock at night, when the A'03'age 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 longing for bed, 3^ou find 3'ourself, somehow, in the Hotel Bedford (and 3"OU can’t be better), and smiling chambermaids cany 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 comes — I don’t know a pleasanter feeling than that of waking with the sun shining on objects quite new, and (although 3'OU have made the voyage a dozen times,) quite strange. Mrs. X. and you occupy a veiy light bed, which has a tall canopy of red “ 'percale ; ” the windows are smartl3' draped with cheap gaud3' calicoes and muslins ; there are little mean strips of carpet about the tiled floor of the room, and 3'et all seems as ga3^ and as comfortable as maybe — the sun shines brighter than 3 011 have seen it for a 3 ear, the sky is a thousand times bluer, and what a cheer3' clatter of shrili quick French voices comes up from the court-3'ard under the windows ! Bells 10 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. are jangling ; a famil}’, 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,” — (O my country- men, I love your tastes and your ways !) — the chambermaid is laughing and says, “ Finissez done. Monsieur Pierre ! ” (what can the}' be about?) — a fat Englishman has opened his window violently, and says, “ Dee dong, garsong, vooly voo me donny lo sho, ou 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, meny place, this town of Boulogne ; 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 military and more intelli- gent 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 comes three Englishmen, habitues evidently of the place, — dandy specimens of our countrymen : 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 ou 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 jdesperatel}' heartless and depraved. But why, my dear sir, get into a passion? — Take things coolly. As tlm poet has -observed, “Those only is gentlemen who behave as sich ; ” with such, then, consort, be the}^ cobblers or dukes. Don’t give us, cries the patriotic reader, any abuse of our fellow-countrymen (anybod}’ else can do that), but rather continue in that good-humored, facetious, descriptive style with which your letter has commenced. — Tour remark, sir, is per- fectly 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 AN INVASION OF FRANCE. 11 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 excel- lently described by tlie facetious Coglan, the learned Dr. Mil- lingen, and by innumerable guide-l)ooks besides. A fine thing it is to hear the stout old Frenchmen of Napoleon’s time argue how that audacious Corsican woidd have marched to London, after swallowing Nelson and all his gun-boats, but for cette maU heureuse guerre (V Espagne and cette gJorieuse 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 Ilommes du Jour, article “ Soult,” you will fancy that, with the exception of the disaster at Vittoria, 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, wdiere, at the end of certain 3’ears 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 su- perfluous. However, we shall never get to Paris at this rate ; let us break off further palaver, and awav at once. . . . (During this pause, the ingenious reader is kindlj^ requested to pa}’ his bill at the Hotel at Boulogne, to mount the Diligence of LafRtte, 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, be- gins 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 oppo- site corner, who has been sucking bonbons, and smells dread- fully 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 re- places it by a more becoming head-piece, covered with withered artificial flowers, and crumpled tags of ribbon ; she looks wist- 12 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. fully at the company for an instant, and then places her hand- kerchief before her mouth : — her eyes roll strangely about for an instant, and 3’ou hear a faint clattering 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, loz- enges, prayer-books, peppermint- water, copper monej^ and false hair — stowed awa}^ there during the voyage. The Jewish gentleman, who has been so attentive to the milliner during the journe}', and is a traveller and bagman b}" profession, gathers together 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 stiaty of medicine, swears that he rejoices to leave the cursed Diligence, is sick of the infernal joLirne}', and d — d glad that the d — d vo3’age is so nearly over. “ Enjin!’' says }’our neighbor, yawning, and inserting an elbow into the mouth of his right and left hand companion, “news voilhy 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 extraordinaiy speed. The postilion cracks his terrible whip, and screams shrill}'. The conductor blows in- cessantly 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 heav}' 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 gallanth' forward, as if it would traverse at least six miles in the same space of time. Thus it is, when Sir Robert maketh a speech at Saint Stephen’s — he useth his strength at the beginning, only, and the end. He gallopeth at the commencement ; in the middle he lingers ; at the close, again, he rouses the House, which has fallen asleep; he crack- eth the whip of his satire ; he shouts the shout of his patriotism ; and, urging his eloquence to its roughest canter, awakens the sleepers, and ins[>ires the weary, until men sa}'. What a won- drous 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 In' two lodges; the -French Kings of old made their entiy b}' this gate ; some of the hottest battles of the late revolution were fought before it. At pres- ent, it is blocked by carts and peasants, and a busy crowd of men, in green, examining the packages before the}' enteiq PORTE ST. DENIS. A.. AN INVASION OF FRANCE. 13 probing the straw with long needles. It is the Barrier of St Denis, and the green men are the cnstoins’-men of the city of Paris. If 3'ou are a countryman, who would introduce a cow into the metropolis, the cit\’ demands twenty-four francs for such a privilege : if 3’ou have a hundi-edweiglit of tallow-candles, 3’ou must, previousl3', disburse three francs : if a drove of hogs, nine francs per whole hog : but ui)on these subjects Mr. Bul- wer, Mrs. Trollope, and other writers, have alread3' enlight- ened the public. In the present instance, after a momentaiy pause, one of the men in green mounts 1)3' the side of the coii' ductor, and the ponderous vehicle pursues its Journe3'. The street which we enter, that of the Faubourg St. Denis, presents a strange contrast to the dark uniformit3’ of a London street, where eveiything, in the dingy and smokv atmosphere, looks as though it were painted in India-ink — black houses, black passengers, and black sky. Here, on the contraiy, is a thousand times more life and color. Before 3'ou, shining in the sun, is a long glistening line of gutter, — not a very pleasing object in a cit3', but in a picture invaluable. On each side are houses of all dimensions and hues ; some but of one story ; some as high as the tower of Babel. From these the haber- dashers (and this is their favorite street) flaunt long strips of gaudy calicoes, which give a strange air of rude ga3'et3' 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 smartl3' decorated with vines and gilded railings, are filled with workmen taking their morning’s draught. That gloomy-looking prison on 3’our right is a prison for women ; once it was a con- vent for Lazarists : a thousand unfortunate individuals of the softer sex now occupy that mansion : thc3^ bake, as we find in the guide-books, the bread of all the other prisons ; the3’' mend and wash the shirts and stockings of all the other prisoners ; they make hooks-and-eyes and phosphorus-boxes, and they attend chapel eveiy Sunda3" : — if occupation can help them, sure the3' 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 continuall3' mending ? — But we have passed the prison long ago, and are at the Porte St. Denis itself. There is 011I3' time to take a hasty glance as we pass : it commemorates some of the wonderful feats of arms of Ludovi- cus Magnus, and abounds in ponderous allegories — n3'mphs, and river-gods, and pyramids crowned with fleurs-de-lis ; Louis passing over the Rhine in triumph, and the Dutch Lion giving 14 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. up the ghost, in the }^ear of our Lord 1672. The Dutch Lion revived, and overcame the man some years afterwards ; but of this fact, singularl}' enough, the inscriptions make no mention. Passing, then, round t\\Q gate, and not under it (after the general custom, in respect of triumphal arches), 3^011 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 dirt}" 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 }"our 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 com- missionaires. These latter seize 3’ou as you descend from 3'our place, — twent}" cards are thrust into 3"our hand, and as manj^ voices, jabbering with inconceivable swiftness, shriek into 3"Our ear, “ Dis wa}", sare ; are you for ze ‘ ’Otel of Rhin? ’ ‘ Hotel de r Amiraute ! ’ — ‘ Hotel Bristol,’ sare ! — Monsieur ‘ V Hotel de Lille‘S’ Sacr-rrre’nom de Dieu. laissez passer ce petit Monsieur I Ow mosh loggish ave you, sare?” And now, if 3-011 are a stranger in Paris, listen to the words of Titmarsh. — If 3-011 cannot speak a syllable of French, and love English comfort, clean rooms, breakfasts, and waiters ; if you would have plentiful dinners, and are not particular (as how should you be?) concerning wine; if, in this foreign countiy, you xoill have 3-our English companions, 3’our porter, 3-our friend, and 3’oiir brandy-and- water — do not listen to an}- of these commissioner fellows, but with 3'Our best English accent, shout out boldly, “ Meurice ! ” and straightwa}- a man will step forward to conduct you to the Rue de Rivoli. Here you will find apartments at any price : a ver}^ neat room, for instance, for three francs dail}- ; an English breakfast of eternal boiled eggs, or grilled ham ; a nondescript dinner, profuse but cold ; and a societ}- which will rejoice your heart. Here are }’oung gentlemen from the universities ; }-oung mer- chants on a lark ; large families of nine daughters, with fat father and mother ; officers of dragoons, and law}'ers’ clerks. AN INVASION OF FRANCE. 15 Hie last time we dined at “ Meurice’s ” we Fobbed and nobbed with no less a person than Mr. Moses, the celebrated bailiff* of Chancery Lane ; Lord Brougham was on his right, and a clergy- man’s lad}^ with a train of white-haired girls, sat on his left, wonderfully 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, — to continue on the subject of hotel choosing, — if you love quiet, heavy bills, and the best taUe-d'hote in the city, go, O stranger! to the “ Hotel des Princes ; ” it is close to the Boulevard, and convenient for Frascati’s. The “ Hotel Mirabeau” possesses scarcel}' less attraction ; but of this you will find, in Mr. Bul- wer’s “ Autobiogra})!!}' of Pelham,” a faithful and complete account. “Lawson’s Hotel” has likewise its merits, as also the “Hotel de Lille,” which ma}' be described as a “second chop ” Meurice. If 3’ou are a poor student come to study the humanities, or the pleasant art of amputation, cross the water forthwith, and proceed to the “ Hotel Corneille,” near the Odeon, or others of its species ; there are man}' where you can live royally (until you economize by going into lodgings) 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 penetrate. But above all, O my countrymen I 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 }'Our 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 estab- lishments, daily advertised as most eligible for English, 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. A MILLION dangers and snares await the traveller, as soon as he issues out of 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 unwar}" from the path of danger, let us take this, the very earliest opportunity, of imparting to the public a little of the wisdom 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 an}" 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 hke? How many, when the horrible gambling dens were open, did resist a sight of them? — na}N was not a young fellow rather flattered by a dinner invitation from the Salon, whither he went, fondly pretending that he should see “French so- ciety,” in the persons of certain Dukes and Counts who used to frequent the place ? INIy friend Pogson is a young fellow, not much worse, although perhaps a little weaker and simpler than his neigh- bors ; and coming to Paris with exactly the same notions that bring many others of the British youth to that capital, events befell him there, last winter, which are strictly true, and shall here be narrated, by way of warning 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\n album, drives his owu gig, aud 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 attach- A CAUTTOX TO TRAVELLERS. 17 ment 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 prett3'-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 wa}' down to Dover ; placing, right and left, at the towns on his route, rhubarb, sodas, and other such delectable wares as liis masters dealt in (“ the sweetest sample of castor oil, smelt like a nosegay — went off like wildfire — hogshead and a half at Rochester, eight-and twenty gallons at Canterl)ury,” and so on), and crossed to Calais, and thence voyaged to Paris in the coupe of the Dili- gence. He paid for two [daces, too, although a single man, and the reason shall now be made known. Dining at the table-dhofe at “ Quillacq’s ” — it is the best inn on the Continent of Europe — our little traveller had the hap- piness to be placed next to a lady, wlio was, he saw at a glance, one of the extreme pink of the nobilit}'. A large lady, in black satin, with eves and hair as black as sloes, with gold chains, scent-bottles, sable tippet, worked [)ocket-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 rub}' lip salve : she used the very best, that was clear. She was a fine-looking woman, certainly (holding down her e}'es, and talking perpetuall}' of “ wes trente-deux ans”) ; and Pogson, the wicked }’oung clog, who professed not to care for 3'oung misses, saying they smelt so of bread-and-butter, de- clared, at once, that the lady was one of /ns beauties ; in fact, when he spoke to us about her, he said, “ She’s a slap-up thing, I tell }’ou ; a reg’lar good one; one of my sort I ” And such was Pogson’s credit in all commercial rooms, that one of his sort was considered to surpass all other sorts. During dinner-time, Mr. Pogson was profoundl}' polite and attentive to the lach' at his side, and kindl}" communicated to her, as is the wa}" 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 communication with the commissionaire^ must be, doubtless, ver}^ valuable to Frenchmen in their own countrv ; 2 18 THE PARTS SKETCH BOOK. . and the lady listened to Pogson’s opinions : not only with be- nevolent attention, but actuall}', 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 wa}' ; 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. Hereupon the lad}" 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, 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; har you anyways connected with the family of our immortal bard ? ” “ Sir, I beg your pardon.” “ Don’t mention it, ma’am : but bironn and Byron are hevi- dently 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 ? ” “ Hauthor of ‘Don Juan,’ ‘Child ’Arold,’ and ‘Cain, a Mystery,’” said Pogson: — “I do; and hearing the waiter calling you Madam la Bironn, took the liberty of basking 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 fingers, 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.” A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 19 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, steal- ing her hand into a black velvet bag, drew from it an ivoiyi card-case, and fiom 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, Nils CE 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 curiousl}', or more respectfull}’, than this porcelain card of the Baroness. Trembling he put it into his little Russia-leather pocket-book : and when he ventured to look up, and saw the eyes of the Baroness de Florval-Delval, Jiec, de Melval-Norval, gazing upon him with friendl}^ 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 sprighth' and elegant himiliarit}^ 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 lad}',” and ‘‘ No, your ladyship,” for some minutes after the discovery had been made. Pogson piqued himself on his breeding: *-‘1 hate the aristocrac}^” he said, “but that’s no reason wh}' I shouldn’t behave like a gentleman.” A surly, silent little gentleman, who had been the third at the ordinal’}', and would take no part either in the conversation 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-a-tUe. The Baroness did not appear inclined to move : it was cold ; a fire was comfortable, and she had ordered none in her apart- ment. Might Pogson give her one more glass of champagne, or would her ladyship prefer “something hot.” Her ladyship 20 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 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 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 Killy ax), 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 adven- iure 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, ‘ 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 hole, and everybody accepts everybody’s wine. Bob Irons, who travels in linen on our circuit, told me that he had made some slap-up acquaintances among the genteelest 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, knevt 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 they call the coopy (though you’re not near so cooped in it as in our coaches. I’ve been to the ofiice and seen one of ’em). She has her place in the coopy, and the coopy holds three ; so wdiat 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 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 apartment for Mr. Pogson, as beseemed a gentleman of A CAUTJON TO TRAVELLERS. 21 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 contained him and his lovely Baroness. Those who have much frequented tlie society of gentlemen of his profession (and what more delightful?) must be aware, that, when all the rest of mankind look hideous, dirty- peevish, wretched, after a fort}' hours’ coach-journey, a bagman appears as ga}' and spruce as when he started ; having within himself a thousand little conveniences for the voyage, which common travellers neglect. Togson had a little portable toilet, of which he had not failed to take advantage, and with his long, curling, tlaxen hair, llowing under a seal-skin cap, with a gold tassel, with a blue and gold satin handkerchief, a crimson velvet waist- coat, a light green cut-away coat, a [)air of barred brickdust-col- ored pantaloons, and a neat maekiiitosh, presented, altogether, as elegant and distingue an appearance as an}’ 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, llattest, stalest, dirtiest journeys in Europe. To my surprise, there were two ladies in the coach with my friend, and not as Iliad expected. One of these, a stout female, carrying 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 nightcap flapping over the curl-papers, — but these were hidden by a lace A cil and a huge velvet bonnet, of wdiich the crowning 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, gaP lantly putting one of his white kids round her waist, aided this interesting creature to descend. I saw, by her walk, that she was flve-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 would 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. '•‘Mi^you!” said Samuel, and waved his lily hand. Adyou- addimang.” A brisk little gentleman, who had made the journey in the 22 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. same coach with Pogson, but'had more modes% 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 commissionaires^ 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 luck}^ 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-jock e}^ would the points of a favorite animal. “You seem to have gone a prett}^ length already,” said 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 I 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 1) and couldn’t, in course, refuse, when she asked me to let the maid in.” “ Of course not.” “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 veiy knowing wa}^ “ You did, and how?” “ Wly, 3^ou dog, I sat next to her; sat in the middle the whole wa}^ and m}^ back’s half broke, I can tell }"Ou : ” 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 ex- A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 23 pressed himself a great admirer ; and actuall}" asked him to dine the next day. But there was a cloud over the ingenuous 3’outh’s brow, and I inquired still farther. “ Wh^y” 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 didn’t turn you out, Fsuppose? ” “ Oh, no ! on the contraiy, as kind as possible ; his lordship 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 profound observer of human nature had been there to read into this little bagman’s heart, it would, perhaps, have been manifest, that the appearance of a whiskered soldier of a husband had counter- acted some plans that the young scoundrel was concocting. I live up a hundred and thirt3'-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 mone3’, and a new cit3" 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 luke- warmness 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 tip-top chap,” said he, when we met, at length. “ What do you think of an Earl’s son, my- boy'? Honorable Tom Ringwood, 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 alway’s above his own line of life ; he had met Mr. Ringwood 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 Ringwood’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 24 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 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 punctuall}’ at my time ; but Sam was stretched on a sofa, veiy pale and dismal. I saw how it had been. — '‘A little too much of Mr. Ring- wood’s claret, I suppose ? ” He onh’ gave a sickl}' stare. “ Where does the Honorable Tom live? ” says I. ^'‘Honorable!'' sa^^s Sam, with a hollow, horrid laugh; “I tell 3 ’ou, Tit, he’s no more Honorable than you are.” “ What, an impostor? ” “No, no ; not that. He is a real Honorable, only — ” “ Oh, ho ! 1 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 an}" better. Eight-and-thirty pounds he won of me before supper ; and made me drunk, and sent me home : — is that 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 iiis 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 m}" friend,” cried Sam. Mr. Ringwood paused a little: — “An awkward business that of last night,” at length exclaimed he. A CAUTION TO TRAVELLP:RS. 25 ‘•I believe it was an awkward business,” said Sam, dryly. I reall}' am very sorry for your losses.” “ Thank yon : and so am 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 3 ^ou.” “ I dare say,” answered Sam, with something of peevishness ; “ losses is losses : there’s no use talking about ’em when they’re over and paid.” “ And paid? ” here wonderingl}’ spoke Mr. Ringwood ; “ wh}’, my dear fel — what the deuce — has Florval been with 3 ’ou?” “ D — Florval ! ” growled Sam, ‘‘ Fve 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 yon gave him last night?” “ Bills ! what do you mean? ” “ I mean, sir, these bills,” said the Honorable Tom, produ- cing two out of his pocket-book, and looking as stern as a lion. “ ‘ 1 promise to pa}', on demand, to the Baron de Florval, the sum of four hundred pounds. October 20 , 1838.’ ‘Ten days after date I promise to pa}' the Baron de et caetera et caetera, one hundred and ninety-eight pounds. Samuel Pogson.' You didn’t say what regiment you were in.” “ WiiAT ! ” shouted poor Sam, as from a dream, starting up and looking preternaturally 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 Madame 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. Ringwood, 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 arrange- ment, you must meet my friend, the Baron de Florval, or I’ll post you for a swindler and a coward.” With this he went out ; the 26 THE EAIUS SKETCH BOOK. 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 re- inarkabH fresh : at last he fairly burst out ciying. “ If Mrs. Pogson heard of this,” said I, what would be- come of the ‘Three Tuns?’” (for I wished to give him a les- son). “ If your Ma, who took you eveiy Sunday to meeting, should know that her boy was i)a3ing attention to married women; — if Driuich, Glauber and Co., 3'our emplo3'ers, were to know that their coiihdential agent was a gambler, and unfit to be trusted with their money, how long do 3'ou think }’our 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 tlie 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 because he had an intense res[)cct and longing for rank : if he had made love to the Bar- oness, had onl}^ done so because he was given to understand bv Lord Byron’s “Don Juan” that making love was a very coi-rect, natty thing : and if he had gambled, had only been induced to do so by the bright e}’es and cxam[)le of the Baron and the Baroness. O ye Barons and Baronesses of England ! if ye knew what a number of small commoners arc daily occu- pied in studying 3'our lives, and imitating your aristocratic ways, how careful would 3'e be of 3'our morals, manners, and conversation ! , M3' soul was filled, then, with a gentle 3'earning pity for Pogson, and revolved many plans for his rescue : none of these seeming to be practicable, at last we hit on the veiy wisest of all, and determined to apply for counsel to no less a person than jMajor British. A blessing it is to be acquainted with my wortly friend, little Mnjor British ; and heaven, sure, it was that put the Major into my head, when 1 heard of this awkward scrape of poor Pog’s. The IMajor is on lialf-pay, and occupies a modest apartment au. qiiatrieme, in the very hotel which Pogson had patronized at m3' suggestion ; indeed, I had chosen it from Major British’s own peculiar recommendation. There is no better guide to follow than such a character as A CAUTIO^T TO TRAVELLERS. 27 the honest Major, of whom there are many lilcenesses now scattered over the Continent of Europe : men who love to live well, and are forced to live chea[)iy, 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 oil Calais pier without feeling that a load of sorrows was left on the other side of the water ; and have alwa 3 ’s fancied that black care ste[)ped on board the steamer, along with the cus- tom-house officers at Gravesend, and accompanied one to yon- der black louring towers of London — so busy, so dismal, and so vast. British would have cut any Ibreigner’s throat who ventured to sa}^ so much, but entertained, no doubt, private sentiments of this nature ; for he passed eight months of the }amr, reg- ularly^, abroad, with headquartei’s at Paris (the garrets before alluded to), and only' went to England for the month’s shooting, on the grounds of liis old coloiu*!. now an old lord, of whose acquaintance the Major was passably inclined to boast. lie 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 disagreeable ; and was, indeed, kindly regarded by such English aristocracy as he met, in his little annual tours among the German courts, ill 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 duelsorne 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 armyq as is w'ell 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 y'oung men of pleasure, and good old sober family' peo})le, he is loved by them both and has as welcome a place made for him at a roaring bacln elor’s supper at the “ Cafe Anglais,” as at a staid dowager’s, dinner-table in the Faubourg St. Honore. Such pleasant old boys are veiy profitable acquaintances, let me tell you ; and lucky is the young man who has one or two such friends in his list. 58 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. Hurrying on Pogson in his dress, I conducted him, panting, up to the Major’s quatrieme^ where we were cheerfull}’ bidden to come in. The little gentleman was in his travelling 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 scrupulousl}' fitted to a punchy little person, as Major British, about whom we have written these two pages. Pie 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 un- pleasant affair which has just occurred to my friend Pogson.” “ Pogson, take a chair.” “ You must know, sir, that Mr. Pogson, coming from Calais the other da}*, 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 loveh* 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 — can’t refuse.” “ It’s not that,” said Pogson, wagginghis head passionately. “ 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 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 ’eadach’, I couldn’t do anything but fall asleep on the sofa.” “ You ’ad such an ’eadach’, sir,” says British, sternly, who piques himself on his grammar and pronunciation, and scorns a cockney. “ Such a A-eadache, sir,” replied Pogson, with much meekness. A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 29 “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 m3' friend Pogson is said to have signed.” “ Well, my dear fellow, the thing’s quite simple, — he must pay them.” “ 1 can’t pay them.” “ He can’t pay them,” said we both in a breath : “ Pogson is a commercial traveller, Avith thirtv shillings a wmek, and how the deuce is he to pay five hundred [lounds?” “ A bagman, sir ! and what right has a bagman to gamble? Gentlemen gamble, sir; tradesmen, sir, have no business with the amusements of the gentiy. What business had 3'ou with barons and lords’ sons, sir? — serve you right, sir.” “Sir,” sa3'S Pogson, with some dignity, “merit, and not birth, is the criterion of a man : I despise an hereditaiy aris- tocracy, and admire onl}^ Nature’s gentlemen. For my pai’t, I think that a British merch — ” “Hold 3'our 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 yon mean by competing with people to whom Nature has given all these things? Stick to 3"Our bags, Mr. Pogson, and your bagmen, and leave barons and their like to their own wa3’s.” “Yes, but. Major,” here cried that faithful friend, who has alwa}'s stood bA’ Pogson ; “ they won’t leaA'e him alone.” “ The honorable gent says I must fight if I don’t pajq” whim- pered Sam. “ What ! fight Do you mean that the honorable gent, as 3'ou call him, will go out wdth a bagman?” “ He doesn’t know Pm a — Pm a commercial man,” blush- ingly said Sam : “he fancies Pm a militaiT gent.” The Major’s gravity was quite upset at this absurd notion : and he laughed outrageous^. “Why, the fact is, sir,” said I, “that my friend Pogson, knoAving the value of the title of Captain, and being complimented by the Baroness on his Avar- like appearance, said, boldly, he was in the arm}^ Pie only assumed the rank in order to dazzle her weak imagination, never fancying that there was a husband, and a circle of friends, with whom he was afterwards to make an acquaintance ,* and then, 3^ou know, it was too late to withdraw.” 30 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. ‘‘ A pretty pickle you have put 3’ourself 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,” sa^'s Pogson, “the Honor- able Tom Ringwood.” “ 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 prett}" foot and ankle ; calls herself Athenais; and is alwa}^s talking about her trente-deux ans? Wh}’, 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 3'cars, in this veiy way. She lent }'ou mone}^ didn’t she? ” Yes.” And she leans on }^our shoulder, and whis- pers, ‘ Pla}’ 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 3'our adversaiy, and that’s the way it’s done, Mr. Pogson.” “ I’ve been ’etc/, I see 1 ’ave,” said Pogson, very humbl}'. “ Well, sir,” said the IMajor, “in consideration, not of 3^011, sir — for, give me leave to tell 3*011, Mr. Pogson, that 3*011 are a pitiful little scoundrel — in consideration for 1113* Lord Cinq- bars, sir, with whom, I am proud to sa3*, I am intimate,” (the IMajor dearh* loved a lord, and was, bv his own showing, ac- quainted with half the peerage,) “ I will aid 3*011 in this affair. Your cursed vanity, sir, and want of principle, has set you, in the first [ilace, intriguing with other men’s wives; and if 3*011 had been shot for your pains, a bullet would have only served yon right, sir. You must go about as an impostor, sir, in societv ; and 3*011 pav richlv for vour swindling, sir, b3^ being swindled vonrself: but, as I think vonr punishment has been ah-eady prettv severe, I shall do 1113* best, out of regard for m3^ IViend, Lord Cinqbars, to [irevent the matter going any farther ; and I recommend yon to leave Paris without delav. Now let me wish von 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-pa3* philosopher. A CAUTIOX TO TRAVELLERS. 31 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, commei-cial traveller,” &c. &c. It was blank inside, but contained his two bills. Mi-. Ringwood left town, almost immediately, for V^iemia ; 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 disgorge directly.” Mr. Ringwood is, as }'et, young at his trade ; and 1 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 OF THE “BUNGAY BEACON.” Paris, July 30th, 1839. We 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 com- memorated annuall}’, in a prett}^ facetious manner, by gun- firing, student-processions, pole-climbing-for-silver-spoows, gold- watches and legs-of-mutton, monarchical orations, and what not, and sanctioned, moreover, by Chamber-of-Deputies, with a grant of a couple of hundred thousand francs to defray the expenses of all the crackers, gun-firings, and legs-of-mutton aforesaid. There is a new fountain in the Place Louis Quinze, otherwise called the Place Louis Seize, or else the Place de la Revolution, or else the Place de la Concorde (who can sa}' 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 — onlj’, since the Fieschi business, reviews are no joke, and so this latter part of the festivit}" has been dis- continued. Do you not laugh, O Pharos of Bungay, at the continuance 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 ; }'et there is not in the whole of this fair kingdom of France a single man who cares sixpence about him, or his dynast}' : 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 THE FETES OF JULY. 33 himself with them all) ; and, behold, here come three days at the end of J11I3', and cannons think it necessaiy to fire off, squibs and crackers to blaze and fizz, fountains to run wine, kings to make speeches, and subjects to crawl up greas}^ rnats-de-cocagne in token of gratitude and I'ejouissance jjubliqiie ! — M3" dear sir, in their aptitude to swallow, to utter, to enact humbugs, these French [)cople, from Majest3" 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, 1 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 3"ears of which we are now commemorating the last glorious three days ? 1 had made a vow not to say a syllable on the subject, although I have seen, with my neighljors, all the gingerbread stalls down the Champs Elysees, and some of the “ catafalques” erected to the memory of the heroes of JUI3', where the students and others, not connected j)er8onall3" with the victims, and not naving in the least profited by their deaths, come and weep ; but the grief shown on the first da3" is quite as absurd and fictitious as the jo3" exhibited on the last. The subject is one which admits of much wholesome reflection and food for mirth ; and, besides, is so richty 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 might3" amusing, to my thinking. “CELEBKATION OF THE DAYS OF JULY. “To-day (Saturda3"), funeral ceremonies, in honor of the victims of July, were held in the various edifices consecrated to public worship. “ These edifices, with the exception of some churches (especiall3" that of the Petits-Peres), were uniforml3^ hung with black on the outside ; the hangings bore 011I3" this inscription : 27 , 28 , 29 July, 1830 — surrounded by a wreath of oak- leaves. “ In the interior of the Catholic churches, it had onl3" been thought proper to dress little catafalques^ as for burials of the third and fourth class. Very few clerg3" attended ; but a con- siderable number of the National Guard. “The S3"nagogue of the Israelites was entirely hung with 3 34 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. black ; and a great concourse of people attended. The service was performed with the greatest pomp. ‘ ‘ In the Protestant temples there was likewise a yery 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 was remarked, suppressed. The flags on the Pont Neuf were, during the ceremony, only half-mast high, and covered with crape.” Et csetera, et csetera, 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 pj’ramidical 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 }'oung 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 Innocens. 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 sayi!ig a word — 011I3' lifting their hats as fthe}^ defiled before the tombs. AVhen the}^ arrived at the Louvre the}- found the gates shut, and the garden evacuated. The troops were under arms, and formed in battalion. “After the passage of the procession, the Garden was again open to the public.” 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 3'ou should have a historv of these people by Dickens or Theo- dore Hook, but there is little need of professed wags ; — do not THE FETES OF JULY. 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 cata- falques! 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 ! Fanc}- the profound allliction of the Gardes Municipanx, the Sergens de Ville, the police agents in plain clothes, and the troops with fixed bayonets, sobbing round the “ expiatory monuments of a pyramidical shape, surmounted by funeral vases,” and com- pelled, by sad dnt}', to fire into the public who might wish to indulge in the same woe ! O “ manes of July ! ” (the phrase is pretty and grammatical) why did you with sharp bullets break those Louvre windows? Why did 3'ou 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-galleiy, and hurl royalty, loj’alt}’, and a thousand }’ears of Kings, head-over-heels out of 3’onder Tuileries’ windows ? It is, 3’ou will allow, a little difficult to sa}’ : — there is, however, one benefit that the countiy has gained (as for liberty of press, or person, diminished taxation, a juster representa- tion, who ever thinks of them?) — one benefit they liave gained, or nearl}’ — abolition de la peine-de-mort pour delit politique : no more wicked guillotining for revolutions. 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 coach-and-four? Did not the juiy, before the face of God and Justice, proclaim Revolutionary Colonel Vaudre}' not guilt}"? — One may hope, soon, that if a man shows decent courage and energy in half a dozen emeutes^ he will get promotion and a premium. 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 commu- tation of the punishment of that wretched, fool-hardy Barbes, who, on his trial, seemed to iiiAute 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 ! ” 36 THE PARTS SKETCH BOOK. uw^ell— ” “ 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 colorabe, Par le royal enfant, doux et frele roseaii, Grace encore une fois ! Grace an nom de la tombe ! Grace au nom du ber 9 eau ! ’ * ‘‘M. Victor Hugo wrote the lines out instantly on a sheet of paper, which he folded, and simpl}’ despatched them to the King of the French by the penn3^-post. “ That truly is a noble voice, which can at all hours thus speak to the throne. Poetr}’, in old days', was called the lan- guage of the Cods — it is better named now — it is the lan- guage of the Kings. “ But the clemeucy of the King had anticipated the letter of the Poet. His Majesty had signed the commutation of Barbas, while the poet was still writing. ‘ ‘ Louis Philippe replied to the author of ‘ Ruy Bias ’ most graciously, that he had alread}’ subscribed to a wish so noble, and that the verses had only confirmed his previous disposition to mercy.” Now in countries where fools most abound, did one ever read of more monstrous, palpable folly ? In an}" country, save this, would a poet who chose to write four crack-brained verses, comparing an angel to a dove, and a little boy to a reed, and calling upon the chief magistrate, in the name of the angel, or dove (the Princess Maiy), 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 claptraps uttered, on ever}" 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 ♦ 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 1 Pardon in the name of the cradle ! ” THE FETES OF JULY. 37 his twopenny-post poetry ; and of justice, as by the King’s ab- surd reply to this absurd demand ! Suppose the Count of Paris to be twenty times a reed, and the Princess Maiy 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 forward, smirking, and says, O divine Justice ! I will trouble you to listen to the following trifling effusion of mine : — Par votre ange envol^e, ainsi qu’une,” ^c. Awful Justice stops, and, bowing gravely, listens toM. Hugo’s verses, and, with true French politeness, says, “Mon cher Mon- sieur, these verses are charming, ravissans^ delicieux^ and, com- ing from such a celehrite litteraire as yourself, shall meet with every possible attention — in fact, had I required anything to confirm m}^ own previous opinions, this charming poem would have done so. Bon jour, mon cher Monsieur Hugo, au revoir ! ” — and they part : — Justice taking off his hat and bowing, and the author of “ Ruy Bias” quite convinced that he has been treating with him d’ 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 libert}^ sham monarch}', sham glory, sham justice, — ou diahle done la verite va-t-elle se hicher ? The last rocket of the fete of July has just mounted, ex- ploded, made a portentous bang, and emitted a gorgeous show of blue lights, and then (like main' reputations) disappeared totall}' : the hundredth gun on the Invalid terrace has uttered its last roar — and a great comfort it is for e}'es and ears that the festival is over. We shall be able to go about our eveij- day business again, and not be hustled by the gendarmes or the crowd. The sight which I have just come away from is as brilliant, happy, and beautiful as can be conceived ; and if you want to see French people to the greatest advantage, 3 011 should go to a festival like this, where their manners, and innocent ga3'ety, show a very pleasing contrast to the coarse and vulgar hilarit}' which the same class would exhibit in our own countr}' — at Epsom racecourse ,*for instance, or Greenwich Fair. The great- est noise that I heard was that of a compan}' of joll}^ villagers 38 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOR. 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 veiy hard to describe, and very little was to be seen of them : to me, the prettiest sight was the vast, orderl}’, 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, pla^dng 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 ma}Aiave 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 onl}- a skeleton now ; all the flags have been miracu- lously whisked away during the night, and the fine chandeliers which glittered down the Champs El}’sees for full half a mile, have been consigned to their dens and darkness. Will thej^ ever be reproduced for other celebrations 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, seizing 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 libert}^ is understood, when some of these prisoners, the other day, on coming to trial, were found guilty and sen- tenced 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 about any farther revolutionary fetes, and that the Chamber may reasonably refuse to vote more money for them. Wh}’ should men be so might}' proud of hav- ing, on a certain day, cut a certain number of their fellow- countrymen’s throats ? The Guards and the Line emplo}^ed this time nine years did no more than those who cannonaded the starving L}^onnese, or bayoneted the luckless inhabitants of the Rue Transnounain : — they did but fulfil the soldier’s hon- orable dut}" : — 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 conquer- ing party have been justified in annually rejoicing over the conquered? Would we have thought Charles X. justified in causing fireworks to be blazed, and concerns to be sung, and speeches to be spouted, in commemoration of his victory over THE FETES OF JULY. 39 his slaughtered coimtiymen ? — 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 Elysees 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 halfpemi}^ apiece. Shall I trouble 3^011 with an account of the speculations of tliese latter, and the state of the parties which tiny represent? The complication is not a little curious, and ma3Hbrm, perhaps, a subject of graver disquisition. The July fetes occupjq as 3' on ma3" imagine, a considerable part of their columns just now, and it is amusing to follow them one one ; to read Tweedledum’s praise, and Tweedledee’s indignation — to read, in the Dehats 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 dei^arture, how the people- called for the “ Marseillaise” and applauded that. — But best sa3' no more about the fete. The Legitimists were alwa3's in- dignant at it. The high Philippist part3" sneers at and despises it ; the Republicans hate it : it seems a joke against them. Wh3^ continue it? — If there be anything sacred in the name and idea of loyalty, wly renew this fete? It 01113^ 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 da3q when citizens, unused to war, rose against practised veterans, and, armed with the strength of their cause, overthi'ew them, wly^ speak of it now? or renew the bitter recollections of the bootless struggle and victory? O Lafa3^tte ! O hero of two worlds ! O accomplished Crom- well Grandison ! 3^011 have to answer for more than any mor- tal man wJio has played a part in histoiy : two republics and one monarchy does the world owe to you ; and especiall3^ grateful should your country be to you. Did you not, in ’ 90 , make clear the path for honest Robespierre, and in ’ 30 , pre- pare the way for — [The Editor of the Bungay Beacon would insert no more of this letter, which is, therefore, for ever 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. The three collections of pictures at the Louvre, the Luxem- bourg, and the Ecole des Beaux Arts, contain a number of specimens of French art, since its commencement almost, and give the stranger a pretty fair opportunity to stud}^ and appre- ciate the school. The French list of painters contains some veiy good names — no very great ones, except Poussin (unless the admirers of Claude choose to rank him among great paint- ers), — and I think the school was never in so flourishing a condition as it is at the present da}'. They sa}" there are three thousand artists in this tow'ii alone : of these a handsome mi- nority paint not merel}' tolerably, but well understand their busi- ness : 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 remembered that the painter’s trade, in France, is a very good one ; better ap- preciated, 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 e}'e of a practised master, learn the apprenticeship of his art at an expense of about ten pounds a vear. In England there is no school except the Academy, unless the student can aflbrd to pay a very large sum, and place himself under the tuition of some particular artist. Here,^ a voung man, for his ten pounds, has all sorts of accessory in- struction, models, &c. ; and has further, and for nothing, num- berless incitements to study his profession which are not to be found in England : — the ‘streets are filled with picture-shops, THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 41 the people themselves are pictures walking about ; the churches, theatres, eating-houses, concert-rooms are covered with pic- tures : Nature itself is inclined more kindly to him, for the sk}^ is a thousand times more bright and beautiful, and the sun shines for the greater part of the 3'ear. Add to this, incite- ments more selfish, but quite as powerful: a French artist is paid veiy handsomel}' ; for live hundred a 3'ear is much where all are poor ; and has a rank in societ3’ 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 3'oung artist here is the easiest, merriest, dirtiest existence possible. He comes to Paris, probably at sixteen, from his province ; his parents settle fort3’ pounds a 3'ear on him, and pa3' his master ; he establishes himself in the Pa3's Latin, or in the new quarter of Notre Dame de Lorette (which is quite peopled with painters) ; he arrives at his atelier at a tolerablv 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 eveiy variet3" of coiffure that has ever been known. Some 3'oung men of genius have ringlets hanging over their shoulders — 3'ou ma3' smell the tobacco with which the3' are scented across the street ; some have straight locks, black, oil3', and redundant ; some have toupets in the famous Louis-Philippe fashion ; some are cropped close ; some have adopted the pres- ent mode — which he 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, 3'ou 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 of them ; all m3' 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 hair, as 3'Ou ma3' see by the following specimen.* Fancy these heads and beards under all sorts of caps — Chinese caps, Man- darin caps, Greek skull-caps, English jocke3’-caps, Russian or * This refers to an illustrated edition of the work. 42 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. Kuzzilbash caps, Middle-age caps (such as are called, in lieraldiy, caps of maintenance) , Spanish nets, and striped worsted nightcaps. Fanc}' all the jackets you have ever seen, and 3'ou have before you, as well as pen can describe, the cos- tumes of these indescribable Frenchmen. In this compaii}’ and costume the French student of art passes his daA’s and acquires knowledge ; how he passes his evenings, at what theatres, at what gninguettes^ in compan}' with what seducing little milliner, there is no need to sa}’' ; but I knew one who pawned his coat to go to a carnival ball, and walked abroad verv cheerfull}' 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 towards the p/nlister, or as the militaiy man, during the empire, did to iha pe kin : — from the height of their povert}’ the}' 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 dif- ferent in England, where a grocer’s daughter would think she made a misalliance b}' marrying a painter, and where a literaiy man (in spite of all we can sa}' against it) ranks below that class of gentr}- com|)osed of the apothecaiy, the attorne}', the wine-merchant, whose t)ositions, 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 AVarwickshire, in company with several squires and parsons of that enlightened count}'. Asterisk, as usual, made himself extraordinarily agreeable at dinner, and delighted all present with his learning and wit. "‘Who is that monstrous [)leasant fellow?” said one of the squires. “Don’t you know?” replied another. “It’s As- terisk, 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 gentleman ! ” Another instance : M. Guizot, when he was Minister here, had the grand hotel of the Alinistiy. and gave entertainments to all the great de par le monde^ as Brantome says, and enter- tained 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 May her respects to AI. Guizot. Rut it happened, in this fort- night, that M. Guizot was Minister no longer ; having given up THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF ILVINTING. 43 liis portfolio, and his grand hotel, to retire into private life, and to occupy his hiunl)le apartments in the house which he pos- sesses, and of whicli he lets the greater portion. A friend of mine was present at one of the ex-Minister’s soirees^ where tlie Ducliess of Dash made her appearance. Me says the Duchess, at her entrance, seemed (piite astounded, and ex- amined tlie premises with a most curious wonder. Two or three shabby little rooms, with ordinary furniture, and a JMinister en rctraile^ who lives by letting lodgings! In our country was CA^er such a thing heard of? No, thank heaven! and a F)ritoii ought to be i)i-()ud of the ditference. But to our muttons. This country is surel}’ the paradise of painters and [)enny-a-liners ; and when one reads of M. Horace Vernet at Rome, exceeding ambassadors at Rome by his mag- nificence, and leading such a life as Rubens or Titian did of old ; when one sees M. T'hiers’s grand villa in the Rue St. George (a dozen years ago he was not even a penii3'-a-liner : no such luck) ; Avhen one contemplates, in imagination, M. Gudin, the marine painter, too lame to walk through the picture-gallery of the Louvre, accommodated, therefore, Avith a wheel-chair, a privilege of princes onh", and accom[)anied — na}', for Avhat I know, actually trundled — down the galleiy 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, ado[)t it for his native country, like Marshal Saxe, Napoleon, and Anacharsis Clootz ? Noble people! they made Tom Paine a deputy ; and as for Tom Macaula3g the3^ would make a dynasty of him. Well, this being the case, no wonder there are so many painters in France ; and here, at least, Ave are back to them. At the Ecole Roy ale des Beaux Arts, you see tw^o 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 Ro3ml Acadeny^? is a question which has been considerably mooted in England (in the neighborhood of Suffolk Street especially). The hun- dreds of French samples are, I think, not veiy satisfactoiy. The subjects are almost all what are called classical : Orestes pur- sued ly every Amriet3’ of Furies; numbers of little wolf-suck- ing Romuluses ; Hectors and Andromaches in a complication of parting embraces, and so forth ; for it was the absurd maxim of our forefathers, that because these subjects had been the fashion twent3' centuries ago, they must remain so in scBcida sceculoriim ; because to these loft3’ heights giants had scaled. 44 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 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 pleasantly) 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 into jackasses, as might be expected. For a hundred and ten }^ears the classical humbug oppressed the nation ; and you may see, in this galleiy of the Beaux Arts, seventy }^ears’ specimens of the dulness which it engendered. Now, as Nature made every man with a nose and e3"es of his own, she gave him a character of his own too ; and 3’et we, O foolish race ! must tiy our ver}' 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 sill}' 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 darkness 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 whip- ster of a French poet chalk you out plays, “ Henriades,” and such-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 tlie so-called classical artists, as they now are by what is called the Christian art (of which anon) ; and it is curious to look at the pictorial traditions as here handed down. The consequence of them is, that scarce oue 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 par- ticipate 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 accomplishments of the sublime. There are the endless straight noses, long eyes, THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 45 round chins, short upper lips, just ns they are ruled down for you in the drawing-books, as if the latter were the revelations of beauty, issued b}' supreme authority, from which there was no appeal? WI13' is the classical reign to endure? Why is yonder simpering Venus de’ Medicis to be our standard of beauty, or the Greek tragedies to bound our notions of the sublime? There was no reason wh}' Agamemnon should set the fashions, and remain ava^ avSpon' to eternit}' : and there is a classical quotation, which you may have occasionally heard, beginning Vixere fortes^ &c., whicli, as it avers that there were a great number of stout fellows before Agamemnon, maj" not unreasonably induce us to conclude that similar heroes were to succeed him. Shakspeare made a better man when his imagi'- nation moulded the mighty figure of Macbeth. And if you will measure Satan b}^ Prometheus, the blind old Puritan’s work by that of the lieiy Grecian poet, does not Milton’s angel surpass ^schjdus’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 Judgment” of Michel 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 gloiy ; and near him, beautiful and gentle, and }’et indescribabh’ 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 frightfull}' majestic, if one ma}^ 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, b3^ sights too tremen- dous for his vision to bear. One cannot imagine him, with our small physical endowments and weaknesses, a man like ourselves. As for the Ecole Royale 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 thej^ had left the academ^q 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, signed THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. -^6 Jourdy) ; and the onl}^ good that the Academ}" has done by its pupils was to send them to Rome, 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, 011 I 3 ' w^eighed the pupils down, and cramped their hands, their e^^es, and their imaginations ; drove them awa}^ from natural 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 beautiful. With its light and elegant fabric, its pretty fountain, its arch- way of the Renaissance^ and fragments of sculpture, }'OU can hardly see, on a fine da}^ a place more riant and pleasing. Passing from thence up the picturesque Rue de Seine, let us walk to the Luxembourg, where bonnes, students, grisettes, and old gentlemen with pigtails, love to wander in the melan- chol}^ 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 haAm just been to visit at the Beaux Arts, and who, having performed their pilgrimage to Rome, have taken rank among the professors of the art. I don’t know a more pleasing exhibition ; 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, howeA^er, 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 anticlassicists did notarise in France until about 1827 ; and, in consequence, up to that period, we have here the old classical faith in fullAugor. 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 ^neas carrying off old Anchises ; there are Paris and Venus, as naked as two Hottentots, and many more such choice subjects from Lempriere. THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 47 But the chief specimens of the sublime are in the wa}^ of murders, with which the catalogue swarms. Here are a few extracts from it : — 7. Beaume, Chevalier de la Legion d’Honneur. “ The Grand Dauphi- ness Dying. 18 Blondel, Chevalier de la, &e. “ Zenobia found Dead.” od. Debay, Chevalier. “ The Death of Lucretia.” :>8. Dejuinne. “The Death of Hector.” 34 Court, Chevalier de la, &c. “ The Death of Caesar.” 39, 40, 41. Delacroix, Clievalier. “ Dante and Virgil in the Infernal Lake!” “ The Massacre of Scio,” and “ Medea going to Murder her Chil- dren.” 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 Hynietto.” 103. “ The Death of Philip of Austria.” — And so on. You see what woful subjects the}^ take, and how profusely thej^ are decorated with knighthood. They are like the Black Brunswickers, these painters, and ought to be called Chevaliers de la Mart. I don’t know why the merriest people in the world should please themselves with such grim representations and varieties of murder, or why murder 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 be- cause, by the events foregone, the mind is prepared for it. But these men will have nothing but fifth acts ; and seem to skip, as unworth}^ all the 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 to pass off as real, and which your humble servant and other antihumbnggists should heartily, according to the strength that is in theni, endeavor to pull down. What, for instance, could Monsieur Lafond care about the death of Euda- midas? What was Hecuba to Chevalier Drolling, or Chevalier Drolling to Hecuba? I would lay a wager that neither of them ever conjugated and that their school learning 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 flaunting in sham Greek 48 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. costumes, and having read up the articles Eudamidas, Hecuba, in the “ Mythological Dictionary.” What a classicism, inspired by rouge, gas-lamps, and a few lines in Lempriere, and copied, half from ancient statues, and half from a naked guardsman at one shilling and sixpence the hour ! Delacroix is a man of a very different genius, and his “ Me- dea ” is a genuine creation of a noble fancj". For most of the others, Mrs. Brownrigg, and her two female ’prentices, would have done as well as the desperate Colchian with her reWw (jiikTara. M. Delacroix has produced a number of rude, bar- barous 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 hearty perhaps, as the other, but a fine 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 “ Enfans d’Edouard ” is re- nowned over Europe, and has appeared in a hundred different ways in print. It is properl}" pathetic and gloom}", 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 five feet in height. He wore, on this important occasion, a bandanna round his head, and was in the act oi 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 Fran9ais 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 “Rebecca” most pleas- ing ; and not the less so for a little pretty affectation of atti- tude and needless singularity of costume. “ Raphael and Michael Angelo ” is as clever a picture as can be — clever is just the word — the groups and drawing excellent, the color- ing 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 publisliing “ Life of Naooleon,” are perfect gems in their THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 49 way, and the noble price paid for them not a penny more than he merits. The picture, by Court, of “The Death of Caesar,” is re- markable for effect and excellent workmanship : and the head of Brutus (who looks like Armand Cari-el) is full of energy. There are some beautiful lieads of women, and some very good color in tlie picture. Jacquand’s “ Death of Adelaide de Com- ' minges” 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 discovered by him till on her death-bed. The painter has told this story in a most pleasing and affecting manner : the picture is full of onction and melan- choly grace. The objects, too, are capitally represented ; and the tone and color very good. Decaisne’s “ Guardian Angel” 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 bj^ Giroux (the plain of Grasivaudan), and “The Prometheus” of Aligny. This is an imitation, perhaps ; as is a noble picture of “Jesus Christ and the Children,” by Flandrin : but the artists are imitating better models, at an}' rate ; and one be- gins to perceive that the odious classical dynasty is no more. Poussin’s magnificent “ Polyphemus” (I only know a print of tliat marvellous composition) has, perhaps, suggested the first- named picture ; and the latter has been inspired by a good enthusiastic study of the Roman schools. Of this revolution. Monsieur Ingres has been one of the chief instruments. He was, before Horace Vernet, president of the French Academy at Rome, 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 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 50 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 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 b}" him ; one being a pla- fond in the Louvre, which his disciples much admire. Ingres stands between the Imperio-Davido-classical school of French art, and the namb^'-pamb}- mj^stical German school, which is for carrying us back to Cranach and Diirer, 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. 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 sill}’ 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 eas}' in life. First take your colors, and rub them down clean, — bright carmine, bright yellow, bright sienna, bright ultra- marine, bright green. Make the costumes of }’Our 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 gim- cracks, as }’ou may see in the Catholic chapels, in Sutton Street and dsewhere. Deal in Virgins, and dress them like a burgo- master’s wife by Cranach or Van Eyck. Give them all long twisted tails to their gowns, and proper angular draperies. Place all their heads on one side, with the e}’es shut, and the proper solemn simper. At the back of the head, draw, and gild with gold-leaf, a halo or gloiy, of the exact shape of a cart-wheel : and 3’ou have the thing done. It is Catholic art tout crache^ as Louis Philippe sa}’s. We have it still in England, handed down to us for four centuries, in the pictures on the cards, as the redoubtable king and queen of clubs. Look at them : you will see that the costumes and attitudes are pre^ THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 51 cisely similar to those which figure in the catholicities of the school of Overbeck and Cornelius. Before yon 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 onlj’ ; and I think the best sculpture in the gallery — prettj^ fanciful, naive ; admirable in workmanship and imitation of Nature. I have seldom seen flesh better represented in mari)le. Examine, also, Jaley’s “ Pudeur,” Jacquot’s “Nymph,” and Rude’s “Boy with the Tortoise.” These are not veiy exalted subjects, or what are called exalted, and do not go beyond simple, smiling beauty and nature. But what then? Are we gods, Miltons, Michel Angelos, that can leave earth when we please, and soar to heights immeasurable? No, 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?” O blind race! Have 3'ou wings ? Not a feather: and yet 3- on mnst be ever puffing, sweating up to the tops of rugged hills ; and, arrived there, clapping and shaking 3^0111- ragged elbows, and making as if y^ou would fl3’ ! Come down, silly Dmdalus ; come down to the I0WI3’ 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 omni- bus has ga3d3" conducted us across the water : and le garde qui veille a la poi'te du Louvre ne defend pas our entiy. What a paradise this galleiy is for French students, or for- eigners who sojourn in the capital ! It is hardly necessaiy to say that the brethren of the brush are not usua]l3^ supplied b3^ Fortune with any extraordinaiy wealth, or means of enjo3ing the luxuries with which Paris, more than any other city, abounds. But here the3’ have a luxury which surpasses all others, and spend their da3^s in a palace which all the money of all the Rothschilds could not biy^ The3' 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 3'ards of Rubens? Artists from England, who have a national gallery that re- sembles a moderat>e-sized gin-shop, who ma3^ not cop3’ pictures, except under particular restrictions, and on rare and particular 52 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. days, ma}" revel here to their hearts’ content. Here is a room half a mile long, with as inaii}^ windows as Aladdin’s palace, open from sunrise till evening, and free to all manners and all varieties of stud}" : the onl}' puzzle to the student is to select the one he shall begin upon, and keep his e3’es away from the rest. Fontaine’s grand staircase, with its arches, and painted ceil- ings and shining Doric columns, leads directl}’ to the gallery ; but it is thought too fine for working days, and is onl^’ 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 entiy for students and others, who, during the week, enter the galleiy. Hither have lately been transported a number of the works of French artists, which formerlj^ covered the walls of the Lux- embourg (death onl}' entitles the French painter to a place in the Louvre) ; and let us confine ourselves to the Frenchmen onl3% 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 ga3"et3\ 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 3^011 told a Frenchman so, twent3^ years ago, he would have thrown the dementi in 3"Our teeth ; or, at least, laughed at you in scornful incredulit3". They say of us 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 gloiy of the empire ; and one might as well have said then that “ Romulus ” was a bad picture, as that Toulouse was a lost battle. Old-lashioned people, who believe in the Emperor, believe in the Theatre Frangais, and believe that Ducis improved upon Shakspeare, have the above opinion. Still, it is curious to remark, in this place, how art and litera- ture l)ecome party matters, and political sects have their favor- ite painters and authors. Nevertheless, Jacques Louis David is dead. He died about a year after his bodily demise in 1825 . The romanticism killed him. Walter Scott, from his Castle of Abbotsford, sent out a troop of gallant young Scotch adventurers, merry outlaws, val- iant knights, and savage Highlanders, who, with trunk hosen THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 53 and buff jerkins, fierce two-handed swords, and harness on their back, did challenge, combat, and overcome the heroes and demi- gods of Greece and Rome. Notre Dame a la rescousse ! Sir Brian de Bois Gnilbert has borne Hector of Troy clear out of his saddle. Andromache may weep : but her spouse is bey ond the reach of physic. See ! Robin Hood twangs his bow, and the heathen gods fly, howling. Monijoie Saint Denis! down goes Ajax under the mace of Dnnois ; and yonder are Leonidas and Romulus begging their lives of Rob Roy Macgregor. Clas- sicism 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. Romnlns is a mighty fine 3'onng fellow, no doubt; and if he has come out to l)attle 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 aii}'- thing so absurd as this passion for the nude, which was fol- lowed 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 ? Romnlns stretches his legs as far as ever nature will allow ; the Iloratii, in receiving their swords, think proper to stretch their legs too, and to thrust forward their arms, thus, — 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 name- sake, Michel, I don’t think would. The little picture of “ Paris and Helen,” one of the master’s earliest, I believe, is likewise one of his best : the details are exquisitel}' 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 jaundice. Gerard’s “Psyche” has a most decided green- sickness; and I am at a loss, I confess, to account for the Romulus. The Horatii. 54 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. enthusiasm which this performance inspired on its first appear- ance 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 pres- ent, a scrawl from his pencil brings an enormous price. All his works have a grand cacltet : he never did anything mean. When he painted the “ Raft of the J\Iedusa,” it is said he lived for a long time among the corpses which he painted, and that his studio was a second Morgue. If 3’ou have not seen the picture, you are familiar, probably, with Reynolds’s admirable engraving of it. A huge black sea; a raft beating upon it; a horrid company of men dead, half dead, writhing 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 in- stance : 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 dangling at her hair, an- other child. In the water floats a corpse (a beautiful head) ; and a green sea and atmosphere envelops 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 con- tinually disfigure French Tragedy. For this reason I have never been able to read Racine with pleasure, — the dialogue is so crammed with these lugubrious good things — melancholy antitheses — sparkling undertakers’ wit ; but this is heres}^ and had better be spoken discreeth'. The galleiy contains a A^ast number of Poussin’s pictures ; they put me in mind of the color of objects in dreams, — a strange, hazjy lurid hue. How noble are some of his land- scapes ! What a depth of solemn shadow is in ^mnder wood, near which, by the side of a black water, halts Diogenes. The air is thunder-laden, and breathes hcavil}^ You hear ominous whispers in the vast forest gloom. .Near it is a landscape, bv Carel Dujardin, I believe, conceived THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 5p ill quite n diifereiit mood, but exquisite!}' poeticrd too. A horse imiii is 1 ‘idiiig up a liill, and giving money to a blows}" beggar- wench. 0 matalini rores aurcEqn.e salubres! in what a wonderful way has the artist managed to create you out of a few bladders of paint and pots of varnish. You can see the matutinal dews twinkling in dlie grass, and feel the fresh, salubi ious 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 liour of tlie morning and the time of the year : you can do anything but (h'serilie 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 musing; the other landscape inspires the spectator infallibly with the most delightful briskness and cheerfulness of spirit. Herein lies the vast jirivilege of the landscape-painter : he does not address you with one fixed particular subject or ex- pression, but with a thousand never contemplated by himself, and which only arise out of occasion. You may always be look- ing at a 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 landscapes hung round his study. lYrtraits, on the contrary, 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 per- petually 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 ! Y/hat 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 b}" these frisky Watteaus, and yields itself up to a light, smiling, gentlemanlike intoxication. Thus, were we inclined to pursue further this mighty sulqect, yonder landscape of Claude, — calm, fresh, delicate*^, yet full of flavor, — should be likened to a bottle of Chateau Marganx. And what is the Poussin before spoken of but Romanee Gelee ? — heavy, slug- gish, — the luscious odor almost sickesis you; a sultry sort of 5G THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. drink ; your limbs sink under it ; you feel as if you had been drinking hot blood. An ordinaiT man would be whirled awa}’ 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 3’our great thundering first-rates. Confess how man}^ times you have read Beranger, and how man}" 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 Mac- Gilp, since we have come to this subject, say not so ; Richmond Hill for them. Milton they never grow tired of ; and are as familiar with Raphael 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 pi’ofit us aerias tentdsse domos 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 dis- covered by English eyes ; and the pictures seem weak to me. A very fine picture b}’ Bon Bollongue, “ Saint Benedict resusci- tating 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 magnificent Italian pictures of Leopold Robert : they are, perhaps, 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 examining and admiring; they are full of “ unction ” and pious mystical grace. “ Saint Scholastica” is divine ; and the “ 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 picture than you will find in the performances of many Italian masters, with high-sounding THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 57 names (out with it, and say Raphael at once). I hate those simpering JMadonnas. 1 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 com- position, badly drawn, badly colored, in a bad imitation of Titian, — a piece of vile alfectation. I say, tliat when Raphael painted this picture two 3 ’eai‘S before his dtaitli, the spirit of painting had gone IVom out of him ; he was no longer inspired ; it ivas time that he should die ! ! There, — the murder is out ! My paper is tilled to the brim, and there is no time to speak of Lesueur’s Crucifixion,” which is odiously colored, to be sure ; but earnest, tender, simple, holy. Hut such things are most dillicult 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 duhMn the little camera obscura of the brain, and the whole picture lies there complete ; but can you describe it? No, not if pens were fltch-brushes, and words were bladders of paint. With which, for the present, adieu. Your faithful M. A. T. To Mk. Robert MacGilp, Newman Street, London. THE PAINTER’S BARGAIN. Simon Gambouge was the son of Solomon Gambouge ; and as all the world knows, both father and son were astonishinglj^ clever fellows at their profession. Solomon painted land- scapes, which nobody bought ; and Simon took a higher line, and painted portraits to admiration, only nobody came to sit to him. As he was not gaining five pounds a year by his profession, and had arrived at the age of twenty, at least, Simon deter- mined to better himself by taking a wife, — a plan which a number of other wise men adopt, in similar years and circum- stances. So Simon prevailed upon a butcher’s daughter (to whom he owed considerably for cutlets) to quit the meat-shop and follow him. Griskinissa — such was the fair creature’s name — “ was as loveh^ a bit of mutton,” her father said, “ 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 Gambouge’s pictures will see her as Venus, Minerva, Madonna, and in numberless other characters : Por- trait of a lad}^ — Griskinissa; Sleeping N3’mph — Griskinissa, without a rag of clothes, hung in a forest ; Maternal Solicitude — Griskinissa again, with }’oung Master Gambouge, who was b}^ this time the off’spring of their affections. ' The lad^^ brought the painter a handsome little fortune of a couple of hundred pounds ; and as long as this sum lasted no w'oman could be more lovel}’ or loving. But want began speedil}' to attack their little household ; bakers’ bills were un- paid ; rent was due, and the reckless landlord gave no quarter ; and, to crown the whole, her father, unnatural butcher! sud- denly' stopped the supplies of mutton-chops ; and swore that THE PAINTER’S BARGAIN. 59 his daughter, and the dauber, her husband, should have no more of his wares. At first the}' 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. AVhen this habit of pawning is discovered, it appears to the poor a kind of Eldorado. Gambouge and his wife were so delighted, that they, iu the course of a month, made away with her gold chain, her great warming-pan, his best crimson plush inexpressibles, two wigs, a washhand basin and ewer, tire-irous, window-curtains, crockery, and arm-chairs. Griskinissa said, smiling, that she had found a second fatlier in her uncJe^ — 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 swal- lowed 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 ugl}^ together ; her good humor changed to bilious, bitter discontent ; her prett}’, 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, drag- gle-tailed chintz ; long, matted hair, wandering into her ej’es, and over her lean shoulders, which were once so snowy, and 3'ou have the picture of drunkenness and Mrs. Simon Gam- bouge. 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 Gam- bouge’s oil and varnish pots went clattering through the win- dows, or down the stairs. The baby roared all day ; and Simon sat pale and idle in a corner, taking a small sup at the brand3'-bottle, when Mrs. Gambouge was out of the way. One day, as he sat disconsolate!}' 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 ordinai-ily des))er- ate, and cursed and swore in the most pathetic manner. “O miserable fate of genius!” cried he, “was I, a man of such 60 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. commanding talents, born for this? to be bullied b^^ a fiend of a wife ; to have my masterpieces neglected b}^ the world, or sold only for a few pieces? Cursed be the love which has misled me ; cursed be the art which is imworth}^ 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 contraiy,” cried a small, cheeiy voice. 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 mahogaiy. “Where are 3^011?” cried he again. “ 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 am living, a little imp spurted out from the hole upon the palette, and began laughing in the most singular and oih’ 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 Gambouge’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 alwaj's at hand : besides, I am not half so black as I am painted, as 3^011 will see when 3'ou know me a little better.” “Upon m3' 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. Macread3'’s best looks, said, — “ Tliere 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 strangel3' and singularly interested in the conversation of his new friend. Diabolus continued: “ You are a man of merit, and want mone3' ; 3^ou will starve on 3'our merit ; you can onl3^ get money THE PAINTER’S BARGAIN. 61 from me. Come, 103’ friend, how much is it? I ask the easiest interest in the world : old Mordecai, the usurer, has made 3^011 pa3' twice as heavily befoi'e now: nothing but the signature of a bond, which is a mere cerenion3', and the transfer of an article which, in itself, is a supposition — a valueless, wind3', iin<^‘er- tain property of 3’ours, called, by some poet of your own, I think, an cmimula^ varjiua, hlandula — bah! there is no use beating about the bush — I mean a soul. Come, let me have it ; 3^011 know you will sell it some other way, and not get such good pay for your bai-gaiu 1 ” — and, having made this speech, the Devil pulled out from his fob a sheet as big as a double Times., onl3" there was a different stamp in the corner. It is useless and tedious to describe law documents : lawyers onh’ love to read them ; and the3^ have as good in Chitt3' as au3^ that are to be found in the Devil’s own ; so nobly have the apprentices emulated the skill of the master. vSuffice it to say, that poor Gambouge read over the paper, and signed it. lie was to have all he wished for seven years, and at the end of that time was to become the propert3" of the ; Problheh that, during the course of the seven 3'ears, eveiy single wish which he might form should be gratified 133' the other of the contracting parties ; otherwise the deed became null and non- avenue, and Gambouge should be left “ to go to the his own way.” “You will never see me again,” said Diabolus, in shaking hands with poor Simon, on whose fingers he left such a mark as is to be seen at this da3^ — “ never, at least, unless you want me ; for everything you ask will be performed in the most quiet and eveiy-da3^ manner: believe me, it is best and most gentlemanlike, and avoids anything like scandal. But if you set me about anything which is extraordinary, and out of the course of nature, as it were, come I must, 3'ou know ; and of this 3^011 are the best judge.” So saying, Diabolus disappeared ; but whether up the chimney, through the keyhole, or b3' au3^ other aperture or contrivance, nobod3^ knows. Simon Gam- bouge was left in a fever of delight, as, heaven forgive me ! I believe man3" a worth)" man ’would be, if he were allowed an opportunity to make a similar bargain. “ Ileigho I ” 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’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. 62 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. “ 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 j’outh, on entering ; “ but I believe this is the right door, and 3 011 asked for these things.” Simon grinned, and said, “ Certainl}’, I did ask for these things.” But such was the effect which his interview with the demon had had on his innocent mind, that he took them, ab though he knew that the}^ were for old Simon, the Jew dand}’, who was mad after an opera girl, and lived on the floor be- neath. “ Go, mj- bo}^,” he said ; “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 wungs, he cut ever3’ morsel of flesh from the breast ; — seasoning his repast with pleasant draughts of wine, and caring nothing for the inevitable bill, which was to follow all. “ Ye gods ! ” said he, as he scraped awa}^ at the backbone, “ what a dinner ! what wine ! — and how gayly served up too ! ” There were silver forks and spoons, and the remnants of the fowl were upon a silver dish. “ Wh}', the money for this dish and these spoons,” cried Simon, “ would keep me and Mrs. G. for a month ! I wish ” — and here Simon whistled, and turned round to see that nobod}" was peeping — “I wish the plate were mine.” Oh, the horrid progress of the Devil! “Here they are,” thought Simon to himself; “ wh}^ should not I take themV" 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 ^lont de Piete. “ I am obliged to come to 3^011 again, my old friend,” said Simon, “with some famil3^ plate, of which I be- seech vou to take care.” The pawnbroker smiled as he examined the goods. “ I can give 3'ou nothing upon them,” said he. 'HE PAINTER’S BARGAIN. 63 “What!” cried Simon; “not even the worth of the sil- ver ? ” “ No ; I could buy them at that price at the ‘ Cafe Morisot,’ Rue 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 had wished to pawn. The effects of conscience are dreadful indeed. Oh I how fearful is retribution, how deep is despair, liow bitter is remorse for crime — when crime is found out ! — otherwise, conscience takes matters much more easil}\ Gambouge cursed his fate, and swore henceforth to be virtuous. “But, hark }’e, m3" friend,” continued the honest broker, “there is no reason WI13", because I cannot lend upon these things, I should not bu3" them : they will do to melt, if for no other purpose. Will you have half the inone}^? — 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 ever}" wicked pretext to rob the poor man of his hard-won gain.” When he had marched forwards for a street or two, Gam- bouge 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 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 man}^ a rogue has done before him, and found half a hundred persons bus}" 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 04 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 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 certainl}" in the ball : round it twirled, and dropped into zero as natural!}- 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 on 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 revemies 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. Pie repented of his foul deed, and his base pur- loining of the restaurateur’s plate. “O honesty!” he cried, “ how unworthy is an action like this of a man who has a prop- erty 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. Plere is thy money. In the name of heaven, restore me the plate which I have wrongfullv sold thee ! ” But the pawnbroker grinned, and said, “Nay, Mr. Gam- bouge, I will sell that plate for a thousand francs to you, or I never will sell it at all.” “Well,” cried Gambouge, “ thou art an inexorable ruffian, Troisboules ; but I will give thee all 1 am worth.” And here he produced a billet of five hundred francs. “ Look,” said he, “this money is all I own; it is the payment of two years’ lodging. To raise it, I have toiled for many months ; and, failing, I have been a criminal. O heaven ! I stole that plate that I might pay my debt, and keep my dear wife from wander- ing 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 : “ Re- ceived, for thirteen ounces of plate, twenty pounds.” THE PAINTER’S BARGAIN. 65 Monster of iniquity ! ” cried the painter, “ fiend of wicked- ness ! thou art caught in thine own snares. Hast thou not sold me five pounds’ worth of plate for twent}'? Have I it not in my pocket? Art thou not a convicted dealer in stolen goods? Held, 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 monc}’ at last, and the dispute ended. Thus it will be seen that Diabolus had rather a hard bargain in the wily Gambouge. lie 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 exemplaiy 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 simi- lar circumstances, would have acted like the worthy Simon Gambouge. 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 mis- erable dog in the whole city of Paris. Onl}^ in the point of drinking did he and Mrs. Simon agree ; and for many }xars, and during a considerable number of hours in each day, he thus dissipated, partially, his domestic chagrin. O 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 accomplish- ment of his wishes, and the increase of his prosperit}’, that Simon, at the end of six }"ears, 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 regularl}" to mass, and had a confessor into the bargain. He resolved, therefore, to 66 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. consult that reverend gentleman, and to la}" 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 miracu- lous 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 buttonhole, 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 mon- strous? ” Gambouge smiled politel}*, and examined the proffered page. “It is enormous ” he said ; “but Ido not read Eng- lish.” “Nay,” said the man with the orders, “look closer at it. Signor Gambouge ; it is astonishing how easy the language is.” Wondering, Simon took a sheet of paper. He turned pale as he looked at it, and began to curse the ices and the waiter. “Come, M. I’Abbe,” he said; “the heat and glare of this place are intolerable.” The stranger rose with them. “ Au plaisir de vous revoir, mon cher monsieur,” said he ; “Ido not mind speaking before Vthe Abbe here, who will be my ver}" good friend one of these days ; but I thought it necessary to refresh your memory, con- cerning our little business transaction six years since ; and could not exactly talk of it at churchy as you may fanc}".” 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 THE PAINTER’S BARGAIN. 67 all the lawyers of the Palais. But his magnificence grew as wearisome to him as his poverty had been before ; and not one of the doctors whom he consulted could give him a penny wortli of consolation. Then he grew outrageous in his demands u[)on 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 bands in his pockets doing nothing. One da}’, Simon’s confessor came bounding into the room, with the greatest glee. ‘‘My friend,” said he, “I have it ! Eureka ! — I have found it. Send the Pope a hundred thou- sand crowns, build a new Jesuit college at Rome, give a hun- dred gold candlesticks to St. Peter’s ; and tell his Holiness you will double all, if he will give you absolution ! ” Gambouge caught at the notion, and hurried off a courier to Rome ventre a 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. “ 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 grati- tude he clasped the hand of his confessor, and embraced him : tears of joy ran down the cheeks of these good men. The}^ 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. “ Wh}’,” said he, “what nonsense is this! do you suppose I care about that ? ” and he tossed the Pope’s missive into a corner. “ M. 1’ 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 for- got the fact, which he points out clearly enough.” “No, no, Gambouge,” continued Diabolus, with horrid familiarity, “go thy wa}’s, old fellow, that cock wonH 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 68 THE PARTS SKETCH BOOK. murder is committed, or a lord ill of the gout — a situation, we saj’, 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 hys- terics, that poor Gambouge, who had completely knocked under to her, was worn out of his life. He w^as allowed no rest, night or da3* : he moped about his fine house, solitaiy 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 greatest feasts that ever was known in the cit}' of Paris — he gaylj" pre- sided at one end of his table, while Mrs. Gam., splendidly arrayed, gave herself airs at the other extremit3\ After dinner, using the customaiy 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 : everybod3" was pale with expectation and affright. A veiy quiet, gentlemanh" man, neatl3" 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 clev- erly hidden by his pumps and shoe-buckles, “ unless the ladies absolutely wish it ; but I am the person you want, Mr. Gam- bouge ; pra3' tell me what is 3'our 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 ma3^ be, or 3^011 forfeit the bond which I gave 3’ou ? ” “ It is true.” “ You declare this before the present company?” “ Upon m3' honor, as a gentleman,” said Diabolus, bowing, 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, mildl3' addressing his THE PAINTER’S BARGAIN. 69 lady, “ will you be so polite as to step this way? You know I must go soon, and I am anxious, before this noble eompany, to make a provision for one who, in sickness as in health, in poverty as in riches, has been my truest and fondest com- panion.” 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 ten- derl}^ by the hand. '' Simon ! ” said she, “is it true? and do 3'ou reall}' love your Griskinissa? ” Simon continued solemnly: “ Come hither, Diabolus; you are bound to obe}’ me in all things for the six months during which our contract has to run ; take, then, Griskinissa Gam- bougc, 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.” Not Lord G , when Hogged Iw' Lord B , in the Iloiise, — not Mr. Cartlitch, of Astley’s Amphitheatre, in his most pathetic passages, could look more crestfallen, and howl more hideousl}', than Diabolus did now. “ Take another year, Gambouge,” screamed he; “ twm more — ten more — a cen- tuiy ; roast me on Lawrence’s gridiron, boil me in hoi}- water, but don’t ask that : don’t, don’t bid me live with Mrs. Gam- bouge ! ” 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 fright- fully that every person in the company wellnigh fainted with the cholic. He slapped down the great parchment 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 Regent Street, he slapped Gambouge with his tail over one eye, and vanished, abruptly, through the keyhole. Gambouge screamed with pain and started up. “ A'ou 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 ; find the beautiful vision had been dispelled by the thumps of the tipsy Griskinissa. Nothing remained to corroborate his story, ex- 70 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. cept 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 wash- ing ; 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. 4 CARTOUCHE I HAVE been much interested with an account of the exploits of Monsieur Louis Dominic Cartouche, and as Newgate and the highway's are so much the fashion with us in England, we may be allowed to look abroad for histories of a similar ten- dency. It is pleasant to lind that virtue is cosmopolite, and may " exist among wooden-shoed Papists as well as honest Church-of-England men. Louis Dominic w^as born in a quarter 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 3 'ears 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, Dryden, Swift, Addison, Moliere, Racine, Jack Sheppard, and Louis Cartouche, — all famous within the same twenty 3 'ears, and fighting, writing, robbing a 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, especially — we shall find that they all commenced veiy early : the 3 ' showed a passion for their art, as little Raphael did, or little Mozart ; and the his- tory of Cartouche’s knaveries begins almost with his breeches. Dominic’s parents sent him to school at the college of Cler- mont (now Louis le Grand) ; and although it has never been discovered that the Jesuits, who directed that seminary, ad- vanced him much in classical or theological knowledge, Cai- touche, in revenge, showed, by repeated instances, his own 72 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. natural bent and genius, which no difficulties were strong enough to overcome. Plis 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 nightcaps 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 possessor of a cap to sleep in, suspicion (which, alas ! was confirmed) immediately fell upon him : and b}’ this little piece of youthful naivete^ a scheme, prettily conceived and smartly performed, was rendered naught. Cartouche had a wonderful love for good eating, and put all the apple- women and cooks, who came to suppl^' the students, under contribution. Not always, however, desirous of robbing these, he used to deal with them, occasionally, on honest prin- ciples of barter ; that is, wdienever he could get hold of his schoolfellows’ knives, books, rulers, or playthings, which he used fairl}' to exchange for tarts and gingerbread. It seemed as if the presiding genius of evil was determined to patronize this 3’oung 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 propensities at once, and not only to steal, but to steal sweetmeats. It happened that the principal of the college received some pots of Narbonne hone}", which came under the e}xs of Cartouche, and in which that 3'oung gentleman, as soon as ever he saw them, determined to put his fingers. The president of the college put aside his hone}"-pots in an apartment witliin his own ; to which, except b}’ the one door which led into the room which his reverence usuall}' 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 clo? — have the honey he must. Over this cliamber, which contained what his soul longed after, and over the president’s rooms, diere ran a set of unoc- cupied garrets, into which the dexterous Cartouche penetrated. These were divided from the rooms below, according 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 y^oung Cartouche re- move ; and having descended by" means of a rope, tied a couple of others to the neck of the honey'-pots, climbed back again, CARTOUCHE. 73 and drew up his prey in safet}’. He then cnnningty fixed the planks again in their old places, and retired to gorge himself upon his booty. And, now, see the punishment of avarice ! Everybody 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 lione3'-pots ! As Cartouche dug his spoon into one of them, he brought out, besides a quantit}' of golden hone^', a couple of golden loiiis, 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 line 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 fanc}' 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 3'oung Cartouche disdained to give an}- explanation of his man- ner of gaining the mone^'. Here, again, we have to regret and remark the inadvertence of youth. Cartouche lost a hundred louis — for what? For a pot of honev not worth a couple of shillings. Had he fished out the pieces, and replaced the pots and the hone}’, 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. Car- touche, as usual, was 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 residue of his ill-gotten gold pieces, old Cartouche made up the deficiency, and his son was allowed to remain un- punished — 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 philosophically all the whippings and punishments which were administered to him at college, did not dare to face that one which his indignaiA father had in pickle for him. As he w^as coming home from 74 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. school, on the first day after his crime, when he received per* mission to go abroad, one of his brothers, who was on the iook-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 ap- petite. In w^hatever professions he tried, — whether he joined the gipsies, which he did, — whether he picked pockets on the Pont Neuf, which occupation history attributes to him, — poor Cartouche was always hungrj^ Hungry and ragged, he wan- dered from one place and profession to another, and regretted the hone}^-pots at Clermont, and the comfortable soup and houilli at home. Cartouche had an uncle, a kind man, who was a merchant, and had dealings at Rouen. One daj', walking on the quays of that city, this gentleman saw a very miserable, dirty, starv- ing lad, who had just made a pounce upon some bones and tur- nip-peelings, that had been flung out on the qua}", and was eating them as greedil}^ as if they had been turkeys and truf- fles. The worthy man examined the lad a little closer. O heavens ! it was their runaway prodigal — it was little Louis Dominic ! The merchant was touched by his case ; and for- getting 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 bell}", and for a while Louis was as good a son as might be. 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 suc- cessful in your love, as Louis knew, you must have something 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 im- possible ; and as his father would give him none, he was CARTOUCHE. 75 obliged tc look for it elsewhere. He took to his old courses, and lifted a purse here, and a watch there ; and found, more- over, an accommodating gentleman, who took the wares off his hands. This gentleman introduced him into a veiy select and agree- able society, in whicli Cartouche’s merit l)egan speedily to be recognized, and in which he learnt how pleasant it is in life to have friends to assist one, and how much ma}' be done by a proper division of labor. M. Cartouche, in fact, formed part of a regular company or gang of gentlemen, who w^ere asso- ciated together for the purpose of making war on the public and the law. Cartouche had a lovely young sister, who was to be married to a rich 3’oung gentleman from the provinces. As is the fash- ion 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 bride- groom came up to Paris with his title-deeds, and settlements, and money. Now there can hardl3" be found in histoiy a finer instance of devotion than Cartouche now exhibited. He went to his captain, explained the matter to him, and actuall}^ for the good of his countiy, as it were (the thieves might be called his countiy), sacrificed his sister’s husband’s propertj". Infor- mations were taken, the house of the bridegroom was recon- noitred, 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, b}- ascending quietl}' at the window. They arrived at the room where the bridegroom kept his great chest, and set industrious^ to work, filing and picking the locks which defended the treasure. The bridegroom slept in the next room ; but however ten- derl}^ Cartouche and his workmen handled their tools, from fear of disturbing his slumbers, their benevolent design was disappointed, for awaken him the}^ 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 ciy out, or frighten himself sillily ; but, on the contraiy, contented himself with watching the countenances of the robbers, so that he might recognize them on another occasion ; and, though an avaricious man, he did not feel the slightest anxiet}’ about his mone^^-chest ; for the fact is, he had removed all the cash and papers the day before. 76 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. As soon, however, as they had broken all the locks, and found the nothing which la3' at the bottom of the chest, he shouted with such a loud voice, “Here, Thomas! — John! — officer ! — keep the gate, fire at the rascals I ” that the\' , incon- tinentl}' 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 appear- ance 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 wfith 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, however, 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 follow- ing. The bridegroom pledged him very- gracefully in a bum- per ; 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 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-bride- groom. And old Cartouche, an honest old citizen, confessed, with a hea\\y 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 determined to give him a year’s discipline at the monastery- of St. Lazare. But how to catch the y^oung gentleman? Old Cartouche CARTOUCHE. 77 knew that, were he to tell his son of the scheme, the latter would never obe^^ and, therefore, he determined to be very (amning. He told Dominic that he was about to make a heavy bargain with the hithers, and should require a witness ; so the}^ stepped into a carriage together, and drove unsuspectingly to the Rue 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 conspirac}^ ; and the carriage drew up, and his father descended, and, bidding him wait for a min- ute 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 emplo^^ed in the morning, lie 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 exactl}’ the ap- pearance of a cook’s bo}' carrying a dish ; and with this he slipped through the 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 anno^^ed to find only his coat and wig. With that coat and wig. Cartouche left home, father, friends, conscience, remorse, society, behind him. He discovered (like a great number of other philosophers and poets, when they have committed rascall}^ actions) that the world was all going wrong, and he quarrelled with it outright. One of the first stories told of the illustrious Cartouche, when he became pro- fessionally and openly a robber, redounds highly to his credit, and shows that he knew ho^w to take advantage of the occasion, and how much he had improved in the course of a very few years’ experience. His courage and ingenuity’ were vastly admired b}^ his friends ; so much so, that, one da}", 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 command-in-chief. This conversation, so flat- tering to Cartouche, was carried on between the two gentlemen 78 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. as they were walking, one night, on the quays by the side of the Seine. Cartouche, when the captain made the last remark, bliisliingh^ protested against it, and pleaded his extreme 3^onth as a reason his comrades could never put entire trust in him. “ Psha, man!” said the captain, “ tlw youth is in thy favor ; thou wilt live 011I3’ 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 girdle, he instantly dug it into the captain’s left side, as nrear his heart as possible ; and then, seizing that, imprudent commander, precipitated him violently into the waters of the Seine, to keep company with the gud- geons 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, b3" exertion of superior skill, overcome the captain, not one of the society belieA^ed a word of his histoiy ; but the3^ elected him captain forthwith. I think his Excellenc3^ Don Rafael Maroto, the • pacificator of Spain, is an amiable character, for whom history has not been written in vain. Being arrived at this exalted position, there is no end of the feats which Cartouche performed ; and his band reached 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 d3masty might not have been founded, and “Louis Dominic, premier Empereur des Frangais,” might have per- formed innumerable glorious actions, and fixed himself in the hearts of his people, just as other monarchs have done, a hun- dred 3'ears after Cartouche’s death. A stor3" similar to the above, and equally moral, is that of Cartouche, who, in company with two other gentlemen, robbed the coche^ or packet-boat, from Melun, where they took a good quantity of boot3% — making the passengers lie down on the decks, and rifling them at leisure. “This mone3^ will be but very little among three,” whispered Cartouche to his neighbor, as the three conquerors were making merry over their gains ; “ if 3’ou were but to pull the trigger of 3^ur pistol in the neigh- borhood of 3’our comrade’s ear, perhaps it might go ofl*, and then there would be but two of us to share.” Strangely enough, as Cartouche said, the pistol did go off, and No. 3 perished. “ Give him another ball,” said Cartouche ; and another was fired into him. But no sooner had Cartouche’s comrade dis- CARTOUCHE. 79 charged both his pistols, than Cartouche himself, seized with a furious indignation, drew his: “Learn, monster,” cried he, “not to be so greedy of gold, and perish, the victim of thy disloyalty and avarice ! ” So Cartouche slew the second robber ; and there is no man in Europe who can say that the latter did not merit well his punishment. I could fill volumes, and not mere sheets of paper, witlz tales of the triumphs of Cartouche and his band ; how he robbeC the Countess of O , going to Dijon, in her coach, and how the Countess fell in love with him, and was faithful to him ever after ; how, when the lieutenant of [)olice offered a reward of a hundred pistoles to any man who would bring Cartouche before him, a noble Marquess, in a coach and six, drove up to the hotel of the police ; and the noble Marquess, desiring to see Monsieur de la Reynie, on matters of the highest moment, alone, the latter introduced him into his private cabinet ; and how, when there, the Marquess drew from his pocket a long, curiously shaped dagger: “Look at this. Monsieur de la Reynie,” said he ; “ this dagger is poisoned ! ” “Is it possible? ” said M. de la Reynie. “ A prick of it would do for any man,” said the Marquess. “ You don’t say so ! ” said M. de la Reynie. “I do, though; and, what is more,” says the Marquess, in a terrible voice, “if you do not instantly lay yourself flat on the ground, with your face towards it, and your hands crossed over your back, or if 3*011 make the slightest noise or crjq I will " stick this poisoned dagger between 3*0111- ribs, as sure as my name is Cartouche ? ” At the sound of this dreadful name, M. de la Re3*nie sunk incontinent^ down on his stomach, and submitted to be care- fulty gagged and corded ; after which Monsieur Cartouche laid his hands upon all the mone3* which was kept in the lieutenant’s cabinet. Alas ! and alas ! maii3^ a stout bailiff, and many an honest fellow of a sp3q went, for that da3*, without his pa3* and his victuals. There is a stoiy that Cartouche once took the diligence to Lille, and found in it a certain Abbe Potter, who was full of indignation against this monster of a Cartouche, and said that when he went back to Paris, which he proposed to do in about a fortnight, he should give the lieutenant of police some infor- mation, which would infallibl3* lead to the scoundrel’s capture. But poor Potter was disappointed in his designs ; for, before he could fulfll them, he was made the victim of Cartouche’s cruelty. 80 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. A letter came to the lieutenant of police, to state that Car- touche had travelled to Lille, in company with the Abbe de Potter, of that town ; that, on the reverend gentleman’s return towards Paris, Cartouche had waylaid him, murdered him, taken his papers, and w'ould come to Paris himself, bearing the name and clothes of the unfortunate Abbe, by the Lille coach, on such a da}^ The Lille coach arrived, w^as surrounded b}^ police agents ; the monster Cartouche was there, sure enough, in the Abbe’s guise. He was seized, bound, flung into prison, brought out to be examined, and, on examination, found to be no other than the Abbe Potter himself ! It is pleasant to read thus of the relaxations of great men, and And them condescending to joke like the meanest of us. Another diligence adventure is recounted of the famous Cartouche. It happened that he met, in the coach, a young and lovel}' lady, clad in widow’s weeds, and bound to Paris, w'ith a couple of servants. The poor thing was the widow of a rich old gentleman of Marseilles, and was going to the capital to arrange with her lawyers, and to settle her husband’s will. The Count de Grinche (for so her fellow-passenger was called) was quite as candid as the prettj^ widow had been, and stated that he was a captain in the regiment of Nivernois ; that he was going to Paris to buy a colonelcy, which his relatives, the Duke de Bouillon, the Prince de Montrnorenc}', the Comman- deur de la Tremoille, with all their interest at court, could not fail to procure for him. To be short, in the course of the four days’ journey, the Count Louis Dominic de Grinche played his cards so well, that the poor little widow half forgot her late husband ; and her eyes glistened with tears as the Count kissed her hand at parting — at parting, he hoped, only for a few hours. Day and night the insinuating Count followed her ; and when, at the end of a fortnight, and in the midst of a tete-a-tete^ he plunged, one morning, suddenl}^ on his knees, and said, “ Leonora, do}'ou love me? ” the poor thing heaved the gentlest, tenderest, sweetest sigh in the world ; and, sinking her blushing head on his shoulder, whispered, “Oh, Dominic, je t’aime ! Ah!” said she, “ how noble is it of my Dominic to take me with the little I have, and he so rich a nobleman I ” The fact is, the old Baron’s titles and estates had passed aw^ay to his nephews ; his dowager was 011I3' left with three hundred thou- sand livres, in rentes sur Vetat — a handsome sum, but nothing to compare to the rent-roll of Count Dominic, Count de la Grinche, Seigneur de la Haute Pigre, Baron de la Bigorne ; he CARTOUCHE. 81 had estates and wealth which might authorize him to aspire to the hand of a duchess, at least. The unlbi'tunate widow never for a moment suspected the cruel trick that was al)out to be played on her ; and, at the request of her ailianced husband, sold out her monejq and real- ized it in g(dd, to 1)e made over to him on the da}' when the contract was to be signed. The da}^ arrived ; and, according to the custom in France, the relations of l)oth parties attended. The widow’s relatives, though respectable, were not of the first nobilit}', being chiefly persons of tlie Jinance or the robe: there was the president of the court of Arras, and his lady ; a farmer- general ; a judge of a court of Paris ; and other such grave and respectable people. As for Monsieur le Comte de la Grinche, he was not bound for names ; and, having the whole peerage to choose from, brought a host of Montmorencies, Crequis, De la Tours, and Guises at his back. Ilis homme d’affaires brought his papers in a sack, and displaj'ed the plans of his estates, and the titles of his glorious ancestry. The widow’s lawyers had her money in sacks ; and between the gold on the one side, and the parchments on the other, lay the contract which was to make the widow’s three hundred thousand francs the property of the Count de Grinche. The Count de la Grinche was just about to sign ; when the Alarslial de Villars, stepping up to him, said, “Captain, do you know who tlie president of the court of Arras, 3'onder, is? It is old Manasseh, the fence, of Brussels. I pawned a gold watch to him, which I stole from Cadogan, when I was with Malbrook’s army in Flanders.” Here the Due de la Roche Guyon came forward, very much alarmed. “ Run me through the bod}' ! ” said his Grace, “but the comptroller-general’s lady, there, is no other than that old liag of a Margoton who keeps the ” Here the Due de la Roche Guyon’s voice fell. Cartouche smiled graciously, and walked up to the table. He took up one of the widow’s fifteen thousand gold pieces ; — it was as pretty a bit of copper as you could wish to see. “ My dear,” said he politely, “there is some mistake here, and this business had better stop.” “ Count ! ” gasped the poor widow. “Count be hanged!” answered the bridegroom, sternly, my name is Cartouche ! ” a ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. WITH A PLEA FOR ROMANCES IN GENERAL. There .is an old story of a Spanish court painter, who, being pressed for money, and having received a piece of damask, which he was to wear in a state procession, pawned the damask, and appeared, at the show, dressed out in some very fine sheets of paper, which he had painted so as exactly to resemble silk. Nay, his coat looked so much richer than the doublets of all the rest, that the Emperor Charles, in whose honor the procession was given, remarked the painter, and so his deceit was found out. I have often thought that, in respect of sham and real his- tories, a similar fact may be noticed ; the sham story appearing a great deal more agreeable, life-like, and natural than the true one : and all who, from laziness as well as principle, are inclined to follow the easy and comfortable studj^ of novels, may console themselves with the notion that they are studying matters quite as important as history, and that their favorite duodecimos are as instructive as the biggest quartos in the world. If then, ladies, the big-wigs begin to sneer at the course of our studies, calling our darling romances fbolish, trivial, noxious to the mind, enervators of intellect, fathers of idleness, and what not, let us at once take a high ground, and say, — Go you to your own emplo3'inents, and to such dull studies as you fancy ; go and bob for triangles, from the Pons Asinorura ; go enjoy }’our dull black draughts of metaphj^sics ; go fumble over history books, and dissert upon Herodotus and Li\y ; our histories are, perhaps, as true as 3^ours ; our drink is the brisk sparkling champagne drink, from the presses of Colburn, Bentley’ and Co. ; our walks are over such sunshin3^ pleasure-grounds SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 83 as Scott and Shakspeare have laid out for us ; and if our dwell- ings are castles in the air, we find them excessively splendid and commodious ; — be not you envious because you have no wings to fly thither. Let the big- wigs despise us ; such con- tempt of their neighbors is the custom of all barbarous tribes ; — witness, the learned Chinese: Tippoo Sultaun declared that there were not in all Europe ten thousand men : the Sklavonic hordes, it is said, so entitled themselves from a word in their jargon, which signifies “ to speak ; ” the ruflians imagining that they had a monopoly of this agreeable faculty, and that all other nations were dumb. Not so : others may be deaf ; but the novelist has a loud, eloquent, instructive language, though his enemies may despise or deny it ever so much. What is more, one could, perhaps, meet the stoutest historian on his own ground, and argue with him ; showing that sham histories were much truer than real histories ; which are, in fact, mere contemptible catalogues of names and places, that can have no moral effect upon the reader. As thus : — Julius Caesar beat Pompey, at Pharsalia. The Duke of Marlborough beat Marslial Tallard at Blenheim. The Constable of Bourbon beat Francis the First, at Pavia. And what have we here? — so many names, simply. Suppose Pharsalia had been, at that mysterious period when names were given, called Pavia; and that Julius Caesar’s family name had been John Churchill; — the fact would have stood in history, thus : — “ Pompey ran away from the Duke of Marlborough at Pavia.” And why not? — we should have been just as wise. Or it might be stated that — “ The tenth legion charged the French infantry at Blenheim ; and Caesar, writing home to his mamma, said, ‘ Madame, tout est perdu fors I’homieur.’ ” What a contemptible science this is, then, about which quar- tos are written, and sixty- volumed Biographies Universelles, and Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopaedias, and the like ! the facts are nothing in it, the names everything ; and a gentleman might as well improve his mind by learning Walker’s ‘‘Gazetteer,” or getting by heart a fifty-years-old edition of the ‘ ‘ Court Guide.” 84 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, Having thus disposed of the historians, let us come to the point in question — the novelists. On the title-page of these volumes the reader has, doubt- less, remarked, that among the pieces introduced, some are announced as “copies” and “compositions.” Many of the histories have, accordingly, been neatly stolen from the col- lections of French authors (and mutilated, according to the old saying, so that their owners should not know them) and, for compositions, we intend to favor the public with some studies of French modern works, that have not as }^et, we believe, attracted the notice of the English public. Of such works there appear many hundreds }"early, as mav be seen by the French catalogues ; but the writer has not so much to do with works political, philosophical, historical, meta- physical, scientifical, theological, as with those for which he has been putting forward a plea — novels, namely; on which he has expended a great deal of time and study. And passing from novels in general to French novels, let us confess, with much humiliation, that we borrow from these stories a great deal more knowledge of French societ}^ than from our own personal observation we ever can hope to gain : for, let a gentleman who has dwelt two, four, or ten years in Paris (and has not gone thither for the purpose of making a book, when three weeks are sufficient — let an English gentleman say, at the end of any given period, how much he knows of French societ}’^, how many French houses he has entered, and how man}" French friends he has made? — He has enjoyed, at the end of the year, say — At the English Ambassador’s, so many soirees. At houses to which he has brought letters, so many tea-parties. At Cafes, so many dinners. At French private houses, say three dinners, and very lucky too. He has, we say, seen an immense number of wax candles, cups of tea, glasses of orgeat, and French people, in best clothes, enjoying the same ; but intimacy there is none ; we see but the outsides of the people. Year by }"ear we live in France, and grow gray, and see no more. We play ecarte with Mon- sieur de Trefle every night ; but what know we of the heart of the man — of the inward ways, thoughts, and customs of Trefle ? If we have good legs, and love the amusement, we dance with Countess Flicflac, Tuesdays and Thursdays, ever since the Peace ; and how far are we advanced in acquaintance with her since we SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 85 first twirled her round a. room? We know her velvet gown, and her diamonds (about three-fourths of them are sham, by the way) ; we know her smiles, and her simpers, and her rouge — but no more : she may turn into a kitchen wench at twelve on Thursday night, for aught we know ; her voiture^ a pump- kin ; and her gens^ so maiu^ rats : but the real, rougeless, intime Flicflac, we know not. This privilege is granted to no Eng- lishman : we maj' understand the French language as well as Monsieur de Levizac, but never can penetrate into Flicflac’s confidence : our wa>'S are not her ways ; our manners of think- ing, not hers : when we say a good thing, in the course of the night, w^e are wondrous luck}’ and pleased ; Flicflac will trill 3’ou off fifty in ten minutes, and wonder at the hUise of the Briton, who has never a word to sav- We are married, and have four- teen children, and would just as soon make love to the Pope of Rome as to any one but our own wife. If you do not make love to Flicflac, from the day after her marriage to the daj she reaches sixt}', she thinks you a fool. We won't pla}' at ecarte with Trefle on Sunday' nights ; and are seen walking, about one o’clock (accompanied b}' fourteen red-haired children, with four- teen gleaming pra_yer-books), away from the church. “ Grand Dieu ! ” cries Trefle, “is that man mad? He won’t pla}^ at cards on a Sunda}’ ; he .goes to church on a Sunday : he has fourteen children ! ” Was ever Frenchman knowm to do likewise? Pass w^e on to our argument, which is, that wdth our English notions and moral and physical constitution, it is quite impossible that we should become intimate with our brisk neighbors ; and when such authors as Lady Morgan and Mrs. Trollope, having fre- quented a certain number of tea-parties in the French capital, begin to prattle about French manners and men, — with all respect for the talents of those ladies, we do believe their information not to be worth a sixpence ; the}' speak to us not of men but of tea-parties. Tea-parties are the same all the world over ; with the exception that, with the French, there are more lights and prettier dresses ; and with us, a might}' deal more tea in the pot. There is, however, a cheap and delightful way of travelling, that a man may perform in his easy-chair, without expense of passports or post-boys. On the wings of a novel, from the next circulating library, he sends his imagination a-gadding, and gains acquaintance with [)eo})le and manners whom he could not hope otherwise to know. Two[)ence a volume bears us whithersoever we will; — back to Ivauhoe and Coeur de 86 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. Lion, or to Waverlc}^ and the Young Pretender, along with Walter Scott; up the heights of fashion with the charming en- chanters of the silver- fork school ; or, better still, to the snug inn-parlor, or the jovial tap-room, with Mr. Pickwick and his faithful Sancho Weller. I am sure that a man who, a hundred 3'ears hence should sit down to write the history of our time, would do wrong to put that great contemporaiy histor}^ of ‘ ‘ Pick- wick” aside as a frivolous work. It contains true character under false names ; and, like “ Roderick Random,” an inferior work, and “Tom Jones” (one that is immeasurably superior), gives us a better idea of the state and wa3's of the people than one could gather from any more pompous or authentic histories. We have, therefore, introduced into these volumes one or two short reviews of French fiction writers, of particular classes, whose Paris sketches msiy give the reader some notion of manners in that capital. If not original, at least the draw- ings are accurate ; for, as a Frenchman might have lived a thousand 3^ears in England, and never could have written “Pickwick,” an Englishman cannot hope to give a good de- scription of the inward thoughts and wa3^s of his neighbors. To a person inclined to stud3^ these, in that light and amus- ing fashion in which the novelist treats them, let us recommend the works of a new writer. Monsieur de Bernard, who has painted actual manners, without those monstrous and terrible exaggerations in which late French writers have indulged ; and who, if he occasionall3" wounds the English sense of propriet3^ (as what French man or woman alive will not?) does so more hy slighting than b3’ outraging it, as, with their labored de- scriptions of all sorts of imaginable wickedness, some of his brethren of the press have done. M. de Bernard’s characters are men and women of genteel societ3^ — rascals enough, but living in no state of convulsive crimes ; and we follow him in his livel3y malicious account of their manners, without risk of lighting upon any such horrors as Balzac or Dumas has pro- vided for us. Let us give an instance : — it is from the amusing novel called “ Les Ailes d’Icare,” and contains what is to us quite a new picture of a French fashionable rogue. The fashions will change in a few 3^ears, and the rogue, of course, with them. Let us catch this delightful fellow ere he flies. It is impossible to sketch the character in a more sparkling, gentlemanlike way than M. de Bernard’s ; but such light things are ver3' diflScult of translation, and the sparkle sadly evaporates during the pro- cess of decantmy. SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 87 A FRENCH FASHIONABLE LETTER. “ My dear Victor — It is six in the morning : I have just come from the English Ambassador’s ball, and as my plans for the day do not admit of my sleeping, I write you a line ; for, at this moment, saturated as I am with the enchantments of a fairy night, all other pleasures w'ould be too wearisome to keep me awake, except that of conversing with }’ou. Indeed, were I not to write to 3 011 now, when should I find the possibilit}' of doing so? Time flies here with such a frightful rapidit3^, my pleasures and my affairs whirl onwards together in such a tor- rentuoLis galopade, that I am compelled to seize occasion b}" the forelock ; for each moment has its imperious emplo}'. Do not then accuse me of negligence : if m3’ correspondence has not always that regularit3’ which I would fain give it, attribute the fault solel3’ to the whirlwind in which I live, and which carries me hither and thither at its will. “ However, you are not the 011I3’ person with whom I am behindhand : I assure 3’ou, on the contraiy, that 3’ou are one of a very numerous and fashionable company, to whom, towards the discharge of my debts, I propose to consecrate four hours to-da3^ I give 3’Ou the preference to all the world, even to the lov^3’ Duchdss of San Severino, a delicious Italian, whom, for m3" special happiness, I met last summer at the Waters of Aix. I have also a most important negotiation to conclude with one of our Princes of Finance : but n'importe^ I commence with thee: friendship before love or money — friendship before everything. M3’ despatches concluded, I am engaged to ride with the Marquis de Grigneure, the Comte de Castijars, and Lord Cobham, in order that we ma3’ recover, for a breakfast at the Rocher de Cancale that Grigneure has lost, the appetite which we all of us so cruell3’ abused last night at the Ambas- sador’s gala. On 1113' honor, my dear fellow, everybod3’ was of a caprice prestiyieux and a comfortable mirohohmt. Fanc*3’, for a banquet-hall, a royal orangery hung with white damask ; the boxes of the shrubs transformed into so man3’ sideboards ; lights gleaming through the foliage ; and, for guests, the love- liest women and most brilliant cavaliers of Paris. Orleans and Nemours were there, dancing and eating like simple mortals. In a word, Albion did the thing very handsomely, and I accord it m3’ esteem. “ Here I pause, to call for my valet-de-chambre, and call for tea ; for m3’ head is heav3’, and I’ve no time for a headache. In serving me, this rascal of a Frederic has broken a cup, true 88 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. Japan, upon honor — the rogue does nothing else. Yesteiv day, for instance, did he not thump me prodigiousl}^, by letting fall a goblet, after Cellini, of which the carving alone cost me three hundred francs? I must positively put the wretch out of doors, to ensure the safety of m3" furniture ; and in conse- quence of this, Eneas, an audacious 3"Oung negro, in whom wisdom hath not waited for 3'ears — Eneas, m3" groom, I sa3", will probabl3" be elevated to the post of valet-de-chambre. But where was I? I think I was speaking to 3"ou of an 03"ster breakfast, to which, on our return from the Park (du Bois), a compaiw of pleasant rakes are invited. After quitting Borel’s, we propose to adjourn to the Barriere du Combat, where Lord Cobham proposes to tr3" some bull-dogs, which he has brought over from England — one of these, O’Connell (Lord Cobham is a Tor3",) has a face in which I place much confidence : I have a bet of ten louis with Castijars on the strength of it. After the fight, we shall make our accustomed appearance at the ‘ Cafe de Paris,’ (the 011I3" place, b3" the wa3", where a man who re- spects himself ma3" be seen,) — and then awa3" with frocks and spurs, and on with our dress-coats 'for the rest of the evening. In the first place, I shall go doze for a couple of hours at the Opera, where my presence is indispensable ; for Coralie, a charming creature, passes this evening from the rank of the rats to that of the tigers^ in a pas-de-trois^ and our box patronizes her. After the Opera, I must show my face to two or three salons in the Faubourg St. Honore ; and having thus performed m3" duties to the world of fashion, I return to the exercise of my rights as a member of the Carnival. At two o’clock all the world meets at the Theatre Ventadour: lions and tigers — the whole of our menagerie will be present. Evoe ! off we go ! roaring and bounding Bacchanal and Saturnal ; ’tis agreed that we shall be everything that is low. To conclude, we sup with Castijars, the most ‘furiously dishevelled’ orgy that ever was 'known.” The rest of the letter is on matters of finance, equall3" curious and instructive. But pause we for the present, to consider the fashionable part : and caricature as it is, we have an accurate picture of the actual French dandy. Bets, breakfasts, riding, dinners at the “ Cafe de Paris,” and delirious Carnival balls: the animal goes through all such frantic pleasures at the season that precedes Lent. He has a wondrous respect for English “ gentleraen-sportsmen ; ” he imitates their clubs — their love of horse-flesh: he calls his palefrenier a groom, wears blue SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 89 birds’s-e3^e neck-dotlis, sports liis pink out hunting, rides steeple-ehases, and has his- Jocke}' Club. Tlie “tigers and lions ” alluded to in the report have been borrowed from our OAvn country, and a great compliment is it to Monsieur de Bernard, the writer of the above amusing sketch, that he has such a knowledge of English names and things, as to give a Toiy lord the decent title of Lord Cobham, and to call his dog O’Connell. Paul de Kock calls an English nobleman, in one of his last novels. Lord BouUngrog^ and appears vastl}' delighted at the verisimilitude of the title. For the “ rugissements et bondissements^ bacchanale et saturnale^ galop infernal^ ronde dii sabbat tout le tr emblement ” these words give a most clear, untranslatable idea of the Carnival ball. A sight more hideous can hardl}’ strike a man’s eye. I was present at one where the four thousand guests whirled scream- ing, reeling, roaring, out of the ball-room in the Rue St. Honore, and tore down to the column in the Place Vendome, round which they w^ent shrieking their own music, twenty miles an hour, and so tore madlj^ back again. Let a man go alone to such a place of amusement, and the sight for him is perfectly terrible : the horrid frantic ga3’et}^ of the place puts him in mind more of the merriment of demons than of men : bang, bang, drums, trumpets, chairs, pistol-shots, pour out of the orchestra, which seems as mad as the dancers ; whiz, a whirlwind of paint and patches, all the costumes under the sun, all the ranks in the empire, all the he and she scoundrels of the capital, writhed and twisted together, rush by you ; if a man falls, woe be to him : two thousand screaming menads go trampling over his carcass : they have neither power nor will to stop. A set of Malays drunk wdth bhang and running amuck, a company of howling dervishes, may possibly, in our own day, go through similar frantic vagaries \ but I doubt if any civilized European people but the French would })ermit and enjoy such scenes. Yet our neighbors see little shame in them ; and it is very true that men of all classes, high and low, here congregate and give themselves up to the disgusting worship of the genius of the place. — From the dandy of the Boulevard and the “ Cafe Anglais,” let us turn to the dand3' of “ Flicoteau’s ” and the Pa3’s Latin — the Paris student, whose exploits among the grisettes are so celebrated, and whose fierce rej.)ublicanisni keeps gendarmes for ever on the alert. The following is M. de Ber- nard’s description of him : — “I became acquainted with Dambergeac when we were 90 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. students at the Ecole de Droit ; we lived in the same Hotel on the Place du Pantheon. No doubt, madam, 3’ou have Qccasion- alH met little children dedicated to the Virgin, and, to this end, clothed in white raiment from head to foot : m^^ friend. Dam- bergeac, had received a dilferent consecration. His father, a great patriot of the Revolution, had determined that his son should bear into the world a sign of indelible republicanism ; so, to the great displeasure of his godmother and the parish curate, Dambei-geac was christeiied by the pagan name of Har- modius. It was a kind of moral tricolor-cockade, which the child was to bear through the vicissitudes of all the revolutions to come. Under such influences, m3' friend’s character began to develop itself, and, fired b}' the example of his father, and by the warm atmosphere of his native place, Marseilles, he grew up to have an independent spirit, and a grand liberality of politics, which were at their height when first I made his acquaintance. “ tie was tlien a young man of eighteen, with a tall, slim figure, a broad chest, and a flaming black e3’e, out of all which personal charms he knew how to draw the most advantage t and though his costume was such as Staub might probabl}* have criticised, he had, nevertheless, a style peculiar to himself — to himself and the students, among whom he was tlie leader of the fashion. A tight black coat, buttoned up to the chin, across the chest, set off that part of his person ; a low-crowned hat, with a A'oluminous rim, cast solemn shadows over a countenance bronzed b}' a southern sun : he wore, at one time, enormous flowing black locks, which he sacrificed pitilessU, however, and adopted a Brutus, as being more revolntionaiy : finall}', he carried an enormous club, that was his code and digest : in like manner, De Retz used to cany a stiletto in his pocket b}' wa}' of a breviary. “ Although of different ways of thinking in politics, certain sympathies of character and conduct united Dambergeac and myself, and we speedily became close friends. I don’t think, in the whole course of his three years’ residence, Dambergeac ever went through a single course of lectures. For the exami- nations, he trusted to luck, and to his own facility, which w'as prodigious : as for honors, he never aimed at them, but was content to do exactl}' as little as was necessaiy for him to gain his degree. In like manner he sedulousl3' aA'oided those horri- ble circulating libraries, where daily are seen to congregate the ‘ reading men ’ of our schools. But, in revenge, there was not a milliner’s shop, or a lingeres, in all our quartier Latin, which SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 91 he did not indiistriousi}' frequent, and of which he was not the oracle. Nay, it was said that his victories were not confined to the left bank of the Seine ; reports did occasionally’^ come to us of fabulous adventures b}’ him accomplished in the far regions of the Rue de la Paix and the Boulevard Poissonniere. Such recitals wei'e, for us less favored mortals, like tales of Bacchus conquering in the East ; they excited our amlntion, but not our jealous}^ ; for the superiority of Ilarmodius was acknowledged by us all, and we never thought of a rivalry with liim. No mail ever cantered a hack through the Champs Elysees with such elegant assurance ; no man ever made such a massacre of dolls at the shooting-gallery ; or won you a rubber at billiards with more easy grace ; or thundered out a couplet out of Beranger with such a roaring melodious bass. He was the monarch of the Prado in winter : in summer of the Chaumiere and Mont Parnasse. Not a frequenter of those fashionable places of entertainment showed a more amiable laisser-alier in the dance — that jieculiar dance at which gen- darmes think proper to blush, and which squemnish societ}' has banished from her salons. In a word, Ilarmodius was the prince mauvais sujets^ a youth with all the accomplishments of Gottingen and Jena, and all the eminent graces of his own country. “ Besides dissipation and gallantry, our friend had one other vast and absorbing occupation — politics, namel}' ; in which he was as turbulent and enthusiastic as in pleasure. La Patrie was his idol, his heaven, his nightmare ; by da}’ he spouted, by night he dreamed, of his country. I have spoken to you of his coiffure a la Sylla ; need I mention his i)ipe, his meerschaum pipe, of which General Foy’s head was the bowl; his handker- chief with the Charte printed thereon ; and his celebrated tri- color braces, which kept the rail} ing sign of his country ever close to his heart? Besides these outward and visible signs of sedition, he had inward and secret plans of revolution : he be- longed to clubs, frequented associations, -read the Consfitution- nel (Liberals, in those days, swore by the Constitutiomiel)^ harangued peers and deputies who had deserved well of their country ; and if death happened to fVdl on such, and the Consfi- tutionnel declared tlieir merit, Ilarmodius was the very first to attend their obsequies, or to set his shoulder to their coffins. ‘‘ Such were his tastes aud passions : his antipathies were not less lively. He detested three things : a Jesuit, a gen- darme, and a claqueur at a theatre. At this period, mission- aries were rife about Paris, and endeavored to re-illume the 92 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. zeal of the faithful public preachings in the churches. ‘ ln» fames jesuites!' would Harmodius exclaim, who, in the excess of his toleration, tolerated nothing ; and, at the head of a band of philosophers like himself, would attend with scrupulous ex- actitude the meetings of the reverend gentlemen. But, instead of a contrite heart, Harmodius only brought the abomination of desolation into their sanctuary. A perpetual fire of fulmi- nating balls would bang from under the feet of the faithful ; odors of impure assafoetida would mingle with the fumes of the incense ; and wicked drinking choruses would rise up along with the holy canticles, in hideous dissonance, reminding one of the old orgies under the reign of the Abbot of Unreason. “His hatred of the gendarmes was equally ferocious : and as for the claqueurs, w^oe be to them when Harmodius was in the pit! They knew him, and trembled before him, like the earth before Alexander ; and his famous war-ciy, ‘ La Carte au chapeau!’ was so much dreaded, that the entrepreneurs de succes dramatiques ’ demanded twice as m.uch to do the Odeon Theatre* (which we students and Harmodius frequented), as to applaud at aii}^ other place of amusement : and, indeed, their double psij was hardly gained ; Harmodius taking care that they should earn the most of it under the benches.” This passage, with which we have taken some liberties, will give the reader a more lively idea of the reckless, jovial, turbu- lent Paris student, than any with which a foreigner could fur- nish him : the grisette is his heroine ; and dear old Beranger, the cynic-epicurean, has celebrated him and her in the most de- lightful verses in the world. Of these we ma}" have occasion to say a word or two anon. Meanwhile let us follow Monsieur de Bernard in his amusing descriptions of his countrymen some- what farther ; and, having seen how Dambergeac was a fero- cious republican, being a bachelor, let us see how age, sense, and a little government pay — the great agent of conversions in France — nay, in England — has reduced him to be a pompous, quiet, loj^al supporter of the juste milieu : his former portrait was that of the student, the present will stand for an admirable lively likeness of THE SOUS-PREFET. “ Saying that I would wait for Dambergeac in his own study, I was introduced into that apartment, and saw around me the usual furniture of a man in his station. There was, in the middle of the room, a large bureau, surrounded by SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 93 orthodox arm-chairs ; and there were many shelves with boxes duly ticketed ; there were a number of maps, and among them a great one of the department over which Dambergeac ruled ; and facing the windows, on a wooden pedestal, stood a plas- ter-cast of the ^Roi des Jdrangcu's.’ Recollecting ni}^ friend’s former republicanism, I smiled at this piece of furniture ; but before I had time to carry 103^ observations aii3^ farther, a heav3’ rolling sound of carriage-wheels, that caused the win- dows to rattle and seemed to shake the whole edifice of the sub-prefecture, called my attention to the court without. Its iron gates were flung -open, and in rolled, with a great deal of din, a chariot escorted b}" a brace of gendarmes, sword in hand. A tall gentleman, with a cocked-hat and feathers, wearing a blue and silver uniform coat, descended from the vehicle ; and having, with much grave condescension, saluted his escort, mounted the stair. A moment afterwards the door of the stud}'^ was opened, and I embraced 1113* friend. “ After the first warmth and salutations, we began to ex- amine each other with an equal curiosity, for eight years had elapsed since we had last met. “‘You are grown very thin and pale,’ said Harmodius, after a moment. “ ‘ In revenge I And 3^011 fat and rosy : if I am a walking satire on celibac3% — 3'ou, at least, are a living panegyric on marriage.’ “ In fact a great change, and such an one as many peo- ple would call a change for the better, had taken place in my friend : he had grown fat, and announced a decided disposi- tion to become what French people call a belhomme: that is, a veiy fat one. His complexion, bronzed before, was now clear white and red : there were no more political allusions in his hair, which was, on the contrary, neatlv frizzed, and brushed over the forehead, shell-shape. This head-dress, joined to a thin pair of whiskers, cut crescent-wise from the ear to the nose, gave m3" friend a regular bourgeois pli3^siog- nomy, wax-doll-like : he looked a great deal too well ; and, added to this, the solemnit3" of his prefectural costume, gave his whole appearance a pompous well-fed look that b3" no means pleased. I surprise 3'ou,’ said I, ‘in the midst of 3"Our splendor: do you know that this costume and yonder attendants have a look excessively awful and splendid? You entered your palace just now with the air of a pasha.’ “‘You see me in uniform in honor of Monseigneur the 94 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. Bishop, who has just made his diocesan visit, and whom I have just conducted to the limit of the arrondissement.' “‘What!’ said I, ‘you have gendarmes for guards, and dance attendance on bishops? There are no more janissaries and Jesuits, I suppose? ’ The sub-prefect smiled. “ ‘ I assure you that rn}^ gendarmes are very worth^^ fellows ; and that among the gentlemen who compose our clerg}' there are some of the very best rank and talent : besides, m3' wife is niece to one of the vicars -general.’ ‘ ‘ ‘ What have you done with that great Tasso beard that poor Armandine used to love so ? ’ ‘ ‘ ‘ wife does not like a beard ; and 3'ou know that what is permitted to a student is not yery becoming to a magistrate.’ “ I began to laugh. ‘ Harmodius and a magistrate ! — how shall I ever couple the two words together? But tell me, in your correspondences, your audiences, 3^our sittings with vil- lage mayors and pettj^ councils, how do you manage to remain awake ? ’ “ ‘ In the commencement,’ said Harmodius, gravel}^ ‘ it was very difficult ; and, in order to keep m3' eyes open, I used to stick pins into my legs : now, however, I am used to it ; and I’m sure I don’t take more than fifty pinches of snuff at a sit- ting.’ “‘Ah! apropos of snuff: you are near Spain here, and were alwa3'S a famous smoker. Give me a cigar, — it will take awa3' the musty odor of these piles of papers.’ “‘Impossible, m3' dear; I don’t smoke; my wife cannot bear a cigar.’ ‘ ‘ His wife ! thought I ; alwa3's his w'ife : and I remember Juliette, who reall3' grew sick at the smell of a pipe, and Har- modius would smoke, until, at last, the poor thing grew to smoke herself, like a trooper. To compensate, however, as much as possible for the loss of my cigar, Dambergeac drew from liis pocket an enormous gold snuff-box, on which figured the self- same head that I had before remarked in plaster, but this time surrounded with a ring of prett3' princes and princesses, all nicel3' painted in miniature. As for the statue of Louis Phi- lippe, that, in the cabinet of an official, is a thing of course ; but the snuff-box seemed to indicate a degree of sentimental and personal devotion, such as the old Ro3'alists were 01113' sup- posed to be guilt3' of. “ '• Wliat ! 3'ou are turned decided juste milieu?’ said I. “ ‘ I am a sous-prefet,’ answered Harmodius. “ I had nothing to sa3', but held m3' tongue, wondering, not SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 95 at the change which had taken place in the habits, manners, and opinions of ray friend, but at my own foll^y which led me to fancy that I should find the student of ’26 in the functionary of ’ 34 . At this moment a domestic appeared. “‘Madame is waiting for Monsieur,’ said he: ‘the last bell has gone, and mass beginning.’ “ ‘ Mass ! ’ said I, bounding up from m}" chair. ‘ You at mass like a decent serious Christian, without crackers in 3’our pocket, and bored ke3's to whistle through?’ — The sous-prcfet rose, his countenance was calm, and an indulgent smile played upon his lips, as he said, ‘ M3" arrondissement is veiy devout ; and not to interfere with the belief of the population is the maxim of eveiy wise politician : I have precise orders from Government on the point, too, and go to eleven o’clock mass eveiy Sunday.’ ” There is a great deal of curious matter for speculation in the accounts here so wittily given b3' M. de Bernard : but, per- haps, it is -still more curious to think of what he has not written, and to judge of his characters, not so much by the words in which he describes them, as by the unconscious testimon3" that the words all together convey. In the first place, our author describes a swindler imitating the manners of a dandy ; and many swindlers and dandies be there, doubtless, in London as well as in Paris. But there is about the present swindler, and about Monsieur Dambergeac the student, and Monsieur Dambergeac the sous-prefet, and his friend, a rich store of calm internal debauch^ which does not, let us hope and pra3", exist in England. Hearken to M. de Gustan, and his smirking whispers, about the Duchess of San Severino, who 'pour son honheur particalier^ &c. &c. Listen to Monsieur Dambergeac’s IViend’s remonstrances concerning pauvre Juliette who grew sick at the smell of a pipe ; to his na'ive admiration at the fact that tlie sous-prefet goes to church : and we ma3" set down, as axioms, that religion is so uncommon among the Parisians, as to awaken the surprise of all candid observers ; that gallan- tly is so common as to create no remark, and to be considered as a matter of course. With us, at least, the converse of the proposition prevails : it is the man professing m’eligion who would be remarked and reprehended in England ; and, if the second-named vice exists, at aiy' rate, it adopts the decenc3" of secrec3^ made patent and notorious to all the world. A French gentleman thinks no more of proclaiming that he has a mistress than that he has a tailor ; and one lives the time 96 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. of Boccaccio over again, in the thousand and one French novels which depict society in that conntiy. For instance, here are before us a few specimens (do not, madam, be alarmed, 3'oa can skip the sentence if you like,) to be found in as many admirable witty tales, by the before- lauded Monsieur de Bernard. He is more remarkable than any other French author, to our notion, for writing like a gentle- man-: there is ease, grace and ton, in his style, which, if we judge aright, cannot be discovered in Balzac, or Soulie, or Dumas. We have then — “ Gerfaut,” a novel : a lovel3^ crea- ture is married to a brave, haughty, Alsacian nobleman, who allows her to spend her winters at Paris, he remaining on his terres, cultivating, carousing, and hunting the boar. The lovel3" creature meets the fascinating Gerfaut at Paris ; instantly the latter makes love to her ; a duel takes place : baron killed ; wife throws herself out of window ;■ Gerfaut plunges into dis- sipation ; and so the tale ends. Next: ‘‘ La Femme de Quarante Ans,” a capital tale, full of exquisite fun and sparkling satire : La femme de quarante ans has a husband and three lovers ; all of whom find out their mutual connection one staiT3" night ; for the lady of fort3^ is of a romantic poetical turn, and has given her three admirers a star apiece; sa3'ing to one and the other, “Alphonse, when 3^on pale orb rises in heaven, think of me;” “ Isadore, when that bright planet sparkles in the sk3", remember 3’our Caro- line,” &c. “ Un Acte de Vertu,” from which we have taken Damber- geac’s histoiy, contains him, the husband — a wife — and a brace of lovers ; and a great deal of fun takes place in the manner in which one lover supplants the other. — Pretty morals truly ! If we examine an author who rejoices in the aristocratic name of le Comte Horace de ViehCastei, we find, though with infinitel3^ less wit, exactl3^ the same intrigues going on. A noble Count lives in the Faubourg St. Honore, and has a noble Duchess for a mistress : he introduces her Grace to the Coun- tess his wife. The Countess his wife, in order to ramener her lord to his conjugal duties, is counselled, ly a friend, to pretend to take a lover : one is found, who, poor fellow ! takes the affair in earnest: climax — duel, death, despair, and what not? In the “Faubourg St. Germain,” another novel b3' the same writer, which professes to describe the veiy pink of that sociot3^ which Napoleon dreaded more than Russia, Prussia, and Aus- tria, there is an old husband, of course ; a sentimental 3"oung SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 97 German nobleman, who falls in love with his wife ; and the moral of the piece lies in the showing up of the conduct of the lady, who is reprehended — not for deceiving her husband (poor devil !) — but for l)eing a flirt, and taking a second lover ^ to the utter despair, confusion, and annihilation of the first. Why, ye gods, do Frenchmen marry at all? Had Pere En- fantin (who, it is said, has shaved his ambrosial beard, and is now a clerk in a banking-house) been allowed to carry out his chaste, just, dignified social scheme, what a deal of marital discomfort might have been avoided : — would it not be advis- able that a great reformer and lawgiver of our own, Mr. Robert Owen, should be presented at the Tuileries, and there propound his scheme for the regeneration of France? He might, perhaps, be spared, for our country is not 3’et sufficientlj' advanced to give such a philosopher fair play. In London, as yet, there are no blessed Bureaux de Mariage^ where an old bachelor may have a charming 3’oung maiden — for his money ; or a widow of seventy ma^^ buy a gay 3^oung fellow of twent}% for a certain number of bank-billets. If mariages de convenance take place here (as they will wherever avarice, and poverty, and desire, and 3’earning after riches are to be found), at least, thank God, such unions are not arranged upon a regular organized system : there is a fictio!3 of attachment with us, and there is a consolation in the deceit (“the homage,” according to the old mot of Rochefoucauld, “which vice pa}’s to virtue”; for the very falsehood show? that the virtue exists somewhere. We once heard a furious old French colonel inveighing against the chastit}' of English demoiselles: “ F'^igurez-vous, sir,” said he (he had been a pris- oner in England), “that these women come down to dinnel in low dresses, and walk out alone with the men ! ” — and, pra}^ heaven, so ma}^ they walk, fancy-free in all sorts of maiden meditations, and suffer no more molestation than that young lady of whom Moore sings, and who (there must have been a famous lord-lieutenant in those da3^s) walked through all Ireland, with rich and rare gems, beauty, and a gold ring on her stick, without meeting or thinking of harm. Now, whether Monsieur de Viel-Castel has given a true picture of the P^aubourg ,St. Germain, it is impossible for most foreign- ers to say ; but some of his descriptions will not fail to astonish the English reader ; and all are filled with that remarkable naif contempt of the institution called marriage, which we have seen in M. de Bei’nard. The romantic 3'oung nobleman of Westphalia arrives at Paris, and is admitted into what a cele- 7 98 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. brated female author calls la creme de la creme de la haute volec of Parisian society. He is a youth of about twenty years of age. “No passion had as yet come to move his heart, and give life to his faculties ; he was awaiting and fearing the mo- ment of love ; calling for it, and yet trembling at its approach ; feeling in the depths of his soul, that that moment would create a mighty change in his being, and decide, perhaps, by its influence, the whole of his future life.” Is it not remarkable, that a young nobleman, with these ideas, should not pitch upon a demoiselle^ or a widow, at least? but no, the rogue must have a married woman, bad luck to him ; and what his fate is to be, is thus recounted by our author, in the shape of A FRENCH FASHIONABLE CONVERSATION. “A lad}% with a great deal of esprit^ to whom forty years* experience of the great world had given a prodigious perspi- cacity^ of judgment, the Duchess of Chalux, arbitress of the opinion to be held on all new comers to the Faubourg Saint Germain, and of their destiny and reception in it ; — one of those women, in a word, who make or ruin a man, — said, in speaking of Gerard de Stolberg, whom she received at her own house, and met everywhere, ‘ This young German will never gain for himself the title of an exquisite, or a man of bonnes fortunes, among us. In spite of his calm and politeness, I think I can see in his character some rude and insurmountable difficulties, which time will only increase, and which will pre- vent him for ever from bending to the exigencies of either pro- fession ; but, unless I very much deceive myself, he will, one day, be the hero of a veritable romance.’ “‘He, madame?’ answered a young man, of fair com- plexion and fair hair, one of the most devoted slaves of the fashion: — ‘He, Madame la Duchesse? why, the man is, at best, but an original, fished out of the Rhine : a dull, heavy creature, as much capable of understanding a woman’s heart as I am of speaking bas-Breton.’ “‘Well, Monsieur de Belport, y^ou will speak bas-Breton. Monsieur de Stolberg has not y^our admirable ease of manner, nor your facility of telling pretty^ nothings, nor y^our — in a word, that parti(*ula,r something which makes y’ou the most recherche man of the Faubourg Saint Gei:main ; and even I avow to you that, were I still y^oung, and a coquette, and that I took it into my head to have a lover, I would prefer you.’ SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 99 ^ All this was said by the Duchess, with a certain air of raillery and sucli a mixture of earnest and malice, that Alonsieur de Belport, piqued not a little, could not help saying, as he bowed profoundly before the Duchess’s chair, ‘ And might I, madam, be permitted to ask the reason of this preference? ’ “ ‘ O mon Dieu, oui,’ said the Duchess, always in the same tone ; ‘ because a lover like you would never think of carrying his attachment to the height of passion ; and these passions, do you know, have frightened me all my life. One cannot retreat at will from the grasp of a passionate lover ; one leaves behind one some fragment of one’s moral selj\ or the best part of one’s physical life. A passion, if it does not kill 3^011, adds cruelly to your 3'ears ; in a word, it is the very lowest possible taste. And now you understand wh}" I should prefer you, M. de Belport — you who are reputed to be the leader of the fashion.’ “ ‘ Perfectl3g’ murmured the gentleman, piqued more and more. “‘Gerard de Stolberg ivill be passionate. I don’t know what woman will please him, or will be pleased b}^ him ’ (here the Duchess of Chalux spoke more gravel3") ; ‘but his love will be no plajg I repeat it to }’ou once more. All this astonishes 3^ou, because 3'ou, great leaders of the ton that 3^011 are, never fancy that a hero of romance should be found among 3"our number. Gerard de Stolberg — but, look, here he comes ! ’ “ M. de Belport rose, and quitted the Duchess, without believing in her prophecy ; but he could not avoid smiling as he passed near the hero of romance. “It was because M. de Stolberg had never, in all his life, been a hero of romance, or even an apprentice-hero of romance. “ Gerard de Stolberg was not, as yet, initiated into the thousand secrets in the chronicle of the great world : he knew but super ficiall3" the society in which he lived ; and, therefore, he devoted his evening to the gathering of all the information which he could acquire from the indiscreet conversations of the people about him. His whole man became ear and memoiT ; so much was Stolberg convinced of the necessity of becoming a diligent student in this new school, where was taught the art of knowing and advancing in the great world. In the recess of a window he learned more on this one night than months of in- vestigation would have taught liim. The talk of a ball is more indiscreet than the confidential chatter of a company of idle 100 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. women. No man present at a ball, whether listener or speaker, thinks he has a right to affect any indulgence for his com- panions, and the most learned in malice will always pass for the most witt}^ “ ‘How!’ said the Viscount de Mondrage : ‘the Duchess of Rivesalte arrives alone to-night, without her inevitable Uormilly I ’ — And the Viscount, as he spoke, pointed towards a tall and slender young woman, who, gliding rather than walking, met the ladies b}" whom she passed, with a graceful and modest salute, and replied to the looks of the men by hriU limit veiled glances full of coquetry and attack. ‘ ‘ ‘ Parbleu ! ’ said an elegant personage standing near the Viscount de Mondrage, ‘ don’t you see Dormilly ranged behind the Duchess, in quality of train-bearer, and hiding, under his long locks and his great screen of moustaches, the blushing con- sciousness of his good luck ? — The}" call him the fourth chapter of the Duchess’s memoirs. The little Marquise d’Alberas is ready to die out of spite ; but the best of the joke is, that she has only taken poor de Vendre for a lover in order to vent her spleen on him. Look at him against the chimney yonder ; if the Marchioness do not break at once with him by quitting him for somebody else, the poor fellow" will turn an idiot.’ “ ‘ Is he jealous ? ’ asked a young man, looking as if he did not know' what jealousy was and as if he had no time to be jealous. “ ‘ Jealous 1 the very incarnation of jealousy ; the second edi- tion, revised, corrected, and considerably enlarged ; as jealous as poor Gressigny, who is dying of it.’ “‘What! Gressigny too? why, ’tis growing quite into fashion : egad ! I must try and be jealous,’ said Monsieur de Beauval. ‘ But see ! here comes the delicious Duchess of Belle- fiore,’ ” &c. &c. &c. Enough, enough : this kind of fashionable Parisian conversa- tion, which is, says our author, “ a prodigious labor of impro- vising, ” a “ chef-d’oeuvre,” a “ strange and singular thing, in which monotony is unknown,” seems to be, if correctly reported, a “ strange and singular thing” indeed ; but somewhat monot- onous at least to an English reader, and “ prodigious ” only, if we may take leave to say so, for the w"onderful rascality which all the conversationists betray. Miss Neverout and the Colo- nel, in Swift’s famous dialogue, are a thousand times more entertaining and moral ; and, besides, we can laugh at those worthies as well as with them; whereas the “prodigious” French wits are to us quite incomprehensible. Fancy a duchess SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 101 as old as Lady herself, and who should begin to tell us “ ol I what she would do if ever she had a mind to take a lover ; ” and another duchess, with a foui'th lover, tripping modestly among I the ladies, and returning the gaze of the men b3' veiled glances, I full of coquetry and attack! — Parbleu, if Monsieur de Viel- Castel should find himself among a society of hb-ench duchesses, and they shor.ld tear his ej'cs out, and send the fashionable Orpheus floating by the Seine, his shfughter mig'it almost be considered as justifiable Gounticide, A GAMBLER’S DEATH. Anybody who was at C school some twelve years since, must recollect Jack Attwood : he was the most dashing lad in the place, with more money in his j^ocket than belonged to the whole fifth form in which we were companions. When he was about fifteen, Jack suddenl}" retreated from C , and presentl}" we heard that he had a commission in a cavalry regiment, and was to have a great fortune from his father, when that old gentleman should die. Jack himself came to confirm these stories a few months after, and paid a visit to his old school chums. He had laid aside his little school-jacket and ink}^ corduroys, and now appeared in such a splendid mili- tarj^ suit as won the respect of all of us. His hair was dripping with oil, his hands were covered with rings, he had a dusk}^ down over his upper lip which looked not unlike a moustache, and a multiplicity of frogs and braiding on his surtout which would have sufficed to lace a field-marshal. When old Swish- tail, the usher, passed in his seedy black coat and gaiters. Jack gave him such a look of contempt as set us all a-laughing : in fact it was his turn to laugh now ; for he used to roar very f stoutly some months before, when Swishtail was in the custom of belaboring him with his great cane. Jack’s talk was all about the regiment and the fine fellows in it : how he had ridden a steeple-chase with Captain Boldero, and licked him at the last hedge ; and how he had very nearly fought a duel with Sir George Grig, about dancing with Lad}" Mary Slamken at a bail. “ I soon made the baronet know what it was to deal with a man of the n — th,” said Jack. “ Dammee, sir, when I lugged out my barkers, and talked of fighting across the mess-room table. Grig turned as pale as a sheet, or as — ” A GAMBLER’S DEATH. 103 “ Or as you used to do, Attwood, when Swishtail hauled you up,” piped out little Hicks, the foundation-boy. It was beneath Jack’s dignity to thrash anybody', now, but a grown-up baronet ; so he let oif little Kicks, and passed over the general titter which was raised at his expense. However, he entertained us with his histories about lords and ladies, and so-and-so of ours,” until we thought him one of the greatest men in his Majesty’s service, and until the school-bell rung ; when, with a heavy heart, we got our books together, and marched in to be whacked by old Swishtail. I promise 3’ou he revenged himself on us for Jack’s contempt of him. I got that day at least twenty' cuts to my share, which ought to have be- longed to Cornet Attwood, of the 11 — th dragoons. When we came to think more cooll3^ over our quondam schoolfellow’s swaggering talk and manner, we were not quite so impressed b3’ his merits as at his first appearance among us. We recollected how he used, in former times, to tell us great stories, which were so monstrousl3^ improl)able that the smallest bo3^ in the school would scout them ; how often we caught him tripping in facts, and how unblushingly he admitted his little errors in the score of veracit3'. He and 1 , though never great friends, had been close companions : 1 was Jack’s form-fellow (we fought with amazing emulation for the last place in the class) ; but still I was rather hurt at the coolness of m3- old comrade, who had forgotten all our former intimac3^ steeple-chases with Captain Boldero and his duel with Sir George Grig. Nothing more was heard of Attwood for some years ; a tailor one da3^ came down to C , who had made clothes for Jack in his school-da3's, and furnished him with regimentals : he pro- duced a long biil for one hundred and twent3^ pounds and up- wards, and asked where news might be had of his customer. Jack was in India, with his regiment, shooting tigers and jack- als, no doubt. Occasionall3% from that distant country, some magnificent rumor would reach us of his proceedings. Once I heard that he had been called to a court-martial for unbecoming conduct ; another time, that he kept twenty horses, and won the gold plate at the Calcutta races. Presently, however, as the recollections of the fifth form wore awa3^. Jack’s image dis- appeared likewise, and I ceased to ask or think about m3^ college chum. A year since, as I was smoking m3" cigar in the “ Estaminet du Grand Balcon,” an excellent smoking-shop, where the to- bacco is unexceptionable, and the Hollands of singular merit, a 104 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. dark-looking, thick-set man, in a greasy well-cut coat, with a shabby hat, cocked on one side of his dirty face, took the place opposite me, at the little marble table, and called for brand}^ I did not much admire the impudence or the appearance of m}^ friend, nor the fixed stare with which he chose to examine me. At last, he thrust a great greasy hand across the table, and said, “ Titmarsh, do you forget your old friend Attwood?’" I confess my recognition of him was not so joyful as on the day ten years earlier, when he had come, bedizened with lace and gold rings, to see us at C school : a man in the tenth part of a century learns a deal of worldty wisdom, and his hand, which goes natural^, forward to seize the gloved finger of a millionnaire, or a milor, draws instinctively back from a dirty fist, encompassed b}^ a ragged wristband and a tattered cuff. But Attwood was in nowise so backward ; and the iron squeeze with which he shook my passive paw, proved that he was either veiy affectionate or very poor. You, m3' dear sir, who are reading this histoiy, know very well the great art of shaking hands : recollect how 3'ou shook Lord Dash’s hand the other da}^, and how 3'ou shook ^^poor Blank, when he came to bor- row five pounds of 3'ou. However, the genial influence of the Hollands speedily dissi- pated aii3'thing like coolness between us ; and, in the course of an hour’s conversation, we became almost as intimate as when we were suffering together under the ferule of old Swishtail. Jack told me that he had quitted the arrn}^ in disgust ; and that his father, who was to leave him a fortune, had died ten thou- sand pounds in debt : he did not touch upon his own circum- stances ; but I could read them in his elbows, which were peeping through his old frock. Pie talked a great deal, how- ever, of runs of luck, good and bad ; and related to me an infallible plan for breaking all the play -banks in Europe — a great number of old tricks ; — and a vast quantit}’ of gin-punch was consumed on the occasion ; so long, in fact, did our con- versation continue, that, I confess it with shame, the sentiment, or something stronger, quite got the better of me, and I have, to this da}", no sort of notion how our palaver concluded. — Onl}', on the next morning, I did not possess a certain five- pound note which on the previous evening was in m3" sketch- book (by far the prettiest drawing b}" the wav in the collection) ; but there, instead, was a strip of paper, thus inscribed : — I O U Pounds. John Attwood, Late of the N — th Dragoons. A GAMBLER’S DEATH. 105 I I suppose Attwood borrowed the money, from this remarkable I and ceremonious acknowledgment on his part : had I been sober I’ I would just as soon have lent him tlie nose on my face ; for, in m}^ then circumstances, the note was of much more consequence i\ to me. I As I lay, cursing m3' ill fortune, and thinking how on earth l| I should manage to subsist for the next two months, Attwood ?! burst into my little garret — his face strangely flushed — sing- ing and shouting as if it had been the night before. “ Tit- marsh,” cried he, “you are m3' preserver! — 1113^ best friend! ' Look here, and here, and here ! ” And at ever3' word Mr. i Attwood produced a handful of gold, or a glittering heap of I five-franc pieces, or a bundle of greasy', dusk3' bank-notes, more j beautiful than either silver or gold : — he had won thirteen i thousand francs after leaving me at midnight in my garret. I He separated m3' poor little all, of six pieces, from this shining i . and imposing collection ; and the passion of env3^ entered my : soul : 1 felt far more anxious now than before, although star- : vation was then staring me in the face ; I hated Attwood for I cheating me out of all this wealth. Poor fellow! it had been better for him had he never seen a shilling of it. However, a grand breakfast at the Cafe Anglais dissipated : m3^ chagrin ; and I will do m3' friend the justice to sa3', that he I nobl3' shared some portion of his good fortune with me. As far i as the creature comforts were concerned I feasted as well as i he, and never was particular as to settling m3" share of the I reckoning. Jack now changed his lodgings ; had cards, with Captain Attwood engraved on them, and drove about a prancing cab- horse, as tall as the giraffe at the Jardin des Plantes ; he had [ as mau3' frogs on his coat as in the old da3's, and frequented all the flash restaurateurs’ and boarding-houses of the capital, Madame de Saint Laurent, and Madame la Baronne de Vau- dre>', and Madame la Comtesse de Jonville, ladies of the highest rank, who keep a snciete choisie and condescend to give dinners at five-francs a head, vied with each other in their attentions to Jack. His was the wing of the fowl, and the largest portion of the Charlotte-Russe ; his was the place at the ecarte table, where the Countess would ease him nightly of a few pieces, declaring that he was the most charming cavalier, la fleur d’ Albion. Jack’s societ3", it may be seen, was not very select; nor,dn truth, were his inclinations: he was a careless, dare- devil, Macheath kind of fellow, who might be seen daily with a wife on each arm. 106 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. It may be supposed that, with the life he led, his five hun- dred pounds of winnings would not last him long ; nor did they ; but, for some time, his luck never deserted him ; and his cash, instead of growing lower, seemed always to maintain a certain level : he plaj^ed ever}’ night. Of course, such a humble fellow as I, could not hope for a continued acquaintance and intimacy with Attwood. He grew overbearing and cool, I thought ; at any rate I did not admire my situation as his follower and dependant, and left his grand dinner for a certain ordinary, where I could partake of five capital dishes for ninepence. Occasionally, however, Attwood favored me with a visit, or gave me a drive behind his great cab-horse. He had formed a whole host of friends besides. There was Fips, the barrister ; heaven knows what he was doing at Paris ; and Gortz, the West Indian, who was there on the same business, and Flapper, a medical student, — all these three I met one night at Flapper’s rooms, where Jack was invited, and a great “ spread ” was laid in honor of him. Jack arrived rather late — he looked pale and agitated ; and, though he ate no supper, he drank raw brandy in such a manner as made Flapper’s eyes wink : the poor fellow had but three bottles, and Jack bade fair to swallow them all. However, the West Indian generously remedied the evil, and producing a napoleon, we speedily got the change for it in the shape of four bottles of champagne. Our supper was uproariously harmonious ; Fips sung the good “ Old English Gentleman;” Jack the “British Grena- diers ; ” and your humble servant, when called upon, sang that beautiful ditty, “ When the Bloom is on the Rye,” in a manner that drew tears from every eye, except Flapper’s, who was asleep, and Jack’s, who was singing the “Bay of Biscay O,” at the same time. Gortz and Fips were all the time lunging at each other with a pair of single -sticks, the barrister having a very strong notion that he was Richard the Third. At last ^'Fips hit the West Indian such a blow across his sconce, that the other grew furious ; he seized a champagne-bottle, which was, providentially, empty, and hurled it across the room at Fips : had that celebrated barrister not bowed his head at the moment, the Queen’s Bench would have lost one of its most eloquent practitioners. Fips stood as straight as he could ; his cheek was pale with wrath. “ M-m-ister Go-gortz,” he said, “ I always heard you were a blackguard ; now I can pr-pr-peperove it. Flapper, your pistols ! every ge-ge-genlmn knows what I mean.” A GAMBLER’S DEATH. 107 Young Mr. Flapper had a small pair of pocket-pistols, which the tips}^ barrister had suddenH remembered, and with which he proposed to sacrifice the AVest Indian. Gortz was nothing loth, but was quite as valorous as the law3T*r. Attwood, who, in spite of his potations, seemed the soberest man of the party, had much enjo3’ed tlie scene, until this sudden demand for the weapons. “ Pshaw ! ” said he, eagerl3", “ don’t give these men the means of murdering each other ; sit down and let us have another song.” But the3’ would not be still ; and Flapper forthwith produced his pistol-case, and opened it, in order that the duel might take place on the spot. There were no pistols there! “I beg your pardon,” said Attwood, looking much confused ; “I — I took the pistols home with me to clean them 1 ” I don’t know what there was in his tone, or in the words, but we were sobered all of a sudden. Attwood was conscious of the singular effect produced b3^ him, for he blushed, and en- deavored to speak of otlier things, but we could not bring our spirits back to the mark again, and soon separated for the night. As we issued into the street Jack took me aside, and whispered, “Have 3’ou a napoleon, Titmarsh, in your purse?’ Alas! I was not so rich. My repl3^ was, that I was coming to Jack, only in the morning, to borrow a similar sum. He did not make ain^ reply, but turned away homeward : I never heard him speak another word. Two mornings after (for none of our part3* met on the cla3" succeeding the supper) , I was awakened b3" 1113^ porter, who brought a pressing letter from Mr. Gortz : — “Dear T., — I wish you would come over here to breakfast. There’ a row about Attwood. Yours truly, “ Solomon Gortz.” I immediatel3" set forward to Gortz’s ; he lived in the Rue du Helder, a few doors from Attwood’s new lodging. If the reader is curious to know the house in which the catastrophe of this history took place, he has but to march some twent3" doors down from the Boulevard des Italiens, when he will see a fine door, with a naked Cupid shooting at him from the hall, and a A^enus beckoning him up the stairs. On arriving at the AYest Indian’s, at about mid-da3^ (it was a Sunda3Mnorning) , I found that gentleman in his dressing-gown, discussing, in the com- pany of Mr Fips, a large }Jate of bifteck aux pommes. 108 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. “ Here’s a pretty row ! ” said Gortz, quoting from his letter ; ' — ‘ ‘ Attwood’s off — have a bit of beefsteak ? ” “ What do you mean?” exclaimed I, adopting the familiar f phraseolog}^ of m3" acquaintances : — “ Attwood off ? — has he cut his stick ? ” ! “ Not bad,” said the feeling and elegant Fips — “ not such a bad guess, mv bo}’ ; but he has not exactl}" cut his stick.*’ ‘‘What then?” “ Why., his throat.” The man’s mouth was full of bleeding beef as he uttered this gentlemanl3" witticism. I wish I could sa}" that 1 was m3'self in the least affected b}" j the news. I did not joke about it like my friend Fips ; this 1 was more for propriety’s sake than for feeling’s : but for m3" | old school acquaintance, the friend of m3" early da3"s, the merry I associate of the last few months, I own, with shame, that I had not a tear or a pang. In some German tale there is an account of a creature most beautiful and bewitching, whom all men admire and follow ; but this charming and fantastic spirit only leads them, one b3" one, into ruin, and then leaves them. The novelist, who describes her beaut3", sa3"s that his heroine is a faiiy, and has no heart. I think the intimac3" which is begotten over the wine-bottle, is a spirit of this nature ; I never knew a good feeling come from it, or an honest friendship made b3" it ; it only entices men and ruins them ; it is only a phantom of friendship and feeling, called up b3" the delirious blood, and the wicked spells of the wine. But to drop this strain of moralizing (in which the writer is not too anxious to proceed, for he cuts in it a most piti- ful figure), we passed sundry criticisms upon poor Attwood’s character, expressed our horror at his death — which sentiment was fully proved b3" Mr. Fips, who declared that the notion of it made him feel quite faint, and was obliged to drink a large glass of brand3" ; and, finall3", we agreed that we would go and see the poor fellow’s corpse, and witness, if necessaiy, his burial. Flapper, who had joined us, was the first to propose this visit : he said he did not mind the fifteen francs which Jack owed him for billiards, but he was anxious to get hack his 'pistol. Accordingl3% we sallied forth, and speedily arrived at the hotel which Attwood inhabited still. He had occupied, for a time, veiT fine apartments in this house : and it was only on arriving there that day that we found he had been graduall3" driven from his magnificent suite of rooms au premier., to a little chamber in the fifth stor3" : — we mounted, and found him. It A GAMBLER’S DEATH. 109 was a little shabby room, with a few articles of rickety furni- tare, and a bed in an alcove ; the light from the one window was falling full upon the bed and the body. Jack was dressed in a fine lawn shirt; he had kept it, poor fellow, to die hi; for in all his drawers and cupboards there was not a single article of clothing; he had pawned everything l)}^ which he could raise a penny — desk, books, dressing-case, and clothes; and not a single halfpen 113^ was found in his possession.* lie was h ing as I have drawn him,| one hand on his breast, the other falling towards the ground. There was an expression of pei-fect calm on the face, and no mark of blood to stain the side towards the light. On the other side, however, there was a great pool of black blood, and in it the pistol ; it looked more like a to3' than a weapon to take awa^' the life of this vigorous }^oung man. In his forehead, at the side, was a small black wound ; Jack’s life had passed through it ; it was little bigger than a mole. “ Regardez un pen,” said the landlady, “messieurs, il m’a gate trois matelas, et il me doit quarante quatre francs.” This was all his epitaph : he had spoiled three mattresses, and owed the landlady four-and-fort}' francs. In the whole world there was not a soul to love him or lament him. We, his friends, were looking at his liodv more as an object of curiosit}", watching it with a kind of interest with which one follows the fifth act of a traged}’, and leaving it with the same feeling with which one leaves the theatre when the pla^^ is over and the curtain is down. Beside Jack’s bed, on his little “table de nuit,” la}" the remains of his last meal, and an open letter, which we read. It was from one of his suspicious acquaintances of former da}"s, and ran thus : — “ Oil es tu, cher Jack why you not come and see me — tu me dois de I’ar- gent, entends tu ? — un cliapeau, une cachemire, a of the Play. Viens demain soir, je t’attendrai at eight o’clock. Passage des Panoramas. My Sir is at his country. “Adieu a demain. “ Fifine. “ Saraedi.” * In order to account for these trivial details, the reader must be told that the story is, for the chief part, a fact; and tliat the little sketch in this page was taken from nature. The letter was likewise a copy from one foun/ in the manner described. t This refers to an illustrated edition of the work. 110 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. I shuddered as I walked through this ver}^ Passage des Panoramas, in the evening. The girl was there, pacing to and fro, and looking in the countenance of eveiy passer-by, to recognize Attwood. “Adieu a demain ! ” — there was a dreadful meaning in the words, which the writer of them little knew. “ Adieu a demain ! ” — the morrow was come, and the soul of the poor suicide was now in the presence of God. I dare not think of his fate ; for, except in the fact of his povert}^ and desperation, was he worse than any of us, his companions, who had shared his debauches and marched with him up to the very brink of the grave ? • There is but one more circumstance to relate regarding poor Jack — his burial ; it was of a piece with his death. He was nailed into a paltry coffin and buried, at the expense of the arrondissement, in a nook of the burial-place beyond the Barriere de I’Etoile. They buried him at six o’clock, of a bitter winter’s morning, and it was with difficulty that an English clergyman could be found to read a service over his grave. The three men who have figured in this histoiy acted as Jack’s mourners ; and as the ceremony was to take place so earty in the morning, these men sat up the night through, and were almost drunk as they followed his coffin to its resting'- place. MORAL. “ When we turned out in our great-coats,” said one of them afterwards, “reeking of cigars and brandy-and- water, d e, sir, we quite frightened the old buck of a parson ; he did not much like our company.” After the ceremony was concluded, these gentlemen were veiy happy to get home to a warm and comfortable breakfast, and finished the day roj^ally at Frascati’s. NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. ON PRINCE LOUIS NAIOLEON’S WORK. Any person who recollects the histoiy of the absurd out- break of Strasbiirg, in which Prince Louis Napoleon Bonaparte figured, three years ago, must remember that, however silly the revolt w^as, however foolish its pretext, however doubtful its aim, and inexperienced its leader, tliere was, nevertheless, a party, and a considerable one in France, that were not un- willing to lend the new projectors their aid. The troops who declared against the Prince, w'ere, it was said, all but willing to declare for him ; and it w^as certain that, in many of the regiments of the army, there existed a strong spirit of disaffec- tion, and an eager wish for the return of the imperial system and family. As to the good that was to be derived from the change, that is another question. Why the Emperor of the French should be better than the King of the French, or the King of the French better than the King of France and Navarre, it is not our business to inquire ; but all the three monarchs have no lack of supporters ; republicanism has no lack of supporters ; St. Simonianism was followed by a respectable body of admir- ers ; Robespierrism has a select part}^ of friends. If, in a countr}' where so many quacks have had their day, Prince Louis Napoleon thought he might renew the imperial quackeiy, why should he not? It has recollections with it that must alwa}’s be dear to a gallant nation ; it has certain claptraps in its vocabulary that can never fail to inflame a vain, restless, grasping, disappointed one. In the first place, and don’t let us endeavor to disguise it, the}" hate us. Not all the protestations of friendship, not all the wisdom of Lord Palmerston, not all the diplomacy of our 112 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. distinguished plenipotentiaiy, Mr, Henry Lytton Bulwer — and let us add, not all the benefit which both countries would derive from the alliance — can make it, in our times at least, perma- nent and cordial. They hate us. The Carlist organs revile us with a querulous fuiy that never sleeps ; the moderate part^q if the}^ admit the utility of our alliance, are continually pointing out our treacheiy , our insolence, and our monstrous infractions of it ; and for the Republicans, as sure as the morning comes, the columns of their journals thunder out volle3's of fierce denun- ciations against our unfortunate country. The}" live by feeding the natural hatred against England, by keeping old wounds open, by recurring ceaselessly to the history of old quarrels, and as in these we, by God’s help, by Land and by sea, in old times and late, have had the uppermost, they perpetuate the shame and mortification of the losing party, the bitterness of past defeats, and the eager desire to avenge them. A party which knows how to exploiter this hatred will always be popular to a certain extent ; and the imperial scheme has this, at least, among its conditions. Then there is the favorite claptrap of the “natural fron- tier.” The Frenchman yearns to be bounded by the Rhine and the Alps; and next follows the cry, “ Let France take her place among nations, and direct, as she ought to do, the affairs of Europe,” These are the two chief articles contained in the new imperial programme, if we may credit the journal which has been established to advocate the cause. A natural boundary — stand among the nations — popular development — Russian alliance, and a reduction of la perjide Albion to its proper insignificance. As yet we know little more of the plan : and yet such foundations are sufficient to build a party upon, and with such windy weapons a substantial Government is to be overthrown ! In order to give these doctrines, such as they are, a chance of finding favor with his countrymen, Prince Louis has the advantage of being able to refer to a former great professor of them — his uncle Napoleon. His attempt is at once pious and prudent ; it exalts the memory of the uncle, and furthers the interests of the nephew, who attempts to show what Na- poleon’s ideas really were ; what good had already re&ulted from the practice of them ; how cruelly they had been thwarted by foreign wars and difficulties ; and what vast benefits would have resulted from them ; ay, and (it is reasonable to con- clude) might still, if the French nation would be wise enough to pitch upon a governor that would continue the interrupted THE DIRECTORY ESTABLISHED. ! NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 113 scheme. It is, however, to be borne in mind that the Em- peror Napoleon had certain arguments in favor of his opinions for the time being, which his nephew has not employed. On the 13th Vendemiaire, when General Bonaparte believed in the excellence of a Directory, it ma}’ be remembered that he aided his opinions by fort}^ pieces of artilleiy, and b}- Colonel Murat at the head of his dragoons. There was no resisting such a philosopher ; the Directory was established forthwith, and the sacred cause of the minority triumphed. In like manner, when the General was convinced of the weakness of the Direc- toiy, and saw fully the necessity of establishing a Consulate, what were his arguments? Moreau, Lannes, Murat, Berthier, Leclerc, Lefebvre — gentle apostles of the truth ! — marched to St. Cloud, and there, with fixed ba}’onets, caused it to pre- vail. Error vanished in an instant. At once five hundred of its high-priests tumbled out of windows, and lo ! three Consuls appeared to guide the destinies of France ! How much more expeditious, reasonable, and clinching was this argument of the 18th Brumaire, than any one that can be found in aiy' pam- phlet ! A fig for your duodecimos and octavos ! Talk about points, there are none like those at the end of a ba3’onet ; and the most powerful of stjdes is a good rattling “ article” from a nine-pounder. At least this is our interpretation of the manner in which were alwa}'s propagated the Idees NapoUoniennes. Not such, however, is Prince Louis’s belief ; and, if you wish to go along with him in opinion, }^ou wdli discover that a more liberal, peaceable, prudent Prince never existed : you will read that “ the mission of Napoleon ” w'as to be the “ testamentary execu- tor of the revolution ; ” and the Prince should have added the legatee ; or, more justl}^ still, as well as the executor^ he should be called the executioner^ and then his title would be complete. In Vendemiaire, the military Tartufie, he threw aside the Rev- olution’s natural heirs, and made her, as it w^ere, alter her will ; on the 18th of Brumaire he strangled her, and on the 19th seized on her propert}^ and kept it until force deprived him of it. Illustrations, to be sure, are no arguments, but the exam- ple is the Prince’s, not ours. In the Prince’s eyes, then, his uncle is a god ; of all mon- archs, the most wise, upright, and merciful. Thirty years ago the opinion had millions of supporters ; while millions again were ready to avouch the exact contraiy. It is curious to think of the former difference of opinion concerning Napoleon ; and, in reading his nephew’s rapturous encomiums of him, one goes 8 114 THE PARTS SKETCH BOOK. back to the cla3's when we ourselves were as loud and mad iu his dispraise. Who does not remember his own personal ha- tred and horror, twent3^-five 3’ears ago, for the man whom we used to call the “ blood3' Corsican upstart and assassin?” What stories did we not believe of him? — what murders, rapes, robberies, not la3' to his charge? — we who were living within a few miles of his territoiy, and might, 1)3' books and news- papers, be made as well acquainted with his merits or demerits as ary of his own countrymen. Then was the age when the Idees Napoleoniennes might have passed through mau3' editions ; for while we were thus outra- geousl3' bitter, our neighbors wei’e as extravagantl3^ attached to him b3' a strange infatuation — adored him like a god, whom we chose to consider as a fiend ; and vowed that, under his government, their nation had attained its highest pitch of gran- deur and glory. In revenge there existed in England (as is proved b>' a thousand authentic documents) a monster so hid- eous, a t3'rant so ruthless and blood3', that the world’s history cannot show his parallel. This ruffian’s name was, during the early part of the French revolution, Pittetcobourg. Pittetco- bourg’s emissaries were in every corner of France ; Pittetco- bourg’s gold chinked in the pockets of every traitor in Europe ; it menaced the life of the godlike Robespierre ; it drove into cellars and fits of delirium even the gentle philanthropist Ma- rat ; it fourteen times caused the dagger to be lifted against the bosom of the First Consul, Emperor, and King, — that first, great, glorious, irresistible, cowardly, contemptible, bloody hero and fiend, Bonaparte, before mentioned. On oui- side of the Channel we have had leisure, long since, to re-consider our verdict against Napoleon ; though, to be sure, we have not changed our opinion about Pittetcobourg. After five-and-thirty years all parties bear witness to his hon- esty, and speak with affectionate reverence of his patriotism, his genius, and his private virtue. In France, howo'er, or, at least among certain parties in France, there has been no such modification of opinion. With the Republicans, Pittetcobourg is Pittetcobourg still, — craft3', bloody, seeking whom he ma3' devour ; and perfi.de Albion more perfidious than ever. This hatred is the point of union between the Republic and the Em- pire ; it has been fostered ever since, and must be continued hy Ib’ince Louis, if he would hope to conciliate both parties. With regard to the Emperor, then, Prince Louis erects to his memory as fine a monument as his wits can raise. One need not say that the imperial apologist’s opinion should be NAPOLEON AND lIIS SYSTEM. 115 received with the utmost caution ; for a man who has such a hero for an uncle ma}’ naturall}’ be proud of and partial to him ; and when this nephew of the great man would be his heir like- wise, and, bearing his name, step also into his imperial shoes, one may reasonably look for much affectionate panegyric. “The empire was the best of eni[)ires,” cries the Prince; and possibl}' it was ; undoubtedl}', the Prince thinks it was ; but he is the veiy last person who would con\ inee a man with the proper suspicious impartiality. One i-emembers a certain consultation of politicians which is recorded in the Spelling-book ; and the opinion of that patriotic sage who avowed that, for a real blameless constitution, an impenetrable shield for liberty, and cheap defence of nations, there was nothing like leather. Let us examine some of the Prince’s article. If we ma}’ lie allowed humbly to express an opinion, his leather is not only quite insufficient for those vast public purposes for which he destines it, but is, moreover, and in itself, veiy bad leatJier. The hides are poor, small, unsound slips of skin ; or, to drop this cobbling metaphor, the style is not particularly brilliant, the facts not very startling, and, as for the conclusions, one may differ with almost eveiy one of them. Here is an extract from his first chapter, “ on governments in general : ” — “ I speak it with regret, I can see but two governments, at this da}’, which fulfil the mission that Providence has confided to them ; they are the two colossi at the end of the world ; one at the extremity of the old world, the other at the extremit}’ of the new. Whilst our old European centre is as a volcano, con- suming itself in its crater, the two nations of the East and the West, march without hesitation, towards perfection ; the one under the will of a single individual, the other under libert}^ “Providence has confided to the United States of North America the task of peopling and civilizing that immense ter- ritoiy which stretches from the Atlantic to the South Sea, and from the North Pole to the Equator. The Government, which is only a simple administration, has only hitherto been called upon to put in practice the old adage, Laissez faire^ laissez passer^ in order to favor that irresistible instinct which pushes the people of America to the west. “ 111 Russia it is to the imperial dynasty that is owing all the vast progress which, in a centuiy and a half, has rescued that empire from barbarism. The imperial power must con tend against all the ancient prejudices of our old Europe : it must centralize, as far as possible, all the powers of the state in the hands of one person, in order to destroy the abuses 116 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. which the feudal and communal franchises have served to per- petuate. The last alone can hope to receive from it the im- provements which it expects. “But thou, France of Plenry IV., of Louis XIV., of Car- not, of Napoleon — thou, who wert alwa3^s for the west of Europe the source of progress, who possessest in th^^self the two great pillars of empire, the genius for the arts of peace and the genius of war — hast thou no further mission to fulfil ? Wilt thou never cease to waste th}' force and energies in intes- tine struggles?. No; such cannot be th}^ destin}^ : the daj^ will soon come, when, to govern thee, it will be necessaiy to understand that th}" part is to place in all treaties th}" sword ol Brennus on the side of civilization.” These are the conclusions of the Prince’s remarks upon governments in general ; and it must be supposed that the reader is A^eiy little wiser at the end than at the beginning. But two governments in the world fulfil their mission : the one government, which is no government ; the other, which is a despotism. The duty of France is in all treaties to place her sword of Brennus in the scale of civilization. Without quar- relling with the somewhat confused language of the latter prop- osition, may we ask what, in heaven’s name, is the meaning of all the three? What is this epee de Brennus’^ and how is France to use it? Where is the great source of political truth, from which, flowing pure, we trace American republicanism in one stream, Russian despotism in another? Vastl}^ prosperous is the great republic, if 3’ou will : if dollars and cents consti- tute happiness, there is plent3" for all : but can an3^ one, who 4 ias read of the American doings in the late frontier troubles, and the dail3^ disputes on the slave question, praise the Govern- ment of the States ? — a Government which dares not punish homicide or arson performed before its veiy eyes, and which the pirates of Texas and the pirates of Canada can brave at their will? There is no government, but a prosperous anaix;h3^ ; as the Prince’s other favorite government is a prosperous sla- veiy. AVhat, then, is to be the eph de Brennus government? Is it to be a mixture of the two? “ Societ3^” writes the Prince, axiomaticall3% “contains in itself two principles — the one of progress and immortalit3", the other of disease and dis- organization.” No doubt ; and as the one tends towards lib- erty, so the other is 01113^ to be cured b3^^ order : and then, with a singular felicit3’. Prince Louis picks us out a couple of gov- ernments, in one of which the common regulating power is as notorioush" too w^eak, as it is in the other too strong, and talks NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 117 In rapturous terms of the manner in which they fulfil their “ providential mission ! ” From these considerations on things in general, the Prince conducts us to Napoleon in particular, and enters largely into a discussion of the merits of the imperial system. Our author speaks of the Emperor’s advent in the following grandiose wa}^ : — “Napoleon, on arriving at the public stage, saw that his part was to be the testamentary executor of the Revolution. The destructive fire of parties was extinct ; and when the Revo- lution, dying, but not vanquished, delegated to Napoleon the accomplishment of her last will, she said to him, ‘ Establish upon solid bases the principal result of my efforts. Unite divided Frenchmen. Defeat feudal Europe that is leagued against me. Cicatrize my wounds. Enlighten the nations. Execute that in width, which I have had to perform in depth. Be for Emrope what I have been for France. And, even if you must water the tree of civilization with your blood — if you must see }^our projects misunderstood, and your sons with- out a country, wandering over the face of the earth, never abandon the sacred cause of the French people. Insure its triumph by all the means which genius can discover and hu- manity approve.’ “ This grand mission Napoleon performed to the end. His task was difficult. lie had to place upon new principles a society still boiling with hatred and revenge ; and to use, for building up, the same instruments which had been employed for pulling down. “The common lot of eveiy new truth that arises, is to wound rather than to convince — rather than to gain prose- lytes, to awaken fear. For, oppressed as it long has been, it rushes forward with additional force ; having to encounter obstacles, it is compelled to combat them, and overthrow them ; 'until, at length, comprehended and adopted by the generality, it becomes the basis of new social order. “ LiberU^ will follow the same march as the Christian relig- ion. Armed with death from the ancient societ}^ of Rome, it for a long while excited the hatred and fear of the people. At last, b}' force of martyrdoms and persecutions, the religion of Christ penetrated into the conscience and the soul ; it soon had kings and armies at its orders, and Constantine and Charle- magne bore it triumphant throughout Europe. Religion then laid down her arms of war. It laid open to all the principles of peace and order which it contained ; it l)ecame the prop of 118 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. Government, as it was the organizing element of society. Thus will it be with liberty. In 1793 it frightened people and sovereigns alike ; then, having clothed itself in a milder garb, it insinuated itself everywhere in the train of our battalions. In 1815 all parties adopted its flag, and armed themselves with its moral force — covered themselves with its colors. The adoption was not sincere, and liberty was soon obliged to re- assume its warlike accoutrements. AVith the contest their fears returned. Let us hope that the}’ will soon cease, and that lib- erty will soon resume her peaceful standards, to quit them no more. “The Emperor Napoleon contributed more than any one else towards accelerating the reign of liberty, by saving the moral influence of the revolution, and diminishing the fears which it imposed. A¥ithout the Consulate and the Empire, the revolution would have been onl}’ a grand drama, leaving grand revolutions but no traces : the revolution would have been drowned in the counter-revolution. The contrary, however, was the case. Napoleon rooted the revolution in France, and introduced, throughout Europe, the principal benefits of the crisis of 1789. To use his own words, ‘ He purified the revolu- tion, he confirmed kings, and ennobled people.’ He purified the revolution, in separating the truths which it contained from the passions that, during its delirium, disfigured it. He ennobled the people in giving them the consciousness of their force, and those institutions which raise men in their own eyes. The Emperor may be considered as the Messiah of the new ideas ; for — and we must confess it — in the moments immediately succeeding a social revolution, it is not so essential to put rigidly into practice all the propositions resulting from the new theory, but to become master of the regenerative genius, to identify one’s self with the sentiments of the people, and boldly to direct them towards the desired point. To accomplish such a task your fibre should respond to that of the people, as the Em- peror said ; you should feel like it, your interests should be so intimately raised with its own, that you should vanquish or fall together.” Let us take breath after these big phrases, — grand round figures of speech, — which, when put together, amount like certain other combinations of round figures to exactly 0. We shall not stop to argue the merits and demerits of Prince Louis’s notable comparison between the Christian religion and the Imperial-revolutionary system. There are many blunders in the above extract as we read it ; blundering metaphors, blunder- NAPOLEON AND HTS SYSTEM. 119 ing arguments, and bhiiHlering assertions; but this is surely the grandest blunder of all ; and one wonders at the blindness'^ of the legislator and historian who can advance such a parallel. And what are we to say of the legacy of the dying revolution to Napoleon? Revolutions do not die, and, on their death- beds, making fine speeches, hand over their property to young officers of artilleiy. We have all read the history of his rise. The constitution of the j^ear III. was carried. Old men of the Montague, disguised royalists, Paris sections, Pittetcobourg^ above all, with his money-bags, thought that here was a fine opportunity for a revolt, and opposed the new constitution in arms : the new constitution had knovdedge of a young officer who would not hesitate to defend its cause, and wlio effectually beat the majority. The tale mav be found in every account of the revolution, and the rest of his story need not be told. We know every step that he took : we know how, lyy doses of cannon-balls promptly administered, he cured tlie fever of the sections — that fever which another camp-physician (Menou) declined to prescribe for ; we know how he abolished the Di- rectory ; and how the Consulship came ; and then the Empire ; and then the disgrace, exile, and lonely death. Has not all this been written by historians in all tongues? — b}' memoir- writing pages, chamberlains, marshals, lackeys, secretaries, contemporaries, and ladies of honor? Not a word of miracle is there in all this narration ; not a word of celestial missions, or political Messiahs. From Napoleon’s rise to his fall, the baj’onet marches alongside of him : now he points it at the tails of the scampering ^ five hundred,” — now he charges with it across the bloody planks of Areola — now he flies before it over the fatal plain of Waterloo. Unwilling, however, as he may be to grant that there are an}^ spots in the character of his hero’s government, the Prince is, nevertheless, obliged to allow that such existed ; that the Emperor’s manner of rule was a little more abrupt and dicta- torial than might possibly be agreeable. For this the Prince has alwa}^s an answbr readj" — it is the same poor one that Napoleon uttered a million of times to his companions in exile — the excuse of necessit}'. He would have been very liberal, but that the people were not fit for it ; or that the cursed war prevented him — or any other reason why. His first duty, however, says his apologist, was to form a gen- eral union of Frenchmen, and he set about his plan in this wise : — “ Let us not forget, that all which Napoleon undertook, in THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. L2b order to create a general fusion, he performed without re> iiouncing the principles of the revolution. He recalled the emigre's^ without touching upon the law which their goods had been confiscated and sold as public property. He re- established the Catholic religion at the same time that he pro- claimed the libert}' of conscience, and endowed equally the ministers of all sects. Pie caused himself to be consecrated by the Sovereign Pontiff, without concedi ug to the Pope’s demand any of the liberties of the Gallican church. He married a daughter of the Emperor of Austria, without abandoning any of the rights of France to the conquests she had made. He re- established noble titles, without attaching to them any privi- leges or prerogatives, and these titles were conferred on all ranks, on all services, on all professions. Under the empire all idea of caste was destro}’ed ; no man ever thought of vaunt- ing his pedigree — no man ever was asked how he was born, but what he had done. “ The first quality of a people which aspires to liberal gov- ernment, is respect to the law. Now, a law has no other power than lies in the interest which each citizen has to defend or to contravene it. In order to make a people respect the law, it was necessary that it should be executed in the interest of all, and should consecrate the princii)le of equality in all its exten- sion. It was necessaiy to restore the prestige with which the Government had been formerly invested, and to make the prin- ciples of tlie revolution take root in the public manners. At the commencement of a new society, it is the legislator who makes or corrects the manners ; later, it is the manners which make the law, or preserve it from age to age intact.” Some of these fusions are amusing. No man in the empire was asked how he was born, but ^hat he had done; and, ac- cordingly, as a man’s actions were sufficient to illustrate him, the Emperor took care to make a host of new title-bearers, princes, dukes, barons, and wliat not, whos^ rank has de- scended to their children. He married a princess of Austria; but, for all that, did not abandon his conquests — perhaps not actually ; but he abandoned his allies, and, eventually, his whole kingdom. Who does not recollect his answer to the Poles, at the commencement of the Russian campaign? But for Napo- leon’s imperial father-in-law, Poland would have been a king- dom, and his race, perhaps, imperial still. Why was he to fetch this princess out of Austria to make heirs for his throne r Why did not the man of the people marry a girl of the people? Why must he have a Pope to crown him — half a dozen kings NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 121 for brothers, and a bevy of aides-de-camp dressed out like so many mountebanks from Astley’s, with dukes’ coronets, and grand blue velvet marslials’ batons? We have repeatedly his words for it. He wanted to create an aristocracy — another acknowledgment on his part of the Republican dilemma — another apology for the revolutionary blunder. To keep the re- public within bounds, a despotism is necessaiy ; to rall}^ round the despotism, an aristocracy must be created ; and for what have we been laboring all this while? for what have bastiles been battered down, and king’s heads hurled, as a gage of battle, in the face of armed Europe? To have a Duke of Otranto instead of a Duke de la Tremouille, and Emperor Stork in place of King Log. O lame conclusion ! Is the blessed revolution which is prophesied for us in England 011I3' to end in establishing a Prince PYrgus O’Connor, or a Cardinal Wade, or a Duke Daniel Whittle Harve}"? Great as those patriots are, we love them better under their simple famil}’ names, and scorn titles and coronets. At present, in France, the delicate matter of titles seems to be better arranged, any gentleman, since the Revolution, being free to adopt any one he ma}^ fix upon ; and it appears that the Crown no longer confers any patents of nobility, but contents itself with saying, as in the case of M. de Pontois, the other da}% “ Le Roi tronve conveyiahle that 3'ou take the title of,” &c. To execute the legacy of the revolution, then ; to fulfil his providential mission; to keep his place, — in other words, for the simplest are alwa^'S the best, — to keep his place, and to keep his Government in decent order, the Emperor was obliged to establish a military despotism, to re-establish honors and titles ; it was necessaiy, as the Prince confesses, to restore the old prestige of the Government, in order to make the people re- spect it ; and he adds — a truth which one hardly would expect from him, — ‘‘At the commencement of a new society, it is the legislator who makes and corrects the manners ; later, it is the manners which preserve the laws.” Of course, and here is the great risk that all revolutionizing people run — the}' must tend to despotism ; “ they must personify themselves in a mao,” is the Prince’s phrase ; and, according as is his temperament or disposition — according as he is a Cromwell, a Washington, or a Napoleon — the revolution becomes tyranny or freedom, prospers or falls. Somewhere in the St. Helena memorials, Napoleon reports a message of his to the Pope. “ Tell the Pope,” he says to an archbishop, “ to remember that I have six hundred thousand 122 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. armed Frenchmen, qui marcheront avec moi^ pour moi^ et comme moi.” And this is the legac}^ of the revolution, the advance- ment of freedom ! A hundred volumes of imperial special pleading will not avail against such a speech as this — one so insolent, and at the same time so humiliating, which gives un- wittingly the whole of the Emperor’s progress, strength, and weakness. The six hundred thousand armed Frenchmen were used up, and the whole fabric falls ; the six hundred thousand are reduced to sixty thousand, and straightway all the rest of the fine imperial scheme vanishes : the miserable senate, so crawling and abject but now, becomes of a sudden endowed with a wondrous independence ; the miserable sham nobles, sham empress, sham kings, dukes, princes, chamberlains, pack up their plumes and embroideries, pounce upon what mone}’ and plate thc3^ can la}^ their hands on, and when the allies appear before Paris, when for courage and manliness there is \"et hope, when with fierce marches hastening to the relief of his capital, bursting through ranks upon ranks of the enem}^, and crushing or scattering them from the path of his swift and victorious de- spair, the Emperor at last is at home, — where are the great dignitaries and the lieutenant-generals of the empire? Where is Maria Louisa, the Empress Eagle, with her little callow king of Rome? Is she going to defend her nest and her eaglet? Not she. Empress-queen, lieutenant-general, and court digni- taries, are off on the wings of all the winds — profligati sunt^ the}^ are awaj^ with the monej'-bags, and Louis Stanislas Xavier rolls into the palace of his fathers. With regard to Napoleon’s excellences as an administrator, a legislator, a constructor of public works, and a skilful finan- cier, his nephew speaks with much diffuse praise, and few per- sons, we suppose, will be disposed to contradict him. Whether the Emperor composed his famous code, or borrowed it, is of little importance ; but he established it, and made the law equal for eveiy man in France except one. His vast public works and vaster wars were carried on without new loans or exor- bitant taxes ; it was only the blood and liberty of the people that were taxed, and we shall want a better advocate than Prince Louis to show us that these were not most unnecessaril}' and lavishl}^ thrown away. As for the former and material im- provements, it is not necessary to confess here that a despotic energy can effect such far more readil}^ than a Government of which the strength is diffused in many conflicting parties. No doubt, if we could create a despotical governing machine, a steam autocrat, — passionless, untiring, and supreme, — we NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 123 should advance further, and live more at ease than under any other form of government. Ministers might enjoy their pensions and follow their own devices ; Lord John might compose histories or ti’agedies at his leisure, and Lord Palmerston, instead of racking his brains to write leading articles for Cupid, might crown his locks with flowers, and sing cpwToe juovvoi', his natural Anacreontics ; but alas I not so : if the despotic Government has its good side. Prince Louis Napoleon must acknowledge that it has its bad, and it is for this that the civilized world is compelled to substitute for it something more orderly and less capricious. Good as the Imperial Government might have been, it must be recollected, too, that since its first fall, both the Phnperor and his admirer and would-be successor have had their chance of re-establishing it. “Fly from steeple to steeple ” the eagles of the former did actuall}^, and according to promise perch for a while on the towers of Notre Dame. We know the event : if* the fate of war declared against the Emperor, the countiy declared against him too ; and, with old Lafa^^ette for a mouthpiece, the representa- tives of the nation did, in a neat speech, pronounce themselves in permanence, but spoke no more of the Emperor than if he had never been. Thereupon the Emperor proclaimed his son the Emperor Napoleon II. “ L’Einpereur est mort, vive I’Em- pereur ! ” shouted Prince Lucien. Psha ! not a soul echoed the words : the pla}' was played, and as for old Lafayette and his “ permanent” representatives, a corporal with a hammer nailed up the door of their spouting-club, and once more Louis Stanis- las Xavier rolled back to die bosom of his people. In like manner Napoleon III. returned from exile, and made his appearance on the frontier. II is eagle appeared at Stras- burg, and from Strasburg advanced to the capital ; but it arrived at Paris with a keeper, and in a post-chaise ; whence. In' the orders of the sovereign, it was removed to the American shores, and there magnanimousl}' let loose. Who knows, however, how soon it may be on the wing again, and what a flight it will take ? THE STOEY OF MARY ANCEL. “Go, my nephew,” said old Father Jacob to me, “and complete thy studies at Strasburg : Heaven surel}" hath ordained thee for the ministry in these times of trouble, and my excellent friend Schneider will work out the divine intention.” Schneider was an old college friend of uncle Jacob’s, was a Benedictine monk, and a man famous for his learning ; as for me, I was at that time my uncle’s chorister, clerk, and sacris- tan ; I swept the church, chanted the prayers with m}^ shrill treble, and swung the great copper incense-pot on Sundays and feasts ; and I toiled over the Fathers for the other daj's of the week. The old gentleman said that m3" progress was prodigious, and, without vanit}", I believe he was right, for I then veril}" considered that pra3ung was m3" vocation, and not fighting, as T have found since. You would hardh" conceive (said the Captain, swearing a great oath) how devout and how learned I was in those days ; I talked Latin faster than 1113" own beautiful patois of Alsacian French ; I could utterly OA^erthrow in argument eveiy Protest- ant (heretics we called them) parson in the neighborhood, and there was a confounded sprinkling of these unbelievers in our part of the country. I prayed half a dozen times a day ; I fasted thrice in a week ; and, as for penance, I used to scourge my little sides, till the3" had no more feeling than a peg-top : such was the godly life I led at my uncle Jacob’s in the village of Steinbach. Our family had long dwelt in this place, and a large farm and a pleasant house were then in the possession of another uncle — uncle Edward. He was the 3"oungest of the three sons THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL. 125 of grandfather ; but Jacob, the elder, had shown a decided vocation for the church, from, I believe, the age of three, and now was b}" no means tired of it at sixty. My father, who was to have 'inherited the paternal property, was, as I hear, a terrible scamp and scapegrace, quarrelled with his family, and dis- appeared altogether, living and dying at Paris ; so far we knew through my mother, who came, poor woman, with me, a child of six months, on her bosom, was refused all shelter b}- m3' grandfather, but was housed and kindl3^ cared for b}^ m3' good uncle Jacob. Here she lived for about seven 3’ears, and the old gentleman, when she died, wept over her grave a great deal more than I did, who was then too young to mind anything but toys or sweetmeats. During this time m3' grandfather was likewise carried off ; he left, as I said, the property to his son Edward, with a small proviso in his will that something should be done for me, his grandson. Edward was himself a widower, with one daughter, Mar3', about three 3^ears older than I, and certain^' she was the dear- est little treasure with which Providence ever blessed a miserty father; b3^ the time she was fifteen, five farmers, three lawyers, twelve Protestant parsons, and a lieutenant of Dragoons had made her offers : it must not be denied that she was an heiress as well as a beaut3', which, perhaps, had something to do with the love of these gentlemen. However, Maiy declared that she intended to live single, turned awa3' her lovers one after another, and devoted herself to the care of her father. Uncle Jacob was as fond of her as he was of an3^ saint or mart3'r. As for me, at the mature age of twelve I had made a kind of divinit3' of her, and when we sang “ Ave Maria” on Sunda3^s I could not refrain from turning to her, where she knelt, blushing and pra3ung and looking like an angel, as she was. Besides her beaut3', Maiy had a thousand good qualities ; she could pla3^ better on the harpsichord, she could dance more lightl3q she could make better pickles and puddings, than aiy' girl in Alsace ; there was not a want or a fan 03' of the old hunks her father, or a wish of mine or my uncle’s, that she would not gratify if she could ; as for herself, the sweet soul had neither wants nor wishes except to see us happy. I could talk to 3'ou for a 3'ear of all the pretty kindnesses that she would do for me ; how, when she found me of earty morn- ings among 1113^ books, her presence “ would cast a light upon the day ; ” how she used to criiooMi and fold my little surplice, 126 THE PARTS SKETCH BOOK. and embroider me caps and gowns for high feast-days ; how she used to bring flowers for the altar, and who could deck it so well as she ? But sentiment does not come glibly from under a grizzled moustache, so I will drop it, if you please. Amongst other favors she showed me, Maiy used to be par- ticularl}’ fond of kissing me : it was a thing I did not so much value in those da3’s, but I found that the more I grew alive to the extent of the benefit, the less she would condescend to con- fer it on me ; till at last, when I was about fourteen, she dis- continued it altogether, of her own wish at least ; onl}" some- times I used to be rude, and take what she had now become so mighty unwilling to give. I was engaged in a contest of this sort one da}" with Mary, when, just as I was about to carry off* a kiss from her cheek, I was saluted with a staggering slap on my own, which was be- stowed by uncle Edward, and sent me reeling some yards down the garden. The old gentleman, whose tongue was generally as close as his purse, now poured forth a flood of eloquence which quite astonished me. I did not think that so much was to be said on any subject as he managed to utter on one, and that was abuse of me ; he stamped, he swore, he screamed ; and then, from complimenting me, he turned to Mary, and saluted her in a manner equally forcible and significant ; she, who was very much frightened at the commencement of the scene, grew very angry at the coarse words he used, and the wicked motives he imputed to her. ‘‘The child is but fourteen,” she said; “he is your own nephew, and a candidate for holy orders : — father, it is a shame that you should thus speak of me, your daughter, or of one of his holy profession.” I did not particularly admire this speech myself, but it had an effect on my uncle, and was the cause of the words with which this history commences. The old gentleman persuaded his brother that I must be sent to Strasburg, and there kept until my studies for the church were concluded. I was furnished with a letter to my uncle’s old college chum. Professor Schneider, who was to instruct me in theology and Greek. I was not sorry to see Strasburg, of the wonders of which I had heard so much ; but felt very loth as the time drew near when I must quit my pretty cousin, and my good old uncle. Mary and I managed, however, a parting walk, in which a number of tender things were said on both sides. I am told that you Englishmen consider it cowardly to cry ; as for me, I THE STORY OF MARY ANGEL. 127 I wept and roared incessantl}^ : wlien Mary squeezed me, for the i last time, the tears came out of me as if I had been neither more nor less than a great wet sponge. My cousin’s eyes were stoically dry ; her ladyship had a [)art to pla^q and it would have been wrong for her to be in love with a .young chit of four- teen — so she carried herself with perfect coolness, as if there was nothing the matter. I should not have known that she cared for me, had it not been for a letter which she wrote me a mouth afterwards — then^ nobody w^as by, and the consequence was that the letter was half washed away with her weeping ; if she had used a watering-pot the thing could not have been better done. Well, I arrived at Strasburg — a dismal, old-fashioned, ricket}^ town in those days — and straightwaj^ presented my- self and letter at Schneider’s door ; over it was written — I COMITE DE SALUT PUBLIC. Would 3'ou believe it? I was so ignorant a 3^oung fellow, that I had no idea of the meaning of the words ; however, I entered the citizen’s room without fear, and sat down in his ante-chamber until I could be admitted to see him. Here I found very few indications of his reverence’s pro- fession ; the walls were hung round with portraits of Robes- pierre, Marat, and the like ; a great bust of Mirabeau, mutilated, with the word Trcdtre underneath ; lists and republican procla- mations, toba,cco-pipes and fire-arms. At a deal-table, stained with grease and wine, sat a gentleman, with a huge pigtail dangling down to that part of his pei’son which immediatel3" succeeds his back, and a red nightcap, containing a tricolor cockade as large as a pancake. He was smoking a short pipe, reading a little book, and sobbing as if his heart would break. Eveiy now and then he would make brief remarks upon the personages or the incidents of his book, b3" which I could judge that he was a man of the veiy keenest sensibilities — ‘"Ah, brigand ! ” “ O malheureuse ! ” “ O Charlotte, Charlotte ! ” The work which this gentleman w^as perusing is called “The Sorrows of Werter ; ” it was all the rage in those days, and 1113' friend was only following the fashion. I asked him if I could see Father Schneider? he turned towards me a hideous, pimpled face, which I dream of now at fort3" 3"ears’ distance. “ Father who? ” said he. “Do 3^011 imagine that citizen Schneider has not thrown off the absurd muinmeiy of priest- hood? If you were a little older you would go to prison for calling him Father Schneider — many a man has died for less 128 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. and he pointed to a picture of a guillotine, which was hanging in the room. I was in amazement. “What is he? Is he not a teacher of Greek, an abbe, a monk, until monasteries were abolished, the learned editor of the songs of ‘ Anacreon ? ’ ” “ He was all this,” replied my grim friend; “ he is now a Member of the Committee of Public Safety", and would think no more of ordering \’Our head off than of drinking this tumbler of beer.” He swallowed, himself, the froth3Hiquid, and then proceeded to give me the history of the man to whom my uncle had sent me for instruction. Schneider was born in 1756 : was a student at Wurzburg, and afterwards entered a convent, where he remained nine yeai s. He here became distinguished for his learning and his talents as a preacher, and became chaplain to Duke Charles of Wiirtem- berg. The doctrines of the Illuminati began about this time to spread in German}', and Schneider speedily joined the sect. Pie had been a professor of Greek at Cologne ; and being com- pelled, on account of his irregularity, to give up his chair, he came to Strasburg at the commencement of the French Revolu- tion, and acted for some time a principal part as a revolutionaiy agent at Strasburg. [“Heaven knows what would have happened to me had I continued long under his tuition ! ” said the Captain. “ I owe the preservation of my morals entirely to my entering the arm}^ A man, sir, who is a soldier, has very little time to be wicked ; except in the case of a siege and the sack of a town, when a little license can offend nobody.”] By the time that my friend had concluded Schneider’s biog- raphy, we had grown tolerably intimate, and I imparted to him (with that experience so remarkable in youth) my whole history — my course of studies, my pleasant country life, the names and qualities of my dear relations, and my occupations in the vestry before religion was abolished by order of the Re- public. In the course of my speech I recurred so often to the name of my cousin Mar}", that the gentleman could not fail to perceive what a tender place she had in my heart. Then we reverted to “ The Sorrows of Werter,” and dis- cussed the merits of that sublime performance. Although I had before felt some misgivings about my new acquaintance, my heart now quite yearned towards him. He talked about love and sentiment in a manner which made me recollect that I was THE 8T0RY OF MARY ANGEL. 129 in love m3^self ; and 3^011 know that when a man is in that con- dition, his taste is not very refined, an3" maudlin trash of prose or verse appearing sublime to him, provided it correspond, in some degree, with his own situation. “ Candid 3'outh ! ” cried my unknown, “ I love to hear tli3' innocent story and look on tli3' guileless face. There is, alas ! so much of the coutraiy iii this world, so much terror and crime and blood, that we who mingle with it are onl)' too glad to for- get it. Would that we could shake off our cares as men, and be boys, as thou art, again ! ” Here my friend began to weep once more, and fondl3' shook m3’ hand. 1 blessed m3’ stars that 1 had, at the veiy outset of m3’ career, met with one who was so likel3’ to aid me. What a slanderous world it is, thought I ; the people in our village call these Republicans wicked and bloody-minded ; a lamb could not be more tender than this sentimental bottle-nosed gentleman ! The wortly’ man then gave me to understand that he held a place under Government. I was bus3’ in endeavoring to dis- cover what his situation might be, when the door of the next apartment opened, and Schneider made his appearance. At first he did not notice me, but he advanced to my new acquaintance, and gave him, to 1113’ astonishment, something veiy like a blow. “ Y^ou drunken, talking fool,” he said, “ 3’ou are always after your time. Fourteen people are cooling their heels 3’onder, waiting until 3^011 have finished 3’our beer and 3’our sentiment I ” My friend slunk muttering out of the room. “ That fellow,” said Schneider, turning to me, “ is our public executioner : a capital hand too if he would but keep decent time ; but the brute is alwa3’s drunk, and blubbering over ‘ The Sorrows of Werter ! ’ ” I know not whether it was his old friendship for m3' uncle, or my proper merits, which won the heart of this the sternest rufffan of Robespierre’s crew ; but certain it is, that he became strangely attached to me, and kept me constantly about his person. As for the priesthood and the Greek, the3’ were of course very soon out of the question. The Austrians were on our frontier ; every day brought us accounts of battles won ; and the youth of Strasburg, and of all France, indeed, were bursting with military ardor. As for me, I shared the general mania, and speedil3’ mounted a cockade as large as that of my friend, the executioner. The occupations of this worth3' were unremitting. Saint 9 130 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. Just, who had come down from Paris to preside over our town^ executed the laws and the aristocrats with terrible punctuality ; and Schneider used to make countiy excursions in search of offenders with this fellow, as a provost- marshal, at his back. In the meantime, having entered my sixteenth year, and being a proper lad of m3' age, I had joined a regiment of cavalry, and was scampering now after the Austrians who menaced us, and now threatening the Emigres, who were banded at Coblentz. M}’ love for my dear cousin increased as mj^ whiskers grew ; and when I was scarcely seventeen, I thought myself man enough to many her, and to cut the throat of an}" one who should venture to say me nay. I need not tell you that during my absence at Strasburg, great changes had occurred in our little village, and somewhat of the revolutionary rage iiad penetrated even to that quiet and distant place. The hideous “ h'ete of the Supreme Being ” had been celebrated at Paris ; the practice of our ancient religion was forbidden ; its professors were most of them in conceal- ment, or in exile, or had expiated on the scaffold their crime of Christianity. In our poor village my uncle’s church was closed, and he, himself, an inmate in m3' brother’s house, 011I3' owing his safety to his great popularit}' among his former flock, and the influence of Edward Ancel. The latter had taken in the Revolution a somewhat promi- nent part ; that is, he had engaged in man}' contracts for the army, attended the clubs regularly, corresponded with the au- thorities of his department, and was loud in his denunciations of the aristocrats in the neighborhood. But owing, perhaps, to the German origin of the peasantry, and their quiet and rustic lives, the revolutionary fury which prevailed in the cities had hardly reached the countiy people. The occasional visit of a commissaiy from Paris or Strasburg served to keep the flame ^alive, and to remind the rural sw'ains of the existence of a j Republic in France. Now and then, when I could gain a week’s leave of absence, I returned to the village, and was received w"ith tolerable polite- ness b}" m3' uncle, and with a warmer feeling b}' his daughter. I won’t describe to 3'ou the [irogress of our love, or the w"rath of my uncle Edward, when he discovered that it still continued. He sw'ore and he stormed ; he locked Maiy into her chamber, and vowed that he would withdraw the allowance he made me, if ever I ventured near her. His daughter, he said, should never many a hopeless, penniless subaltern ; and Mary declared she would not many without his consent. What had I to do ? — THE STORY OF MAUI YNCEL. 131 to despair and to leave her. As for iny poor uncle Jacob, lie had no counsel to give me, and, indeed, no spirit left : his little church was turned into a stable, his surplice torn off his shoulders, and he was onl}^ too luck}’ in keeping his head on them. A bright thought struck him : suppose you were to ask the advice of 1113’ old friend Schneider regarding this marriage? he has ever been 3'our friend, and ma3’^ help 3'ou now as bC' fore. (Here the Captain paused a little.) You ma}' fanc}’ (con^ tinned he) that it was droll advice of a reverend gentleman like uncle Jacob to counsel me in this manner, and to bid me make friends with such a murderous cut-throat as Schneider; but we thought nothing of it in those days ; guillotining was as common as dancing, and a man was onh^ thought the better patriot the more severe he might be. 1 departed forthwith to Strasburg, and requested the vote and intei’est of the Citizen President of the Committee of Public Safet3^ He heard me with a great deal of attention. I described to liim most minutel}^ the circumstance, expatiated upon the charms of m3" dear Mary, and painted her to him from head to foot. Her golden hair and her bright blushing cheeks, her slim waist and her tripping tiii3" feet ; and furthermore, I added that she possessed a fortune which ought, b3" rights, to be mine, but for the miserly old father. “Curse him for an aristocrat ! ” concluded I, in m3" wrath. As I had been discoursing about Maiy’s charms Schneider listened with much complacenc3" and attention : when I spoke about her fortune, his interest redoubled ; and when I called her father an aristocrat, the wortli3" ex- Jesuit gave a grin of satisfaction, which was really quite terrible. O fool that I was to trust him so far ! The veiy same evening an officer waited upon me with the following note from Saint Just : — “ Strasburg, Fifth }"ear of the Republic, one and indivisible, 11 Ventose. “ The citizen Pierre Ancel is to leave Strasburg within two hours, and to carry the enclosed despatches to the President of the Committee of Public Safety at Paris. The necessary leave of absence from his military duties has been provided. Instant punishment will follow the slightest delay on the road. Salut et Fraternite'.” There was no choice but obedience, and off I sped on^my weary way to the capital. 132 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. As I was riding out of the Paris gate I met an equipage which I knew to be that of Schneider. The ruffian smiled at me as I passed, and wished me a bon voyage. Behind his chariot came a curious machine, or cart ; a great basket, three stout poles, and several planks, all painted red, were lying in this vehicle, on the top of which was seated my friend with the big coekade. It was the portable guillotine which Schneider always carried with him on his travels. The bourreau was reading “ The Sorrows of Werter,” and looked as sentimental as usual. I will not speak of my voyage in order to relate to you Schneider’s. My story had awakened the wretch’s curiosity and avarice, and he was determined that such a prize as I had shown my cousin to be should fall into no hands but his own. No sooner, in fact, had I quitted his room than he procured the order for my absence, and was on the way to Steinbach as I met him. The journey is not a very long one ; and on the next day my uncle Jacob was surprised b}’ receiving a message that the citizen Schneider was in the village, and was coming to greet his old friend. Old Jacob was in an ecstas3% for he longed to see his college acquaintance, and he hoped also that Schneider had come into that part of the countr}" upon the marriage- business of 3’our humble servant. Of course Mary was sum- moned to give her best dinner, and wear her best frock ; and her father made read3^ to receive the new State dignitary. Schneider’s carriage speedily rolled into the court-3"ard, and Schneider’s cart followed, as a matter of course. The ex- priest onl3" entered the house ; his companion remaining with the horses to dine in private. Here was a most touching meeting between him and Jacob. The3^ talked over their old college pranks and successes ; the3" capped Greek verses, and quoted ancient epigrams upon their tutors, who had been dead since the Seven Years’ War. Mar3^ declared it was quite touching to listen to the merry friendly talk of these two old gentlemen. After the conversation had continued for a time in this strain, Schneider drew up all of a sudden, and said quietl3', that he had come on particular and unpleasant business — hinting about troublesome times, spies, evil reports, and so forth. Then he called uncle Edward aside, and had with him a long and earnest conversation: so Jacob went out and talked with Schneider’s friend; they speedily became very intimate, for the ruffian detailed all the circumstances of his interview with me. When he returned into the house, some time after THE STORY OF MARY ANGEL. 133 this pleasing colloquy, he found the tone of the society strangely altered. Edward Ancel, pale as a sheet, trembling, and crying for mercy ; poor Maiy weeping ; and Schneider pacing ener- getically about the apartment, raging about the rights of man, the punishment of traitors, and the one and indivisible Republic. “Jacob,” he said, as my uncle entered the room, “ I was willing, for the sake of our old friendship, to forget the crimes of your brother. He is a known and dangerous aristocrat ; he holds communications with the enemy on the frontier ; he is a possessor of great and ill-gotten wealth, of which he has plun- dered the Republic. Do 3’ou know,” said he, turning to lulward Ancel, “ where the least of these crimes, or the mere suspicion of them, would lead you?” Poor Edward sat trembling in his chair, and answered not a word. He knew full well how quickly, in this dreadful time, punishment followed suspicion ; and, though guiltless of all treason with the enemy, perhaps he was aware that, in certain contracts with the Government, he had taken to himself a more than patriotic share of pro tit. “ Do you know,” resumed Schneider, in a voice of thunder, “ for what purpose 1 came hither, and b}’ whom I am accom^ panied ? I am the administrator of the justice of the Republic. The life of yourself and 3"our famil3" is in my hands : 3’onder man, who follows me, is the executor of the law ; he has rid the nation of hundreds of wretches like yourself. A single word from me, and 3'our doom is sealed without hope, and 3’our last hour is come. Ho! Gregoire I ” shouted he; “is all ready ? ” Gregoire replied from the court, “ I can put up the machine in half an hour. Shall I go down to the village and call the troops and the law people ? ” “Do you hear him?” said Schneider. “The guillotine is in the court-3’ard ; 3'our name is on my list, and I have witnesses to prove 3^our crime. Have 3’Ou a word in 3’our defence ? ” Not a word came ; the old gentleman was dumb ; but his daughter, who did not give way to his terror, spoke for him. “ Y^ou cannot, sir,” said she, “although 3^011 say it, feel that my father is guilt3^ ; 3^011 would not have entered our house thus alone if 30U had thought it. Y^ou threaten him in this manner because 3'ou have something to ask and to gain from us : what is it, citizen? — tell us how much 3’ou value our lives, and what sum we are to pa}^ for our ransom? ” 134 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. “ Sum ! ” said uncle Jacob ; “ he does not want money of us : my old friend, m3' college chum, does not come hither to drive bargains with an3'bod3' belonging to Jacob Ancel?” “Oh, no, sir, no, you can’t want money of us,” shrieked Edward; “we are the poorest people of the village: ruined. Monsieur Schneider, ruined in the cause of the Republic.” “Silence, father,” said my brave Maiy ; “ this man wants a price : he comes, with his wortli}' friend yonder, to frighten ns, not to kill us. If we die, he cannot touch a sou of our mone}' ; it is confiscated to the State. Tell us, sir, what is the price of our safet}'? ” Schneider smiled, and bowed with perfect politeness. “Mademoiselle Marie,” he said, “is perfectl}' correct in her surmise. I do not want the life of this poor drivelling old man : m3' intentions are much more peaceable, be assured. It rests entirely with this accomplished young lady (whose spirit I like, and whose reacl3' wit I admire), whether the business between us shall be a matter of love or death. I humbl3^ offer m3'self, citizen Ancel, as a candidate for the hand of 3'our charm- ing daughter. Her goodness, her beaut3', and the large fortune which I know 3’ou intend to give her, would render her a desir- able match for the proudest man in the republic, and, I am sure, would make me the happiest.” “ This must be a jest. Monsieur Schneider,” said Maiy, trembling, and turning deadl3' pale : “ you cannot mean this ; 3'ou do not know me : 3'ou never heard of me until to-day.” “ Pardon me, belle dame,” replied he ; “ your cousin Pierre has often talked to me of 3'Our virtues ; indeed, it was by his special suggestion that I made the visit.” “It is false ! — it is a base and cowardl3' lie ! ” exclaimed she (for the 3*oung lady’s courage was up), — “Pierre never could have forgotten himself and me so as to offer me to one like you. You come here with a lie on your lips — a lie against m3' father, to swear his life awa3', against m3' dear cousin’s honor and love. It is useless now to deny it : father, I love Pierre Ancel ; I will many no other but him no, though our last penu3' were paid to this man as the price of our freedom.” Schneider’s 011I3' repl3' to this was a call to his friend Gre- goire. ‘ ‘ Send down to the village for the maire and some gen- darmes ; and tell 3'our people to make ready.” “ Shall I put the machine up? ” shouted he of the sentimental turn. “ You hear him,” said Schneider ; “ Marie Ancel, you may THE STORY OF ]MARY AXCEL. 135 decide the fate of your father. I shall return in a few hours,” concluded he, “ and will then beg to know 3’our decision.” The advocate of the rights of man then left the apartment, and left the famil}*, as you may imagine, in no very pleasant mood. Old uncle Jacob, during the few minutes which had elapsed in the enactment of this strange scene, sat staring wildly at Schneider, and holding Maiy on his knees : the poor little thing had lied to him for protection, and not to her father, who was kneeling almost senseless at the window, gazing at the executioner and his hideous preparations. The instinct of the poor girl had not failed her; she knew that Jacob was her only protector, if not of her life — heaven bless him ! — of her honor. “Indeed,” the old man said, in a stout voice, “this must never be, my dearest child — you must not many this man. If it be the will of Providence that we fall, we shall have at least the thought to console us that we die innocent. An}’ man in France at a time like this, would be a coward and traitor if he feared to meet the fate of the thousand brave and good who have preceded us.” “Who speaks of dying?” said Edward. “ Y"ou, Brother Jacob? — you would not la}' that poor girl’s head on the scaf- fold, or mine, your dear brother’s. Y"ou will not let us die, Mary ; you will not, for a small sacrifice, bring your poor old father into danger ? ” Mary made no answer. “Perhaps, she said, “there is time for escape : he is to be here but in two hours ; in two hours we may be safe, in concealment, or on the frontier.” And she rushed to the door of the chamber, as if she would have instantly made the attempt : two gendarmes were at the door. “ We have orders, Mademoiselle,” they said, “ to allow no one to leave this apartment until the return of the citizen Schneider.” Alas ! all hope of escape was impossible. Mary became quite silent for a while ; she would not speak to uncle Jacob ; and, in reply to her father’s eager questions, she only replied, coldly, that she would answer Schneider when he arrived. The two dreadful hours passed avv’ay only too quickly ; and, punctual to his appointment, the ex-monk appeared. Directly he entered, Mary advanced to him, and said, calmly, — “ Sir, I could not deceive } ou if I said that I freely accepted the offer which you have made me. I will be your wife ; but I tell you that I love another ; and that it is only to save the lives of those two old men that 1 yield my person up to you.” 136 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. Schneider bowed, and said, — “ It is bravely spoken. I like your candor — your beauty. As for the love, excuse me for saying that is a matter of total indifference. I have no doubt, however, that it will come as soon as your feelings in favor of the young gentleman, 3^our cousin, have lost their present fervor. That engaging 3'oung man has, at present, another mistress — Glor3\ He occupies, I believe, the distinguished post of corporal in a regiment which is about to march to — Perpignan, I believe.” It was, in fact. Monsieur Schneider’s polite intention to banish me as far as possible from the place of my birth ; and he had, accordingly, selected the Spanish frontier as the spot where I was to display my future military talents. Mary gave no answer to this sneer : she seemed perfectly resigned and calm : she onty said, — “ I must make, however, some conditions regarding oui proposed marriage, which a gentleman of Monsieur Schneider’s gallantry cannot refuse.” “Pray command me,” replied the husband elect. “Fair lad3", you know I am 3^our slave.” “ You occupy a distinguished political rank, citizen repre^ sentative,” said she; “and we in our village are likewise known and beloved. I should be ashamed, I confess, to wed 3"Ou here ; for our people would wonder at the sudden marriage, and impl3" that it was onty by compulsion that I gave 3'ou my hand. Let us, then, perform this ceremony at Strasburg, before the public authorities of the cit3^ with the state and solemnit3^ which befits the marriage of one of the chief men of the Republic.” “Be it so, madam,” he answered, and gallantly proceeded to embrace his bride. Mary did not shrink from this ruffian’s kiss ; nor did she repl3" when poor old Jacob, who sat sobbing in a corner, burst out, and said, — “ O Maiy, Mary, I did not think this of thee ! ” “ Silence, brother ! ” hastily said Edward ; “ ny^ good son- in-law will pardon 3’our ill-humor.” I believe uncle Edward in his heart was pleased at the no- tion of the marriage ; he only^ cared for money and rank, and was little scrupulous as to the means of obtaining them. The matter then was finall3^ arranged ; and presentl3’, after Schneider had transacted the affairs which brought him into that part of the countiy, the happ3" bridal part3" set forward for Strasburg. Uncles Jacob and Edward occupied the back sea^ THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL. 137 of the old family carriage, and the young bride and bridegroom (he was nearl}^ Jacob’s age) were seated majestically in front. Mary has often since talked to me of this dreadful journey. She said she* wondered at the scrupulous politeness of Schneider during the route ; nay, that at another period she could have listened to and admired the singular talent of this man, his great learning, his fancy, and wit ; but her mind was bent upon other things, and the poor girl firmly thought that her last day was come. In the meantime, b}' a blessed chance, I had not ridden three leagues fi’om Strasburg, when the officer of a passing troop of a cavalry regiment, looking at the beast on which I was mounted, was pleased to take a fancy to it, and ordered me, in an authoritative tone, to descend, and to give up my steed for the benefit of the Republic. I represented to him, in vain, that I was a soldier, like himself, and the bearer of despatches to Paris. “Fool!” he said; “do 3’ou think the^' would send despatches bj^ a man who can ride at best but ten leagues a da^^?” And the honest soldier was so wroth at my supposed duplicit}", that he not only confiscated my horse, but my saddle, and the little portmanteau which contained the chief part of m}^ worldlj* goods and treasure. I had nothing for it but to dismount, and take 1113^ wa3" on foot back again to Stras- burg. I arrived there in the evening, determining the next morning to make m3" case known to the citizen St. Just ; and though I made my entry without a sou, I don’t know what secret exultation I felt at again being able to return. The ante-chamber of such a great man as St. Just was, in those days, too crowded for an unprotected boy to obtain an early audience ; two days passed before I could obtain a sight of the friend of Robespierre. On the third day, as I was still waiting for the interview, I heard a great bustle in the court- 3'ard of the house, and looked out with many others at the spectacle. A number of men and women, singing epithalamiums, and dressed in some absurd imitation of Roman costume, a troop of soldiers and gendarmerie, and an immense crowd of the hadaiids of Strasburg, were surrounding a carriage which then entered the court of the mayoralty. In this carriage, great God ! I saw my dear Mary, and Schneider by her side. The truth instantly came upon me : the reason for Schneider’s keen inquiries and my abrupt dismissal ; but I could not believe that Mary was false to me. T had onlv to look in her face, 138 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. white and rigid as marble, to see that this proposed marriage was not with her consent. I fell back in the crowd as the procession entered the great room in which I was, and hid my face in m3" hands : I could not look upon iier as the wife of another, — upon her so long loved and truly — the saint of m3"- childhood — the pride and hope of m3" 3"onth — torn from me for ever, and delivered over to the unhol3" arms of the murderer who stood before me. The door of St. Just’s private apartment opened, and he took his seat at the table of ma3"oralt3" just as Schneider and his cortege arrived before it. Schneider then said that he came in before the authorities of the Republic to espouse the citoyenne Marie Ancel. “ Is she a minor?” asked St. Just. “ She is a minor, but her father is here to give her awa3".” “I am here,” said uncle Edward, coming eagerty forward and bowing. “ Edward Ancel, so please you, citizen repre- sentative. The worthy citizen Schneider has done me the honor of marrying into m3^ famih".” “ But my father has not told you the terms of the marriage,” said Maiy, interrupting him, in a loud, clear voice. Here Schneider seized her hand, and endeavored to prevent her from speaking. Her father turned pale, and cried, “ Stop, Mary, stop ! P"or heaven’s sake, remember your poor old father’s danger ! ” “ Sir, may I speak?” “ Let the young woman speak,” said St. Just, “ if she have a desire to talk.” He did not suspect what would be the pur- port of her story. “Sir,” she said, “two days since the citizen Schneider entered for the first time our house ; and 3"ou will fancy that it must be a love of very sudden growth which has brought either him or me before you to-day. He had heard from a person who is now unhappily not present, of my name and of the wealth which m3" family was said to possess ; and hence arose this mad design concerning me. He came into our village with supreme power, an executioner at his heels, and the soldiery and author- ities of the district entirel3" under his orders. He threatened my father with death if he refused to give up his daughter ; and I, who knew that there was no chance of escape, except here before 3"Ou, consented to become his wife. M3" father I know to be innocent, for all his transactions with the State have passed through my hands. Citizen representative, I demand to be freed from this marriage ; and I charge Schneider as a THE STORY OF MARY ANGEL. 139 traitor to the Republic, as a man who would have murdered an innocent citizen for the sake of private gain.” During the deliveiy of this little speech, uncle Jacob had been sobbing and panting like a broken-winded horse ; and when Mary had done, he rushed up to her and kissed her, and held her tight in his arms. “ Bless thee, my child ! ” he cried, “ for having had the courage to speak the truth, and shame thy old fatlier and me, who dared not say a word.” “The girl amazes me,” said Schneider, with a look of astonishment. “ I never saw her, it is true, till yesterday ; but I used no force : her father gave her to me with his free con- sent, and she yielded as gladly. Speak, Edward Ancel, was it not so ? ” “ It was, indeed, by my free consent,” said Edward, trem- bling. “For shame, brother ! ” cried old Jacob. “ Sir, it was b}^ Edward’s free consent and 1113^ niece’s ; but the guillotine was in the court-yard ! Question Schneider’s famulus, the man Gregoire, him who reads ‘ The Sorrows of Werter.’” Gregoire stepped forward, and looked hesitating!}- at Schneider, as he said, “ I know not what took place within doors ; but I was ordered to put up the scaffold without ; and I was told to get soldiers, and let no one leave the house.” “Citizen St. Just,” cried Schneider, “you will not allow the testimon}- of a ruffian like this, of a foolish girl, and a mad ex-priest, to w-eigh against the word of one who has done such service to the Republic : it is a base conspiracy to betra}- me ; the whole family is known to favor the interest of the emigres.'' “ And therefore 3-ou would many a member of the famil}-, and allow the others to escape ; you must make a better defence, citizen Schneider,” said St. Just, sternl}-. Here I came forward, and said that, three days since, I had received an order to quit Strasburg for Paris immediately after a conversation with Schneider, in which I had asked him his aid in promoting my marriage with m3- cousin, Mary Ancel ; that he had heard from me full accounts regarding her father’s wealth ; and that he had abruptly caused 1113- dismissal, in order to cany on his scheme against her. “ You are in the uniform of a regiment of this town ; who sent 3-0U from it?” said St. Just. I produced the order, signed by himself, and the despatches W'hich Schneider had sent me. “ The signature is mine, but the despatches did not come 140 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. from my office. Can you prove in any way your conversation with Schneider?” “ Why,” said my sentimental friend Gregoire, “ for the matter of that, I can answer that the lad was always talking about this .young woman : he told me the whole story himself, and many a good laugh I had with citizen Schneider as we talked about it.” “ The charge against Edward Ancel must be examined into,” said St. Just. “The marriage cannot take place. But if I had ratified it, Mary Ancel, what then would have been your course ? ” Mary felt for a moment in her bosom, and said — “ would have died to-night — I would have stabbed him with this dagger y * The rain was beating down the streets, and yet they were thronged ; all the world was hastening to the market-place, where the worthy Gregoire was about to perform some of the pleasant duties of his office. On this occasion, it was not death that he was to inflict ; he was only to expose a criminal who was to be sent on afterwards to Paris. St. Just had ordered that Schneider should stand for six hours in the public place of Strasburg, and then be sent on to the capital to be dealt with as the authorities might think fit. The people followed with execrations the villain to his place of punishment ; and Gregoire grinned as he fixed up to the post the man whose orders he had obe}"ed so often — who had de- livered over to disgrace and punishment so many who merited it not. Schneider was left for several hours exposed to the mockery and insults of the mob ; he was then, according to his sentence, marched on to Paris, where it is probable that he would have escaped death, but for his own fault. He was left for some time in prison, quite unnoticed, perhaps forgotten : day b}^ day fresh victims were carried to the scaffold, and }"et the Alsacian tribune remained alive ; at last, by the mediation of one of his friends, a long petition was presented to Robespierre, stating his services and his innocence, and demanding his freedom. The reply to this was an order for his instant execution : the wretch died in the last days of Robespierre’s reign. His com- rade, St. Just, followed him, as you know ; but Edward Ancel * This reply, and, indeed, the whole of the story, is historical. An account, by Charles Nodier, in the Reime Paris, suggested it to the writer. THE STORY OF MARY ANGEL. 141 had been released before this, for the action of my brave Mary liad created a strong feeling in his favor. ‘ ‘ And Mary ? ” said I. Here a stout and smiling old lad}" entered the Captain’s little room ; she was leaning on the arm of a militaiy-looking man of some forty years, and followed by a number of noisy, ros}" children. This is Mary Ancel,” said the Captain, “ and I am Cap- tain Pierre, and yonder is the Colonel, my son ; and you see us here assembled in force, for it is the fete of little Jacob yonder, whose brothers and sisters have all come from their schools to dance at his birthday.” BEATRICE MERGER. Beatrice Merger, whose name might figure at the head of one of Mr. Colburn’s politest romances — so smooth and aris- tocratic does it- sound — is no heroine, except of her own simple history ; she is not a fashionable French Countess, nor even a victim of the Revolution. She is a stout, sturd}^ girl of two-and-twenty, with a face beaming with good nature, and marked dreadfully by small- pox ; and a pair of black eyes, which might have done some execution had they been placed in a smoother face. Beatrice’s station in society is not very exalted ; she is a servant of all- work : she will dress }^our wife, your dinner, your children ; she does beefsteaks and plain work ; she makes beds, blacks boots, and waits at table ; — such, at least, were the offices which she performed in the fashionable establishment of the writer of this book : perhaps her history may not inaptly occupy a few pages of it. “My father died,” said Beatrice, “about six years since, and left my poor mother with little else but a small cottage and a strip of land, and four children too }^oung to work. It was hard enough in my father’s time to supply so many little raoiiths with food ; and how was a poor widowed woman to provide for them now, who had neither the strength nor the opportunity for labor ? “Besides us, to be sure, there was my old aunt; and she would have helped us, but she could not, for the old woman is bed-ridden ; so she did nothing but occupy our best room, and grumble from morning till night : heaven know’S, poor old soul, that she had no great reason to be veiy happy ; for you know, BEATRICE MERGER. 143 sir, that it frets the temper to be sick ; and that it is worse still to be sick and himgiy too. “ At that time, in the country where we lived (in Picardy, not very far from Boulogne), times were so bad that the best workman could hardl}^ find emplo}^ ; and when he did, he was happy if he could earn a matter of twelve sons a day. Mother, work as she would, could not gain more than six ; and it was a hard job, out of this, to put meat into six bellies, and clothing on six backs. Old Aunt Bridget would scold, as she got her portion of black bread ; and m3’ little brothers used to ciy if theirs did not come in time. I, too, used to cry when I got iny share ; for mother kept 011I3’ a little, little piece for her- self, and said that she had dined in the fields, — God pardon her for the lie ! and bless her, as I am sure He did ; for, but for Him, no working man or woman could subsist upon such a wretched morsel as m3" dear mother took. “ I was a thin, ragged, barefooted girl, then, and sickty and weak for want of food ; but I think I felt mother’s hunger more than m3" own : and many and mau3" a bitter night I la3’ awake, crying, and praying to God to give me means of working for myself and aiding her. And he has, indeed, been good to me,” said pious Beatrice, “ for He has given me all this ! “ Well, time rolled on, and matters grew worse than ever : winter came, and was colder to us than aiy’ other winter, for our clothes were thinner and more torn ; mother sometimes could find no work, for the fields in which she labored were hidden under the snow ; so that when we wanted them most we had them least — warmth, work, or food, “ I knew that, do what I would, mother would never let me leave her, because T looked to my little brothers and my old cripple of an aunt ; but still, bread was better for us than all my service ; and when I left them the six would have a slice more ; so I determined to bid good-by to nobody, but to go away, and look for work elsewhere. One Sunda3", when mother and the little ones were at church, I went in to Aunt Bridget, and said, ‘ Tell mother, when she comes back, that Beatrice is gone.’ I spoke quite stoutly, as if I did not care about it. “ ‘ Gone ! gone where ? ’ said she. ‘ You ain’t going to leave me alone, you nasty thing ; 3’ou ain’t going to the village to dance, you ragged, barefooted slut : you’re all of a piece in this house — your mother, 3’our brothers, and you. I know vou’ve got meat in the kitchen, and you only give me black bread ; ’ and here the old lad3" l)egan to scream as if her heart would break ; but we did not mind it, we were so used to it. 144 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. “ ‘ Aunt,’ said I, ‘ I’m going, and took this very opportunity because 3*011 were alone : tell mother I am too old now to eat her bread, and do no work for it : I am going, please God, where work and bread can be found : ’ and so I kissed her : she was so astonished that she could not move or speak ; and I walked away through the old room, and the little garden, God knows whither ! “ I heal'd the old woman screaming after me, but I did not stop nor turn round. I don’t think I could, for m3" heart was veiy full ; and if I had gone back again, 1 should never have had the courage to go away. So 1 walked a long, long wa3", until night fell ; and I thought of poor mother coming home from mass, and not finding me ; and little Pierre shouting out, in his clear voice, for Beatrice to bring him his supper. I think I should like to have died that night, and I thought I should too ; for when I was obliged to throw m3"self on the cold, hard ground, my* feet were too torn and weaiy to bear me any" further. “Just then the moon got up; and do y*ou know I felt a comfort in looking at it, for I knew it was shining on our little cottage, and it seemed like an old friend’s face? A little way" on, as I saw by the moon, was a village : and I saw, too, that a man was coming towards me ; he must have heard me crying, I suppose. “Was not God good to me? This* man was a farmer, who had need of a girl in his house ; he made me tell him why I was alone, and I told him the same story I have told y*ou, and he believed me and took me home. I had walked six long leagues from our village that day*, asking everywhere for work in vain ; and here, at bedtime, I found a bed and a supper ! “ Here I lived very well for some months ; my master was very good and kind to me ; but, unluckily", too poor to give me any wages ; so that I could save nothing to send to my poor mother. My" mistress used to scold ; but I was used to that at home, from Aunt Bridget : and she beat me sometimes, but I did not mind it ; for your hardy* country* girl is not like y*our tender town lasses, who cry if a pin pricks them, and give warning to their mistresses at the first hard word. The only* drawback to my* comfort was, that I had no news of my mother ; I could not write to her, nor could she have read my" letter, if I had ; so there I was, at only six leagues’ distance from home, as far off as if I had been to Paris or to ’Merica. “ However, in a few months I grew so listless and homesick, that my mistress said she v/^ld keep me no longer ; and though BEATRICE MERGER. 145 T went away as poor as I came, I was still too glad to go back lo the old village again, and see dear mother, if it were but for a da}\ I knew she would share her crust with me, as she had done for so long a time before ; and hoped that, now, as I was taller and stronger, 1 might find work more easily in the neigh- borhood. “ A^ou may fancy what a fete it was when I came back; though I’m sure we cried as much as if it had been a funeral. Mother got into a fit, whicli frightened us all ; aud as for Aunt Bridget, she skreeled away for hours together, and did not scold for two days at least. Little Pierre offered me the whole of his supper ; poor little man ! his slice of bread was no bigger than before I went away. Well, 1 got a little work here and a little there; but still I was a burden at home rather than a bread-winner ; and, at the closing-in of the winter, was very glad to hear of a place at two leagues’ distance, where work, they said, was to be had. Ort‘ I set, one morning, to find it, but missed mj’ way, somehow, until it was night-time before I arrived. Night-time and snow again ; it seemed as if all my journeys were to be made in this bitter weather. “ When I came to the farmer’s door, his house was shut up, and his people all a-bed ; -I knocked for a long while in vain ; at last he made his appearaiTce at a window ui) stairs, and seemed so frightened, and looked so angry that 1 suppose he took me for a thief. I told him how I had come for work. ‘ Who comes for work at such an hour? ’ said he. ‘ Go home, you impudent baggage, and do not disturb honest people out of their sleep.’ He banged the window to ; and so I was left alone to shift for m 3 'self as I might. There was no shed, no cow-house, where I could find a bed ; so I got under a cart, on some straw ; it was no veiy warm berth. I could not sleep for the cold: and the hours passed so slowl}", that it seemed as if I had been there a week instead of a night ; but still it was not so bad as the first night when I left home, and when the good farmer found me. “In the morning, before it was light, the farmer’s people came out, and saw me crouching under the cart : they told me to get up ; but I was so cold that I could not : at last the man himself came, and recognized me as the girl who had disturbed him the night before. When he heard my name, and the pur- pose for which I came, this good man took me into the house, and put me into one of the beds out of which his sons had just got ; and, if I was cold before, you may be sure I was w _,rm and 146 Till: PARIS SKETCH BOOK. comforUible now ! such ii l)ed as this I had never slept in, nor ever did I have such good milk-soup as he gave me out of his own breakfast. Well, he agreed to hire me ; and what do 3 011 think he gave me ? — six sous a da}" ! and let me sleep in the cow-house besides : you ma}" fanc}" how happ}" I was now, at the prospect of earning so much mone}". “ There was an old woman among the laborers who used to sell us soup : I got a cupful every da}" for a half-penny, with a bit of bread in it ; and might eat as much beet-root besides as I liked ; not a very wholesome meal, to be sure, but God took care that it should not disagree with me. “ So, every Saturday, when work was over, I had thirty sous to carry home to motlier ; and tired though I was, I walked merrily the two leagues to our village, to see her again. On the road there was a great wood to pass through, and this frightened me ; for if a thief should come and rob me of my whole week’s earnings, what could a poor lone girl do to help herself? But I found a remedy for this too, and no thieves ever came near me ; I used to begin saying my prayers as I entered the forest, and never stopped until I was safe at home ; and safe I always ari'ived, with my thirty sous in my pocket. Ah ! you may be sure, Sunday was a merry day for us all.” This is the whole of Beatrice’s history which is worthy of publication ; the rest of it only relates to her arrival in Paris, and the various masters and mistresses whom she there had the honor to serve. As soon as she enters the capital the romance disappears, and the poor girl’s sufferings and privations luckily vanish with it. Beatrice has got now warm gowns, and stout shoes, and plenty of good food. She has had her little brother from Picardy ; clothed, fed, and educated him : that young gentleman is now a carpenter, and an honor to his profession. IMadame Merger is in easy circumstances, and receives, yearly, fifty francs from her daughter. To crown all, Alademoiselle Beatrice herself is a funded proprietor, and consulted the writer of this biography as to the best method of laying out a capital of two hundred francs, which is the present amount of her for- tune. God bless her ! she is richer than his Grace the Duke of Devonshire ; and, I dare say, has, in her humble walk, been more virtuous and more happy than all the dukes in the realm. It is, indeed, for the benefit of dukes and such great peo- ple (who, I make no doubt, have long since ordered copies of these Sketches), that poor little Beatrice’s story has been in- .. BEATRICE MERGER. 147 dited. Certain it is, that the young woman would never have been immortalized in this way, but for the good which her bet- ters may derive from her example. If vour ladyship will but reflect a little, after boasting of the sums which 3'ou spend in chariU' ; the beef and blankets whicli von dole out at Christ- mas ; tlie poonah-painting which \’ou exc'cute for fanc}’ fairs ; the long, long sermons whicli vou listen to at St. George’s, the whole year through ; — 3'our ladvshi[), I sav, will allow that, although perfectlv meritorious in \ oiir line, as a patroness of the Church of England, of Almack’s, and of the Lying-in As}'- lum, 3’ours is but a paltrv sphere of virtue, a pitiful attempt at benevolence, and that this honest servant-girl puts 3^011 to shame! And 3'ou, iiyy Lord Bishop; do 3011, out of 3'our six sous a da3', give awa3' five to su[)})ort your Hock and famil3’? Would you dro[) a single coach-horse (I do not say, a dinner, for such a notion is monstrous, in one of your lordship’s degree), to feed any one of the starving children of your lordship’s mother — the Church ? I pause for a re[)l3\ Ills lordship took too much turtle and cold punch for dinner 3^sterda3', and cannot speak just now : but we have, by this ingenious question, silenced him altogether : let the world wag as it will, and poor Christians and curates starve as thc3’ nia3', my lord’s footmen must have their new liveries, and his horses their four feeds a da3'. When we recollect his speech about the Catholics — when we remember his last charit3' sermon, — but I say nothing. Here is a poor benighted superstitious creature, worshipping images, without a rag to her tail, who has as much faith, and liumilit3’, and charit3’ as all the reverend bench. This angel is without a place ; and for this reason (besides the pleasure of composing the above slap at episcopac3^) — I have indited her histoiy. If the Bishop is going to Paris, and ■wants a good honest maid-of-all-work, he can have her, I have no doubt ; or if he chooses to give a few pounds to her mother, the3^ can be sent to Mr. Titmarsh, at the publisher’s. Here is IMiss Merger’s last letter and autograph. The note was evidentl3^ composed b3^ an Ecrivain public : — '‘^Madame, — Ayant aprispar ce Monsieur, que vous vans portiez hien, ainsi que Monsieur, ayant su aussi que vous parliez de moi dans votre lettre cette nouvelle m' a fait hien plaisir Je profite de V occa- sion pour vous faire passer ce petit billet ou Je voudrais pouvoif 148 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. rrC envelo'per pour alter vous voir et pour vous dire que Je suis en- core sans place Je miennuye tojours de ne pas vous voir ainsi que Minette {Minette is a cat) qui semble wHinterroger tour a tour et demander ou vous etes. Je vous envoy e aussi la note du linge a Uanchir — ah^ Madame! Jevais cesser de vous ecrire mais non de vous regretter^ CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY IN PARIS. Fifty years ago there lived at Munich a poor fellow, bj name Aloys Senefelder, who was in so little repute as an author and artist, that printers and engravers refused to publish his works at their own charges, and so set him upon some plan for doing vvitliout their aid. In the first place, Aloys invented a certain kind of ink, which would resist the action of the acid that is usuall}' employed by engravers, and with this he made his experiments upon copper-plates, as long as he could afford to purchase them. He found that to write upon the plates backwards, after the manner of engravers, required much skill and many trials ; and he thought that, were he to practise upon an}" other polished surface — a smooth stone, for instance, the least costly article imaginable — he might spare the expense of the copper until he had sufficient skill to use it. One day, it is said, that Aloys was called upon to write — rather a humble composition for an author and artist — a wash- ing-bill. He had no paper at hand, and so he wrote out the bill w"ith some of his newl}"-invented ink upon one of his Kel- heim stones. Some time afterwards he thought he would tr}^ and take an impression of his washing-bill : he did, and suc- ceeded. Such is the stoiy, which the reader most likely knows veiy well ; and having alluded to the origin of the art, we shall not follow the stream through its windings and enlargement after it issued from the little parent rock, or fill our pages with the rest of the pedigree. Senefelder invented Lithography. His invention has not made so much noise and larum in the world as some others, which have an origin quite as humble and unromantic ; but it is one to which we owe no small profit, and a great deal of pleasu'-'^ • and. as such, we are bound to 150 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. speak of it with all gratitude and respect. The schoolmaster, who is now abroad, has taught us, in our 3"outh, how the culti- vation of art “ emollit mores nec sinit esse” — (it is needless to finish the quotation) ; and Lithograph}" has been, to our think- ing, the very best ally that art ever had ; the best friend of the artist, allowing him to produce rapidly multiplied and authentic copies of his own works (without trusting to the tedious and expensive assistance of the engraver) ; and the best friend to the people likewise, who have means of purchasing these cheap and beautiful productions, and thus having their ideas “ molli- fied” and their manners “ feros” no more. With ourselves, among whom money is plenty, enterprise so great, and everything matter of commercial speculation. Lithography has not been so much practised as wood or steel engraving ; which, by the aid of great original capital and spread of sale, are able more than to compete with the art of drawing on stone. The two former may be called art done by machinery. We confess to a prejudice in favor of the honest work of hand,, in matters of art, and prefer the rough workman- ship of the painter to the smooth copies of his performances w"hich are produced, for the most part, on the wood-block or the steel-plate. The theory will possibly be objected to by many of our readers : the best proof in its favor, we think, is, that the state of art amongst the people in France and Germany, where pub- lishers are not so wealthy or enterprising as with us,* and where Lithography is more practised, is infinitely higher than in England, and the appreciation more correct. As draughts- men, the French and German painters are incomparably superior to our own ; and with art, as with any other commodity, the demand will be found pretty equal to the supply : with us, the general demand is for neatness, prettiness, and what is called effect in pictures, and these -can be rendered completely, nay, improved, by the engraver’s conventional manner of copying the artist’s performances. But to copy fine expression and fine drawing, the engraver himself must be a fine artist ; and let anybody examine the host of picture-books which appear every Christinas, and say whether, for the most part, painters or engravers possess any artistic merit? We boast, nevertheless, of some of the best engravers and painters in Europe. Here, * These countries are, to be sure, inundated with the productions of our market, in tlie shape of Byron Beauties, reprints from the “ Keep- sakes,” “ Books of Beauty,” and such trasli ; hut these are only of late years, and their original schools of art are still flourishing. CARTCATURTvS AXl) LITHOGRAPHY. 151 again, the snp[»ly is aecounted for by the demand ; our highest class is rieliei' tlniu any otlier aiistocraey, (jnite as well in- structed, and can judge and })ay for tine [)ictures and engravings. But these costly productions are lor the few, and not for the many, who liave not 3 'et certainl}’ arrived at properly appre- ciating fine art. Take the standard “ Album” for instance — that unfortunate collection of deformed Zuleikas and Medoras (from the “Byron Beauties”), the Flowers, Gems, ISouvenirs, Caskets of Loveli- ness, Beaut}’, as they may be called ; glaring caricatures of flowers, singly, in groups, in flower-pots, or with hideous deformed little Cupids sporting among them ; of what are called “ mezzotinto,” pencil-drawings, p<^oi^^li-P^^^^tings,” and what not. “ The Album ” is to be found invariably upon tlie round rosewood brass-inlaid drawing-room talfle of the middle classes, and with a couifle of “Annuals” besides, which flank it on the same table, represents the art of the house ; perhaps there is a porti'ait of the master of the house in the dining- room, grim-glancing fi’om above the mantel-piece ; and of tlie mistress over the piano u[) staii's ; add to these se ne odious miniatures of the sons and daughters, on each side of the chim- ney-glass ; and here, commonly (we ap[>eal to the reader if this is an overcharged picture), the collection ends. The family goes to the Exhibition once a year, to the National Galleiy once in ten years : to the former place they have an inducement to go ; there are their own portraits, or the portraits of their friends, or the poi’traits of public characters ; and you will see them infallibly wondering over Nv>. 2645 in the catalogue, rep- resenting “ The Portrait of a Lady,” or of the “ First Mayor of Little Pedlington since the passing of the Reform Bill ; ” or else bustling and squeezing among the miniatures, where lies the chief attraction of the Gallery. England has produced, owing to the effects of this class of admirers of art, two admi- rable, and five hundred very clever, portrait painters. Flow many arf/sts? Let the reader count upon his five fingers, and see if, living at the present moment, he can name one for each. If, from this examination of our own worthy middle classes, we look to the same class in France, what a difference do we find ! ITumble cafes in country towns have their walls covered with pleasing picture papers, representing “ Les Gloires de VArmee Frangaisef’ the “Seasons,” the “Four Quarters of the World,” “Cupid and Psyche,” or some other allegory, landscape or history, rudely painted, as papers for walls usu- ally are ; but the figures are all tolerably well drawn ; and the 152 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. common taste, which has caused a demand for such things, is undeniable. In Paris, the manner in which the cafes and houses of the restaurateurs are ornamented, is, of course, a thousand times richer, and nothing can be more beautiful, or more exquisite^ finished and correct, than the designs which adorn maii}^ of them. We are not prepared to say what sums were expended upon the painting of “ Very’s ” or “ Vefour’s,” of the “ Salle Musarcl,” or of numberless other places of public resort in the capital. There is many a shop-keeper whose sign is a ver}" tolerable picture ; and often have we stopped to admire (the reader will give us credit for having remained outside) the excellent workmanship of the grapes and vine-leaves over the door of some ver}^ humble, dirty, inodorous shop of a marchand de vin. These, however, serve only to educate the public taste, and are ornaments for the most part much too costly for the people. But the same love of ornament which is shown in their public places of resort, appears in their houses likewise ; and eveiy one of our readers who has lived in Paris, in any lodging, magnificent or humble, with any family, however poor, may bear witness how profusel}' the walls of his smart salon in the English quarter, or of his little room au sixieme in the Pays Latin, has been decorated with prints of all kinds. In the first, probabl}', with bad engravings on copper from the bad and tawdry pictures of the artists of the time of the Empire ; in the latter, with ga}" caricatures of Granville or Monnier : military pieces, such as are dashed ofi' b}" Raffet, Charlet, Vernet (one can hardl}^ sa}^ which of the three designers has the greatest merit, or the most vigorous hand) ; or clever pictures from the crayon of the Deverias, the admirable Roqueplan, or Decamp. We have named here, we believe, the principal lithographic artists in Paris ; and those — as doubtless there are maiy — of our readers who have looked over Monsieur Aubert’s port- folios, or gazed at that famous caricature-shop window in the Rue de Coq, or are even acquainted with the exterior of Mon- sieur Delaporte’s little emporium in the Burlington Arcade, need not be told how excellent the productions of all these artists are in their genre. We get in these engravings the loisirs of men of genius, not the finikin performances of labored mediocrity, as with us : all these artists are good painters, as well as good designers ; a design from them is worth a whole gross of Books of Beaut}' ; and if we might raise a humble sup- plication to the artists in our own country of similar merit — to such men as Leslie, Maclise, Herbert, Cattermole, and others — CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 153 A would be, tluit the}' should, after the example of their French brethren and of the English landscape painters, take chalk in hand, produce their own copies of their own sketches, and never more draw a single ‘"F^orsaken One,” ‘“Rejected One,” “De- jected One ” at the enti’eaty of any [)ublishcr or for the pages of any Book of Beauty, Royalty, or Loveliness whatever. Can there be a more pleasing wallc in the whole world than a stroll througli the Gallery of the i^ouvre on a fete-day ; not to look so much at the pictures as at the lookers-on ? Thousands of the poorer classes are there : mechanics in their Sunday clothes, smiling grisettes, smart dapper soldiers of the line, with bronzed wondering faces, marching together in little companies of six or seven, and stopping every now and then at Napoleon or Leonidas as they appear in proper vulgar heroics in the pictures of David or Gros. The taste of these people will hardl}^ be approved by the connoisseur, but they have a taste for art. Can the same be said of our lower classes, wbio, if they are inclined to be sociable and amused in their holidays, have no place of resort but the tap-room or tea-garden, and no food for conversation except such as can be built upon the politics or the police reports of the last Sunday paper? So much has Church and State puritanism done for us — so well has it succeeded in materializing and binding down to the earth the imagination of men, for which God has made another world (which certain statesmen take but too little into account) — that fair and beautiful world of heart, in which there can be nothing selfish or sordid, of which Dulness has forgotten the existence, and which Bigotry has endeavored to shut out from sight — “ On a banni les demons et les fees, Le raisonner tristement s’accredite : On court, lielas ! apres la verite : All ! croyez moi, ferreur a son me rite ! ” We are not putting in a plea here for demons and fairies, as Voltaire does in the above exquisite lines ; nor about to ex- patiate on the beauties of error, for it has none ; but the clank of steam-engines, and the shouts of politicians, and the struggle for gain or bread, and the loud denunciations of stupid bigots, have wellnigh smothered poor Fancy among us. We boast of our science, and vaunt our superior moralit3^ Does the latter exist? In spite of all the forms which our polic}^ has invented to secure it — in spite of all the preachers, all the meeting- houses, and all the legislative enactments — if any person will 154 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. take upon himself the painful labor of purchasing and perusing some of the cheap periodical prints which form the people’s library of amusement, and contain what maj" be presumed to be their standard in matters of imagination and fanc}^, he will see how false the claim is that we bring forward of superior morality. The aristocracy who are so eager to maintain, were, of course, not the last to feel the anno^'ance of the legislative restrictions on the Sabbath, and eagerly seized upon that happy invention for dissipating the gloom and ennui ordered b}^ Act of Parliament to prevail on that day — the Sunda}^ paper. It might be read in a club-room, where the poor could not see how their betters ordained one thing for the vulgar, and another for themselves ; or in an eas^^-chair, in the study, whither my lord retires every Sunday for his devotions. It dealt in private scandal and ribaldry, 011I3’ the more piquant for its prett}^ Aims}' veil of double-entendre. It was a fortune to the publisher, and it became a necessary to the reader, which he could not do without, au}^ more than without his snutf-box, his opera-box, or his chasse after coffee. The delightful novelt}" could not for any time be kept exclusive!}’ for the haul ton ; and from my lord it descended to his valet or tradesmen, and from Gros- venor Square it spread all the town through ; so that now the lower classes have their scandal and ribaldry organs, as well as their betters (the rogues, the}’ ivill imitate them !) and as their tastes are somewhat coarser than my lord’s, and their numbers a thousand to one, why of course the prints have increased, and the proffigacy has been diffused in a ratio exactly pro- portionable to the demand, until the town is infested with such a number of monstrous publications of the kind as would have put Abbe Dubois to the blush, or made Louis XV. cry shame. Talk of English morality! — the worst licentiousness, in the worst period of the French monarchy, scarcely equalled the wickedness of this Sabbath-keeping country of ours. The reader will be glad, at last, to come to the conclusion that we would fain draw from all these descriptions — why does this immorality exist? Because the people must be amused, and have not been taught how ; because the upper classes, frightened by stupid cant, or absoiKed in material wants, have not as yet learned the relinement which only the cultivation of art can give ; and when their intellects are uneducated, and tlieir tastes are eoarse, the tastes and amusements of classes still more ignorant must be coarse and vicious likewise, in an increased proportion. Such discussions and violent attacks upon high and low. CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 155 Sabbath Bills, politicians, and what not, ina}' appear, perhaps, out of place in a few pages which purport 011I3’ to give an ac- count of some French drawings: all we would urge is, that, in P" ranee, these prints are made because the}’ are liked and ap- })reciated ; with ns they are not made, because they are not liked and ap[)reciated : and the more is the pity. Notliing merely intellectual will ])c popular among us : we do not love beauty for beauty’s sake, as Germans ; or wit, for wit’s sake, as the P'rench : for abstract art we liave no appreciation. We admire II. B.’s caricatures, because they are the caricatures of well-known [)olitical charactei's, not because they are witty ; and Boz, because he writes us good [)alpal)le stories (if we may use such a word to a story) ; and jMadame Vestris, because she has tlie most beautiliilly sha[)ed legs ; — the art of the designer, the writer, the actress (each admirable in its way,) is a very minor consideration ; each might liave ten times the wit, and would ])e ({uite unsuccessful without their sul)stantial points of po})ularity. In France such matters are far better managed, and the love of art is a thousand times more keen ; and (from this feel- ing, surely) how much superiority is there in Pb’ench society over our own ; how much better is social happiness understood ; how much more manly equality is there between Pb'enchman and Pb-encliman, than between rich and poor in our own country, with all our superior wealth, instruction, and political freedom ! There is, amongst the humblest, a gayety, cheerful- ness, politeness, and sobriety, to which, in England, no class can show a parallel : and these, be it remembered, are not only qualities for holidays, but for working-days too, and add to the enjo}unent of human life as much as good clothes, good beef, or good w’ages. If, to our freedom, we could l)ut add a little of their happiness ! — it is one, after all, of the cheapest com- modities in the world, and in the power of every man (with means of gaining decent bread) who has the will or the skill to use it. We are not going to trace the history of the rise and prog- ress of art in France ; our business, at present, is only to speak of one branch of art in that country — lithographic de- signs, and those chiefly of a humorous character. A history of I rench caricature was published in Paris, two or three years back, illustrated by numerous copies of designs, from the' time of Henry III. to our own day. We can only speak of this work from memory, having been unable, in Londoii, to procure the sight of a copy ; but our impression, at the time we saw the 156 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. collection, was as unfavorable as could possibly be: nothing could be more meagre than the wit, or poorer than the execu- tion, of the whole set of drawings. Under the Empire, art, as may be imagined, was at a very low ebb ; and, aping the Gov- ernment of the day, and catering to the national taste and vanity, it was a kind of tawdiy caricature of the sublime ; of wliich the pictures of David and Girodet, and almost the entire collection now at the Luxembourg Palace, will give prett}’ fair examples. Swollen, distorted, unnatural, the painting was something like the politics of those days ; with force in it, nevertheless, and something of grandeur, that will exist in spite of taste, and is born of energetic will. A man, disposed to write comparisons of characters, might, for instance, find some striking analogies between mountebank Murat, with his irresistible bravery and horsemanship, who was a kind of mix- ture of Duguesclin and Ducrow, and Mountebank David, a fierce, powerful painter and genius, w'hose idea of beaut}' and sublimity seemed to have been gained from the bloody melodra- mas on the Boulevard. Both, however, were great in their way, and were worshipped as gods, in those heathen times of false belief and hero-worship. As for poor caricature and freedom of the press, they, like the rightful princess in a fairy tale, wdtli the merry fantastic dwarf, her attendant, were entirely in the power of the giant who ruled the land. The Princess Press was so closely watched and guarded (with some little show, nevertheless, of I’espect for her rank ), that she dared not utter a word of her own thoughts ; and, for poor Caricature, he was gagged, and put out of the way altogether : imprisoned as completely as ever Asmodeus w'as in his phial. How the Press and her attendant fared in succeeding reigns, is well known ; their condition was little bettered by the down- fall of Na[)oleon : with the accession of Charles X. they were more op})ressed even than before — more than they could bear ; for so hard were they })ressed, that, as one has seen when sail- ors are working a capstan, back of a sudden the bars flew, knocking to the earth the men who were endeavoring to work them. The Revolution came, and up sprung Caricature in France ; all sorts of fierce epigrams were discharged at the flying monarch, and speedily were pre[)ared, too, for the new one. About this time there lived at Paris (if our information be coiTCct) a certain M. Philipon, an indifTercnt artist (painting was his pu-ofession) , a tolerable designer, and an admirable wit CAllICATUUES AND LITIIOGUAPIIY. 157 M. riiilipon designed many caricatures himself, married the sister of an eminent publisher of prints (M. Anbert), and the two, gathering about tliem a body of wits and artists like them- selves, set u[) j(j»iir]ials of tluar own : — La Caricature^ first published once a week ; and the Charivari afterwards, a daily })aper, in which a design also appears daily. At lirst the caricatures inserted in the Charivari were chielly political; and a most cui-ious contest speedily commenced lie- tween the State and iM. Idiilipon’s little army in the (Jalerie Vero-Dodat. Half a dozen poor artists on the one side, and his Majesty Louis Lliilippe, his august family, and the numberless placemen and sup[)orters ol‘ the monarchy, on the other ; it was something like Thersites girding at Ajax, and [liercing tlirough the folds of the ch/pei septev/p/icis with the jioisonous .shafts of his scorn. Our French Thersites was not always an hoiu'st oiiponent, it must be confessed ; and many an attack was made upon the gigantic enemy, which was cowardly, false, and ma- lignant. But to see the monster writhing under the effects of the arrow — to see his uncouth fury in return, and the blind blows that he dealt at his diminutive opponent! — not one of these told in a hundred ; when they did tell, it may be imagined that they were fierce enough in all conscience, and served almost to annihilate the adversary. To speak more plainly, and to dro}) the metaphor of giant and dwarf, the King of the French suffered so much, his Min- isters were so mercilessly ridiculed, liis family and his own remarkable figure drawn with such odious and grotesque re- semblance, in fonciful attitudes, circumstances, and disguises, so ludicrously mean, and often so appropriate, that the King was obliged to descend into the lists and battle his ridiculous enemy in form. Fh'osecutions, seizures, fines, regiments of furious legal officials, were first brought into play against poor M. Philipon and his little dauntless troop of malicious artists; some few were bribed out of his ranks ; and if they did not, like Gilraj’ in England, turn their weapons upon their old friends, at least laid down their arms, and would fight no more. The bribes, fines, indictments, and loud-tongued avocats du Roi made no impression ; Philipon repaired the defeat of a fine by some fresh and furious attack upon his great enemy : if his epigrams were more covert, they were no less bitter ; if he was beaten a dozen times before a jury, he had eighty or ninety victories to show in the same field of battle, and every victory and every defeat brought him new sympathy. Eveiy one who was at Paris a few years since must recollect the famous 158 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. poire'" which was chalked upon all the walls of the cit}", and which bore so ludicrous a resemblance to Louis Philippe. The poire became an object of prosecution, and M. Philipon ap- peared before a jury to answer for the crime of inciting to contempt against the King’s person, b}' giving such a ludicrous version of his face. Philipon, for defence, produced a sheet of [)aper, and drew a poire^ a real large Burgundy pear : in the lower parts round and capacious, narrower near the stalk, and crowned with two or three careless leaves. “There was no treason in that^" he said to the jury ; “ could aii}^ one object to sucli a harmless botanical representation?” Then he drew a second pear, exactly like the former, except that one or two lines w^ere scrawled in the midst of it, wdiich bore somehow a ludicrous resemblance to the eyes, nose, and mouth of a cele- bi'ated personage ; and, lastl}", he drew the exact portrait of Louis Philippe ; the well-known toupet, the ample whiskers and jowl were there, neither extenuated nor set down in malice. Can I help it, gentlemen of the juiy, then,” said he, “if his Majesty’s face is like a pear? Sa}' yourselves, respectable citizens, is it, or is it not, like a pear?” Such eloquence could not fail of its effect ; the artist was acquitted, and La poire is immortal. At last came the famous September laws : the freedom of the Press, which, from August, 1830, was to be '''' desormais line veritei” was calmly strangled b}' the Monarch who had gained his crown for his supposed championship of it ; by his IMinisters, some of whom had been stout Republicans on paper but a few years before ; and b}' the Chamber, which, such is the blessed constitution of French elections, will generally vote, unvote, revote in any way the Government wishes. AVith a wondrous union, and happy forgetfulness of principle, monarch, ministers, and deputies issued the restriction laws ; the Press was sent to prison ; as for the poor dear Caricature, it was fairly murdered. No more political satires appear now, and “ through the eye, correct the heart ; ” no more poires ripen on the walls of the metropolis ; Philipon’s political occu- pation is gone. But there is always food for satire ; and the French carica- turists, being no longer allowed to hold up to ridicule and reprobation the King and the deputies, have found no lack of subjects for the pencil in the ridicules and rascalities of com- mon life. Wq have said that public decenc}^ is greater amongst the French than amongst us, which, to some of our readers, may appear paradoxical ; but we shall not attempt to argue CARICATURES AMD LITHOGRAPHY. 159 that, in private rogueiy, onr neighbors are not oiir equals. The of Gisquet, wliicli lias appeared lately in the papers, shows how deep the demoralization must be, and how a Gov- ernment, based itself on dishonest}^ (a tyraniyy that is, under the title and fiction of a democracy,) must practise and admit corruption in its own and in its agents’ dealings with the nation. Accordingly, of cheating contracts, of ministers dab- bling with the funds, or extracting underhand profits for the granting of unjust privileges and mono[)olies, — of grasping, envious police restrictions, which destroy the freedom, and, with it, the integrity of commerce, — those who like to examine such details may lind plenty in French history : the whole French linance system has been a swindle from the da\'S of Luvois, or Law, down to the present time. The Government swindles the public, and the small traders swindle their cus- tomers, on the authority and example of the superior powers. Hence the art of roguery, under such high [latronage, maintains in France a noble front of impudence, and a fine audacious openness, which it does not wear in our country. Among the various characters of rogueiy which the F rench satirists have amused themselves by depicting, there is one of which the greatness (using the w'ord in the sense which Mr. Jonathan Wild gave to it) so far exceeds that of all others, embracing, as it does, all in turn, that it has come to be con- sidered the ty’pe of roguery in general ; and now, just as all the political squibs were made to come of old from the lips of Pasquin, all the reflections on the prevailing cant, knavery, quackeiy, humbug, are put into the mouth of Monsieur Robert Macaire. A play was written, some twenty^ y’ears since, called the “ Auberge des Adrets,” in which the characters of two robbers escaped from the galleys were introduced — Robert Macaire, the clever rogue above mentioned, and Bertrand, the stupid rogue, his friend, accomplice, butt, and scapegoat, on all occasions of danger. It is needless to describe the [flay — a witless per- formance enough, of which the joke was Macaire’s exaggerated style of conversation, a farrago of all sorts of high-flown senti- ments such as the French love to indulge in — contrasted with his actions, which were philosophically unscrupulous., and his appearance, which was most picturesquely sordid. The play^ had been acted, w^e believe, and forgotten, when a very clever actor, M. Frederick Lemaitre, took upon himself the perform- ance of the character of Robert Macaire, and looked, spoke, and acted it to such admirable perfection, that the -whole town IGO THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. xnng with applauses of the performance, and the caricaturists delighted to cop}' his singular figure and costume. M. Robert Macaire appears in a most picturesque green coat, with 'a variety of rents and patches, a pair of crimson pantaloons orna- mented in the same way, enormous whiskers and ringlets, an enormous stock and shirt-frill, as dirty and ragged as stock and shirt-frill can be, the relic of a hat vei*}' gayly cocked over one eye, and a patch to take away somewhat from the brightness of the other — these are the principal pieces of his costume — a snuff- box like a creaking warming-pan, a handkerchief hanging to- gether by a mii'acle, and a switch of about the thickness of a man’s thigh, formed the ornaments of tins exquisite personage, lie is a compound of Fielding’s “ Blueskin ” and Goldsmith’s Beau Tibbs.” lie has the dirt and dandyism of the one, with the ferocity of the otlier : sometimes he is made to swindle, but where he can get a shilling more, M. Macaire will murder with- out scru[)le : he performs one and the other act (or any in the scale between them) with a similar bland imperturbability, and accompanies his actions with such philosophical remarks as may be expected from a person of his talents, his energies, his amiable life and character. Bertrand is the simple recipient of Macaire’s jokes, and makes vicarious atonement for his crimes, acting, in fact, the [)art which pantaloon performs in the pantomime, who is entirely under the fatal infiuence of clown. He is quite as much a rogue as that gentleman, but he has not his genius and courage. So, - in pantomimes, (it may, doubtless, have been remarked by the reader,) clown always leaps first, pantaloon following after, more clumsily and timidly than his bold and accomplished friend and guide. AVhatever Ifiows are destined for clown, fall, by some means of ill-luck, upon the pate of pantaloon : when- ever the clown robs, the stolen articles are sure to be found in his companion’s pocket ; and thus exactly Robert Macaire and his companion Bertrand are made to go through the world; both swindlers, but the one more accomplished than the other. Both robbing all the world, and Robert i'ol)bing his friend, and, in the event of danger, leaving him faithfully in the lurch. Tliere is, in the two characters, some grotesque good for the spectator — a kind of “ Beggars’ Opera ” moral. Ever since Robert, with his dandified rags and airs, his cane and snuff-box, and Bertrand with torn surtout and all-absorb- ing pocket, have appeared on the stage, they have been popular with the Parisians ; and with these two types of clever and stupid knavery, M. Philipon and his companion Daumier have CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. IGl created a world of pleasant satire upon all the prevailing abuses of tlie day. Almost tlie first figure that these audacious caricaturists dared to depict was a [)olitieal one : in IMacaire’s red breeches and tattered coat aiipeared no less a personage tlian the King hiins(‘lf — tlie old Poire — in a country of hinnbugs and swindlers i\w. facile priuceps ; (it to govern, as he is dee[)er than all the rogues in his dominions. lUadrand was opposite to him, and ha\ ing listened with delight and reverence to some tale of knaverv truly royal, was exclaiming with a look and voice expressive of the most intense admiration, “ An vieux bla- (jEUii! va ! ” — the word hlar/ue is iintranslatalile — it means French humbug as distinct from all other ; and 011I3' those who know the value of an epigram in France, an e[)igram so wonder- fully just, a little word so curiously comprehensive, can fancy the kind of rage and rapture with which it was received. It was a blow that shook the whole dynasty. Thersites had there given such a wound to Ajax, as Hector in arms could scarcely have inllicted : a blow sutlleicnt almost to create the madness to which the fabulous hero of Homer and Ovid fell a pre}'. Not long, however, was French caricature allowed to attack [lersonages so illustrious ; the September laws came, and hence- forth no more e[)igrams were launched against politics ; but the caricaturists were compelled to confine their satire to subjects and characters that had nothing to do with the State. The Duke of Orleans was no longer to figure in lithography as the fantastic Prince Rosolin ; no longer were multitudes (in chalk) to shelter under the enormous shadow o-' M. d’ArgouFs nose : Marshal Lobaii’s squirt was hung up in peace, andM. Thiers’s })igmy figure and round spectacled face w'ere no more to appear in print. Robert Macaire was driven out of the Chambers and the Palace — his remarks were a great deal too appropriate and too severe for the ears of the great men who congregated in those places. The Chambers and the Palace were shut to him ; but the rogue, driven out of his rogue’s paradise, saw “ that the world was all before him where to choose,” and found no lack of opportunities for exercising his wit. There was the Bar, with its roguish practitioners, rascally attorneys, stupid juries, and forsworn judges ; there was the Bourse, with all its gambling, swindling, and hoaxing, its cheats and its dupes ; the Medical * Almost all the principal public men had been most ludicrously cari- catured in the Charivari: those mentioned above were usually depicted with the distinctive attributes mentioned by us. 11 162 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. Profession, and the quaeks who ruled it, alternately ; the Stage, and the cant that was prevalent there ; tlie Fashion, and its thousand follies and extraA^agances. Robert Macaire had all tliese to exploiter. Of all the empire, through all the ranks, professions, the lies, crimes, and absurdities of men, he may make sport at will ; of all except of a certain class. Like Blue- beard’s wife, he may see everything, but is bidden to beware of the blue chamber. Robert is more wise than Bluebeard’s wife, and knows that it would cost him his head to enter it. Robert, therefore, keeps aloof for the moment. Would there be any use in his mart3’rdom ? Bluebeard cannot live for ever ; per- haps, even now, those are on their w'aj’’ (one sees a suspicious cloud of dust or two) that are to destro}” him. In the meantime Robert and his friend ha\^e been furnishing the designs that we have before us, and of Avhich perhaps the reader Avill l)e edified by a brief description. We are not, to be sure, to judge of the French nation b}^ M. Macaire, aiyy more than we are to judge of our own national morals in the last century by such a book as the “Beggars’ Opera; ” but upon the morals and the national manners, Avorks of satire afford a Avorld of light that one Avould in vain look for in regular books of liistoiT. Doctor Smollett Avould have blushed to devote an}" considerable portion of his pages to a discussion of the acts and characiter of Mr. .Jonathan Wild, such a figure being hardly admissible among the dignified personages avIio usuallv push all others out from the [lossession of the histoncal page ; but a cha[)ter of that gentleman’s memoirs, as they are recorded in that exmnplary recueil — the “ NcAVgate Calendar;” na3^ a canto of the great comic epic (involving many fables, and con- taining much exaggeration, but still having the seeds of truth) Avhich the satirical poet of those days wrote in celebration of him — we mean Fielding’s “ Ilistoiy of Jonathan Wild the Great ” — does seem to us to give a more curious picture of the manners of those times than aiy recognized history of them. At the close of his history of George II., Smollett condescends to give a short chapter on Literature and Manners. He speaks of Glover’s “ Leonidas,” Cibber’s “ Careless Husband,” the poems of Mason, Gra}", the two Whiteheads, “the nervous stvle, extensive erudition, and superior sense of a Corke ; the delicate taste, the polished muse, and tender feeling of a lyttelton.” “ King,” he savs, “ shone unrHalled in Roman eloquence, the female sex distinguished themselves by their taste and ingenuit}". Miss Carter I'ivalled the celebrated Dacier in learning and critical knowledge ; Mrs. Lennox signalized CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 1G3 herself by many successful efforts of genius both in ix)etry and prose ; and Miss Reid excelled the celebrated Rosalba in por- trait-painting, both in miniature and at large, in oil as well as in crayons. The genius of Cervantes was transferred into the novels of Fielding, who [>aiuted the characters and ridiculed the follies of life with ecptal strength, humor, and propriety. The field of history and biography was cultivated by many writers of ability, among whom we distinguish tlic co[)ious Guthrie, the circumstantial Ralph, the lal)orious Carte, the learned and elegant Robertson, and above all, the ingenious, l)enetrating, and com[)rehensive Hume,” &c. Ac. We will quote no more of the passage. Could a man in the best humor sit down to write a graver satire ? ^V\\o cares for the tender muse of Lyttelton? Who knows the signal efforts of Mrs. Lennox’s genius? Who has seen the admirable performances, in minia- ture and at large, in oil as well as in craj’ons, of Miss Reid? Laborious Carte, and circumstantial Ralph, and co|)ious Guth- rie, where are they, their works, and their reputation? Mrs. Lennox’s name is just as clean wiped out of the list of worthies as if she had never been V)orn ; and Miss Reid, though she was once actual flesh and blood, “ rival in miniature and at large” of the celebrated Rosalba, she is as if she had never been at all ; her little farthing rushlight of a soul and reputation having burnt out, and left neither wick nor tallow. Death, too, has overtaken copious Guthrie and circumstantial Ralph. Only a few know whereabouts is the grave where lies laborious Carte ; and yet, O wondrous power of genius ! Fielding’s men and women are alive, though History’s are not. The progenitors of circumstantial Ralph sent forth, after much labor and pains of making, educating, feeding, clothing, a real man child, a great palpable mass of flesh, bones, and blood (we say nothing about the spirit), which was to move through the world, pon- derous, writing histories, and to die, having achieved the title of circumstantial Ralph ; and lo ! without any of the trouble that the parents of Ralph had undergone, alone perhaps in a watch or spunging-house, fuddled most likely, in the blandest, easiest, and most good-humored waj' in the world, Henry Field- ing makes a number of men and women on so many sheets of paper, not onl}^ more amusing than Ralph or Miss Reid, but more like flesh and blood, and more alive now than the}\ Is not Amelia preparing her husband’s little supper? Is not Miss Snapp chastel}^ preventing the crime of Mr. Firebrand? Is not Parson Adams in the midst of his family, and Mr. Wild taking his last bowl of punch with the Newgate Ordinary? Is not 1G4 THE PARIS SKETOIl BOOK. every one of them a real substantial huve-hQQn personage now? — more real than Reid or Ralph ? For our parts, we will not take upon ourselves to sa3^ that they do not exist somewhere else : that the actions attributed to them have not reall}^ taken place ; certain we are that the}- are more worth}- of credence than Ralph, who ma}’ or ma}’- not have been circumstantial ; Avho may or ma}" not even have existed, a point unworthy of disputation. As for Miss Reid^ we will take an affidavit that neither in miniature nor at large did she excel the celebrated Rosalba ; and with regard to Mrs. Lennox, we consider her to be a mere figment, like Narcissa, Miss Tabitha Bramble, or any hero or heroine depicted by the historian of ‘ ‘ Peregrine Pickle.” In like manner, after viewing nearly ninety portraits of Robert Macaire and his friend Bertrand, all strongly resem- bling each other, we are inclined to believe in them as historical personages, and to canvass gravely the circumstances of their lives. Why should we not? Have we not their portraits ? Are not they sufficient proofs? If not, we must discredit Napoleon (as Archbishop Whately teaches), for about his figure and him- self we have no more authentic testimony. Let the reality of M. Robert Macaire and his friend M. Bertrand be granted, if but to gratify our own fondness for those exquisite characters : we find the worthy pair in the French capital, mingling with all grades of its society, pars magna in the intrigues, pleasures, perplexities, rogueries, spec- ulations, which are carried on in Paris, as in our own chief city ; for it need not be said that roguery is of no country nor clime, but finds o)? 7r«i/Tayou ye TTarpU g (36(TKov(Ta y»}, is a citizen of all countries where the quarters are good ; among our merry neighbors it finds itself very much at its ease. Not being endowed, then, with patrimonial wealth, but compelled to exercise their genius to obtain distinction, or even subsistence, we see Messrs. Bertrand and Macaire, by turns, adopting all trades and professions, and exercising each with ■ their own peculiar ingenuity. As public men, we have spoken already of their appearance in one or two important characters, and stated that the Government grew fairly jealous of them, excluding them from office, as the Whigs did Lord Brougham. As private individuals, they are made to distinguish themselves as the founders of journals, sociefes en commandite (companies of which the members are irresponsible beyond the amount of their shares), and all sorts of commercial speculations, requiring intelligence and honesty on the part of the dh OARlCATUilES AND LlTllOGUArilY. 1G5 S'ectors', confidence and liberal disbursements from the share- holders. These are, among the French, so numerous, and have been of late years (in tlie shape of Newspaper Companies, Bitumen Companies, Galvanized-lron C'ompanies, Railroad Companies, Ac*.) pursued with sucli a blind /brc*/ and lust of gain, b}’ that c*asil}' excited and imaginative j)eople, that, as may be imagined, the satirist has tound plent}' of occasion for remark, and M. Macaire and his friend innumerable opportunities for exercising their talents. We know nothing of M. Emile de Girardin, except that, in a duel, he shot the best man in France, Armand Carrel; and in Ciirardin’s favor it must be said, that he had no other alter- native ; but was right in provoking the duel, seeing that the whole Republican party hacl vowed liis destruction, and that he fought and killed their champion, as it were. We know noth- ing of M. Girardin’s [irivate character: but, as far as we can judge from the French [lublic [irints, he seems to be the most speculative of speculators, and, of course, a fair butt for the malice of the caricaturists. His one great crime, in the eyes of the French Republicans and Republican newspaper pro- prietors, was, that Girardin set up a journal, as he called it, f ranch ement monarchique ^'” — a journal in the pay of the mon- archy, that is, — and a journal that cost only fort\' francs by the year. The National costs twice as much ; the Charivari itself costs half as much again ; and though all news[)apers, of all parties, concurred in '^snubbing” poor M. Girardin and his journal, the Republican prints, were by far the most bitter against him, thundering daih’ accusations and personalities ; whether the aluise was well or ill founded, we know not. Hence arose the duel with Carrel; after the termination of which, Girardin put by his pistol, and vowed, very properly, to assist in the shedding of no more blood. Girardin had been the originator of numerous other speculations besides the journal: the capital of these, like that of the journal, was raised b}’ shares, and the shareliolders, by some fataliW, have found themselves wofully in the lurch ; while Girardin carries on the war gayly, is, or was, a member of the Chamber of Deputies, has money, goes to Court, and [>ossesses a certain kind of reputation. He invented, we believe, the “* Institution Agronome de Coetbo,”* the “ Ph 3 ^sionotype,” the ‘‘Journal des Connoissances Utiles,” the “ Pantheon Litteraire,” and the * It is not necessary to enter into descriptions of these various inven- tions. IGG THE EAIHS SKETCH BOOK. system of “Primes” — premiums, that is — to be given, by lottery, to certain subscribers in these institutions. Could Uobert Macaire see such things going on, and have no hand in them ? Accordingl}^ Messrs. Macaire and Bertrand are made the heroes of many’ speculations of the kind. In almost the first print of our collection, Robert discourses to Bertrand of his projects. “ Bertrand,” says the disinterested admirer of talent and enterprise, “J’adore I’industrie. Si tu veux nous creons line banque, mais la, une vraie banque : capital cent millions de millions, cent milliards de milliards d’actions. Nous en- fon 9 ons la banque de France, les banquiers, les banquistes ; nous enfoiifons tout le rnoude.” “ Oui,” says Bertrand, very calm and stupid, “mais les gendarmes?” “ Que tu es bCte, Bertrand: est-ce qu’on arrete un millionaire?” Such is the key to M. Macaire’s philosophy ; and a wise creed too, as times go. Acting on these principles, Robert appears soon after ; he has not created a bank, but a journal. He sits in a chair of state, and discourses to a shareholder. Bertrand, calm and stupid as before, stands humbly behind. “Sir,” says the editor of La Blague^ journal quotidieniie, “our profits arise from a new combination. The journal costs twenty francs ; we sell it twenty-three and a half. A million subscribers make three riui.^ons and a half of profits ; there are my figures ; coin tradict me by figures, or 1 will bring an action for libel.” The reader may fancy the scene takes place in England, where many such a swindling prospectus has obtained credit ere now. At Plate o3, Robert is still a journalist ; he brings to the editor of a pai)cr an article of his composition, a violent attack on a law. “ jMy dear IM. IMacaire,” says the editor, “ this must be changed; we must praise this law.” “Bon, bon!” says our versatile IMacaire. “Jevais retoucher 9 a, et je vous fais en faveur de la loi un article moiisseiixB Can such things be? Is it possilile that French journalists can so forget themselves? The rogues 1 the}' should come to England and learn consistency. The honesty of the Press in England is like the air we breathe, without it we die. No, no ! in France, the satire may do very well ; but for England it is too monstrous. C’all the press stupid, call it vulgar, call it violent, — but honest it is. Who ever heard of a journal changing its politics? 0 temporal 0 mores! as Robert Ma- caire says, this would be carrying the joke too far. When he has done with newspapers, Robert Macaire begins CARICATUKES AND LlTllOGRAPriY. 167 to distinguish himself on ’Change,* as a ereator of companies, a vender of shares, or a dahhlc'r in foreign stock, “•Buy my coal-mine shares,” shouts Boljert; gold mines, silver mines, diamond mines, ‘ sont de la pot-honille de la ratatonille en comparaison de ma houilh'.’ ” ‘"Look,” says he, on another occasion, to a very timid, o[)en-coimtenanced client, “ y^ii have a [)roperty to sell ! 1 have found the very man, a rich capitalist, a fellow whose hills are better than bank-notes.” Jlis client sells ; the bills are taken in i)ayment, and signed b}' that respectable ca[)italist. Monsieur de Saint liertrand. At Plate 81, we find him inditing a circular letter to all the world, running thus : — “ Sir, — t regret to say that' your application lor shares in the Consolidated Euro[)ean Incombustible Black- ing Association cannot be complied with, as all the shares of the C. H. I. B. A. were disposed of on the day the}’ were issued. 1 have, nevertheless, registered your name, and in case a second series should be put forth, 1 shall have the honor of immediately giving you notice. 1 am, sir, yours, Ac., the Director, Robert jMacaire.” — “Print 300,000 of these,” he says to Bertrand, “and [)oison all France with them.” As usual, the stu[)id Bertrand remonstrates — “ But we have not sold a single share ; you have not a penny in your pocket, and” — “ Bertrand, you are an ass ; do as 1 bid you.” Will this satir(3 ap[)ly anywhere in England? Have we any Consolidated Euro[)ean Blacking Associations amongst us? Have we penniless directors issuing El Dorado prospectuses, and jockeying their shares through the market? For infor- mation on this head, we must refer the reader to the news- papers ; or if he be connected with the city, and acquainted with commercial men, he will be al)le to say whether all the persons Avhose names figure at the head of announcements of l)roJected com[)anies are as rich as Rothschild, or quite as honest as heart could desire. When Macaire has sufficiently exploits the Bourse, whether as a gambler in the public funds or other companies, he sagely perceives that it is time to turn to some other i>rofession, and, providing himself with a black gown, proposes blandly to Ber- trand to set up — a new religion. “ Alon ami,” says the repen- tant sinner, “le temps de la commandite va passer, maw hadauds ne passeront pas.” (O rare sentence ! it should be written in letters of gold!) “ Occapons nous de ce qui est Sternel. Si nous fassions une religion?” On which M. Ber- * We liave given a descriptioa of a genteel Macaire in the account of M. de Bernard’s novels. 168 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. trand remarks, “ A religion ! what the devil — a religion Is not an eas}^ thing to make.” But Macaire’s receipt is easy. “ Get a gown, take a shop,” he sa}^s, “borrow some chairs, preach about Napoleon, or the discovery of America, or Moliere — and there’s a religion for you.” We have quoted this sentence more for the contrast it offers wuth our own manners, than for its merits. After the noble paragraph, “ Les badauds ne passeront pas. Occupons nous de ce qui est eternel,” one would have expected better satire upon cant than the words that follow. We are not in a condi- tion to say whether the subjects chosen are those that had been selected by Pere Enfantin, or Chatel, or Lacordaire ; but the words are curious, we think, for the very reason that the satire is so i>oor. The fact is, there is no religion in Paris ; even clever M. Philipon, who satirizes everything, and must know, there- fore, some little about the subject which he ridicules, has nothing to- say but, “ Preach a sermon, and that makes a religion ; aiw- thing will do.” If anything will do, it is clear that the religious commodity is not in much demand. Tartuffe had better things to say about In^pocris}" in his time ; but then Faith was alive ; now, there is no satirizing religious cant in France, for its con- trary, true religion, has disappeared altogether ; and having no substance, can cast no shadow. If a satirist would lash the religious h^q^ocrites in England now — the High Church hypo- crites, the Low Church hypocrites, the promiscuous Dissenting hj’pocrites, the No Popery hypocrites — he would have ample subject enough. In France, the religious hjq^ocrites went out with the Bourbons. Those who remain pious in that country (or, rather, we should say, in the capital, for of that we speak,) are unaffectedly so, for they have no worldly benefit to hope for from their piety ; the great majorit3^ have no religion at all, and do not scoff at the few, for scoffing is the minorit> ’s weapon, and is passed alwa^’s to the weaker side, whatever that may be. Thus II. B. caricatures the Ministers: if, by any accident that bod\' of men should be dismissed from their situations, and be succeeded by H. B.’s friends, the Tories, — what must the poor artist do? He must pine awa}^ and die, if he be not converted ; he cannot always be paying compliments ; for caricature has a spice of Goethe’s Devil in it, and is “ der Geist der stets verneint,” the Spirit that is always denying. With one or two of the French writers and painters of caricatures, the King tried the experiment of briber}^ ; which succeeded occasionally in buying off the enemy, and bringing him from the republican to the roj^al camp ; but when there, the CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 169 \ deserter was never of any use. Figaro, when so treated, grew fat and desponding, and lost all his sprightly verve ; and Neme^ sis became as gentle as a (Quakeress. But these instances ot ‘‘ratting” were not inan3'. Some few poets were bought over ; but, among men following the profession of the press, a change of politics is an inrringement of the point of honor, and a man mwiitfiyld as well as apostatize. A very curious table might be made, signalizing the difference of the moral standard between us and the French. Why is tlie grossness and indelicac}”, pub- licly permitted in England, unknown in France, where private moralit}' is certainly at a low^er ebb? WI13" is the point of pri- vate honor now more rigidlj^ maintained among the French? Wli3^ is it, as it should be, a moral disgrace for a Frenchman to go into debt, and no disgrace for him to cheat his customer? Wli3^ is there more honesty and less — more propriet3^ less? — and how are we to account for the particular vices or virtues which belong to each nation in its turn ? The above is the Reverend M. Macaire’s solitary exploit as a spiritual swindler : as Maitre Macaire in the courts of law, as avocat^ avoue — in a humbler capacity even, as a prisoner at the bar, he distinguishes himself greatl3', as ma3^ be imagined. On one occasion we find the learned gentleman humanely visit- ing an unfortunate detenu — -no other person, in fact, than his friend IM. Bertrand, who has fallen into some trouble, and is awaiting the sentence of the law. He begins — “ Mon clier Bertrand, donne moi cent ecus, je te fais acquit- ter d’emblee.” “ J’ai pas d’argent.” “He bicn, donne moi cent francs.” “ Pas le sou.” “ Tu n’as pas dix francs? ” “ Pas iin hard.” “ Alors donne moi tcs bottes, je plaiderai la circonstance attenuante.” The manner in which Maitre Macaire soars from the cent ecus (a high point already) to the sublime of the boots, is in the best comic style. In another instance he pleads before a judge, and, mistaking his client, pleads for defendant, instead of plain- tiff. “ The infam3^ of the plaintilffs character, m3" luds^ renders his testimony" on such a charge as this wholly" unavailing.” “ M. Macaire, M. Macaire,” cries the attorney, in a fright, “you are for the plaintiff!” “This, my lords, is what the defendant will say. This is the line of defence which the oppo- site party' intend to pursue ; as if slanders like tliese could weigh 170 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. with an enlightened jury, or injure the spotless reputation of client ! ” In this story and expedient M. Macaire has been indebted to the English bar. If there be an occupation for the English satirist in the exposing of the cant and knavery of the pretenders to religion, what room is there for him to lash the infamies of the law ! On this point the French are babes in iniquity compared to us — a counsel prostituting himself for money is a matter with us so stale, that it is hardly food for satire : which, to be popular, must find some much more complicated and interesting knaveiy whereon to exercise its skill. M. Macaire is more skilful in love than in law, and appears once or twice in a very amiable light while under the influence of the tender passion. We find him at the head of one of those useful establishments unknown in our country — a Bureau de Mariage : half a dozen of such places are daily advertised in the journals : and “ une veuve de trente ans a}' ant une fortune de deux cent mille francs,” or “ une demoiselle de quinze ans, jolie, d’une famille tres distinguee, qui possede trente mille livres de rentes,” — continiiall}^ in this kind-hearted way, are offering themselves to the public: sometimes it is a gentleman, with a “physique agreable, — des talens de societe” — and a place under Government, who makes a sacrifice of himself in a similar manner. In our little historical galler}^ we find this philan- tlirppic anti-Mai thusian at the head of an establishment of this kind, introducing a veiy meek, simple-looking bachelor to some distinguished ladies of his connoissance. “ Let me present you, sir, to Madame de St. Bertrand” (it is our old friend), “ veuve de la grande armee, et Mdlle Eloa de Wormspire. Ces dames brulent de I’envie de faire votre connoissance. Je les ai invitees a diner chez vous ce soir : vous nous menerez a I’opera, et nous feroiis une petite partie d’ecarte. Tenez vous bien, M. Gobard ! ces dames out des projets sur \ous ! ” Happ3^ Gobard ! happ^’ s^^stein, which can thus bring the ])ure and loving together, and acts as the best all}^ of Hymen ! The announcement of the rank and titles of Madame de St. Bertrand — “veuve de la grande armee”* — is veiy happy. “ La grande armee’’’’ has been a father to more orphans, and a husband to more widows, than it ever made. Mistresses of cafes^ old governesses, keepers of boarding-houses, genteel beggars, and ladies of k)wer rank still, have this favorite pedi- gree. They have all had malheurs (what kind it is needless to particularize), they are all connected with the grand, homme, and their fathers were all colonels. fFliis title exactly answers CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 171 to the “clergyman’s daughter” in England — as, “A young lady, the daugiiter of a clergyman, is desirous to teach,” &c. ; “A clergyman’s widow receives into her house a few select,” and so forth. “Appeal to the benevolent. — By a series of unheard-of calamities, a young lady, daughter of a clergyman in the west of England, has been plunged,” Ac. &c. The difference is curious, as indicating the standard of respecta- bility. The male beggar of fashion is not so well known among us as in Paris, where street-doors are open ; six or eight families live in a house ; and the gentleman who earns his livelihood by this profession can make half a dozen visits without the trouble of knocking from house to house, and the pain of being observed by the whole street, while the footman is examining him from the area. Some few may be seen in England about the inns of court, where the localiH^ is favorable (where, however, the owners of the chambers are not proverbially soft of heart, so that the harvest must be poor) ; but Paris is full of such adven- turers, — fat, smooth-tongued, and well dressed, with gloves and gilt-headed canes, who would be insulted almost by the offer of silver, and expect your gold as their right. Among these, of course, our friend Robert plays his part ; and an excellent engraving represents him, snuff-box in hand, advan- cing to an old gentleman, whom, b^^ his poodle, his powdered head, and his drivelling, stupid look, one knows to be a Carlist of the old regime. “ I beg pardon,” says Rol)ert ; “ is it really yourself to whom I have the honor of speaking?” — “ It is.” “ Do 3^011 take snuff?” — “I thank 3^011.” - — “ Sir, I have had misfortunes — I want assistance. I am a Vendean of illustrious birth. You know the family of Macairbec — we are of Brest. M3" grandfather served the King in his galle3’s ; m3" father and I belong, also, to the marine. Unfortunate suits at law haAm plunged us into difficulties, and I do not hesitate to ask 3^11 for the succor of ten francs.” — “ Sir, I never giA"e to those I don’t know.” — “Right, sir, perfectly right. Perhaps 3^ou will have the kindness to lend me ten francs ? ” The adventures of Doctor Macaire need not be described, because the different degrees in quackeiy wliich are taken by that learned physician are all well known in England, where we ha\"e the advantage of maii3" higher degrees in the science, which our neighbors know nothing about. We haA"e not Hahne- mann, but we haAm his disciples ; we have not Broussais, but we have the College of Health ; and surely a dose of Morrison’s pills is a sublimer discoveiy than a draught of hot water. We 172 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. had St. John Long, too — where is his science? — and we are credibl}^ informed that some important cures have been effected b^’ the inspired dignitaries of “ the church” in Newman Street — which, if it continue to practise, will sadly interfere with the profits of the regular physicians, and where the miracles of the Abbe of Paris are about to be acted over again. In speaking of M. Macaire and his adventures, we have managed so entirel^^ to convince ourselves of the reality of the personage, that we have quite forgotten to speak of Messrs. Philipon and Daumier, who are, the one the inventor, the other the designer, of the Macaire Picture Gallery. As works of esprit^ these drawings are not more remarkable than the}- are as works of art, and we never recollect to have seen a series of sketches possessing more extraordinary cleverness and variety. The countenance and figure of Macaire and the dear stupid Bertrand are preserved, of course, with great fidelity through- out ; but the admirable way in which each fresh character is conceived, the grotesque appropriateness of Robert’s every suc- cessive attitude and gesticulation, and the variety of Bertrand’s postures of invariable repose, the exquisite fitness of all the other characters, who act their little paid and disappear from the scene, cannot be described on paper, or too highly lauded. The figures are very carelessly drawn ; but, if the reader can understand us, all the attitudes and limbs are perfectly conceived^ and wonderfully natural and various. After pondering over these drawings for some hours, as we have been while compiling this notice of them, we have grown to believe that the person- ages are real, and the scenes remain imprinted on the brain as if we had absolutely been present at their acting. Perhaps the clever way in which the plates are colored, and the excellent effect which is put into each, may add to this illusion. Now, in looking, for instance, at H. B.’s slim vapory figures, they ^have struck ns as excellent likenesses of men and women, but 'no more : the bodies want spirit, action, and individaality. ^George Cruikshank, as a humorist, has quite as much genius, but he does not know the art of “ effect” so well as Monsieur Daumier ; and, if we might venture to give a word of advice to another humorous designer, whose works are extensively circu- lated — the illustrator of “ Pickwick ” and “ Nicholas Nickleby,” . — it would be to study well these caricatures of Monsieur Daumier ; who, though he executes very carelessly, knows very well what he would express, indicates perfectly the attitude and identity of his figure, and is quite aware, beforehand, of the effect which he intends to produce. The one we should CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 173 fancy to be a practised artist, talviiig liis ease ; the other, a young one, somewhat bewildered : a veiy clever one, however, who, if he would think more, and exaggerate less, would add not a little to his reputation. Having pursued, all tlirough these remarks, the comparison between English art and French art, Englisli and French humor, manners, and morals, perhaps we should endeavor, also, to write an analytical essay on English cant or humbug, as distinguished from French. It might be shown that the latter was more pictur- esque and startling, the former more substantial and positive. It lias none of the poetic llights of the French genius, but ad- vances steadily, and gains more ground in the end than its sprightlier compeer. Hut such a discussion would cany us tlirough the whole range of French and English histoiy, and the reader has probably read quite enough of the subject in this and the foregoing pages. We shall, therefore, say no more of French and English caricatures generally, or of Mr. Macaire’s particular accom- jilishments and adventures. Tliey are far better understood by examining the original pictures, by which Philipon and Daumier have illustrated them, than b}^ translations first into print and afterwards into English. The}" form a very curious and instruc- tive commentary upon the iiresent state of society in Paris, and a hundred years hence, when the whole of this struggling, noisy, busy, merry race shall have exchanged their pleasures or occu- pations for a quiet coffin (and a tawdry lying epitaph) at Mont- martre, or Pere la Chaise ; when the follies here recorded shall have been superseded by new ones, and the fools now so active shall have given up the inheritance of the world to their chil- dren : the latter will, at least, have the advantage of knowing, intimately and exactly, the manners of life and being of their grandsires, and calling up, when they so choose it, our ghosts from the grave, to live, love, quarrel, swindle, suffer, and, sti'uggle on blindly as of yore. And when the amused specula 1 tor shall have laughed sufficiently at the immensity of our follies, and the paltriness of our aims, smiled at our exploded super- stitions, wondered how tliis man should be considered great, who is now clean forgotten (as copious Guthrie before men- tioned) ; how this should have been thought a patriot who is but a knave spouting commonplace ; or how that should have been dubbed a philosopher who is but a dull fool, blinking solemn, and pretending to see in the dark ; when he shall have examined all these at his leisure, smiling in a pleasant contempt 174 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. and good-humored superiorit}", and thanking heaven for his increased lights, he will shut the book, and be a fool as his fathers were before him. It runs in the blood. Well hast thou said, O ragged Macaire, — “ Le jour va passer, mais les badauds ne passe=- RONT PAS.” I LITTLE POINSINET. About the }^ear 1760, there lived, at Paris, a little fellow, who was the darling of all the wags of his acquaintance. Nature seemed, in the formation of this little man, to have amused herself, by giving loose to half a hundred of her most comical caprices, lie had some wit and drollery of his own, which sometimes rendered his sallies very amusing ; but, where his friends laughed with him once, they laughed at him a thousand times, for he had a fund of absurdity in himself that was more pleasant than ull tlie wit in the world. He was as proud as a peacock, as wicked as an ape, and as silly as a goose. He did not possess one single grain of common sense ; but, in revenge, his pretensions were enormous, his ignorance vast, and his credulity more extensive still. From his 3 "outh upwards, he had read nothing but the new novels, and the verses in the almanacs, w^hicli helped him not a little in mak- ing, what he called, poetry of his own ; for, of course, our little hero was a poet. All the common usages of life, all the ways of the world, and all the customs of society, seemed to be quite unknown to him ; add to these good qualities, a magnificent conceit, a cowardice inconceivable, and a face so irresistibly comic, that every one who first beheld it was compelled to burst out a-laughing, and you will have some notion of this strange little gentleman. He was very proud of his voice, and uttered all his sentences in the richest tragic tone. He was little better than a dwarf ; but he elevated his e}^ebrows, held up his neck, walked on the tips of his toes, and gave himself the airs of a giant. He had a little pair of bandy legs, which seemed much too short to support anything like a human bod}' ; but, by the help of these crooked supporters, he thought he •sould dance like a Grace ; and, indeed, fancied all the graces 176 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. possible were to be found in his person. PI is goggle e}^es were always rolling about wildly, as if in correspondence with the disorder of his little brain ; and his countenance thus wore an expression of perpetual wonder. With such happ}- natural gifts, he not only fell into all traps that were laid for him, but seemed almost to go out of liis way to seek them ; although, to be sure, his friends did not give him much trouble in that search, for they prepared hoaxes for him incessantly. One da}^ the wags introduced him to a company of ladies, who, though not countesses and princesses exactly, took, nevertheless, those titles upon themselves for the nonce ; and were all, for the same reason, violently smitten with Master Poinsinet’s person. One of them, the lady of the house, was especially tender ; and, seating him b}^ her side at supper, so plied him with smiles, ogles, and champagne, that our little hero grew crazed with ecstasy, and wild with love. In the midst of his happiness, a cruel knock was heard below, accompanied by quick loud talking, swearing, and shuffling of feet : you would have thought a regiment was at the door. “Oh heavens!” cried the marchioness, starting iip, and giving to the hand of Poinsinet one parting squeeze; “fly — fly, my Poinsinet : ’tis the colonel — my husband 1 ” At this, each gentleman of the pai% rose, and, drawing his rapier, vowed to cut his way through the colonel and all his mousquetaires^ or die, if need be, by the side of Poinsinet. The little fellow was obliged to lug out his sword too, and went shuddering down stairs, heartily repenting of his passion for marchionesses. When the party arrived in the street, they found, sure enough, a dreadful company of momqiietaires^ as they seemed, read}^ to oppose their passage. Swords crossed, — torches blazed; and, with the most dreadful shouts and imprecations, the contending parties rushed upon one another ; tlie friends of Poinsinet surrounding and supporting that little warrior, as the French knights did King Francis at Pavia, otherwise the poor fellow certainl3^ would have fallen down in the gutter from fright. But the combat was suddenly interrupted ; for the neigh- bors, who knew nothing of the trick going on, and thought the brawl was real, had been screaming with all their might for the police, who began about this time to arrive. Directly they appeared, friends and enemies of Poinsinet at once took to their heels ; and, in this part of the transaction, at least, our hero himself showed that he was equal to the longest-legged grenadier that ever ran aw'a\'. LITTLE POmsnSTET. 177 When, at last, those little band}- legs of his had borne him safely to his lodgings, all Poiiisinet’s friends crowded round him, to congratulate him on his escape and his valor. “Egad, how he pinked that great red-haired fellow!” said one. “ No ; did I? ” said Poinsinet. “Did 3^ou? Psha I don’t try to play the modest, and liumbug us; 3’ou know you did. 1 suppose 3^011 will sa3g next, that 3^011 were not for three minutes point to point with Cartentierce himself, the most dreadful swordsman of the army.” “ Why, 3’ou see,” says Poinsinet, quite delighted, “ it was so dark that I did not know with whom I was engaged ; al- though, corhleu^ I did for one or tw^o of the fellows.” And after a little more of such conversation, during which he was fully persuaded that he had done for a dozen of the enemy at least, Poinsinet went to bed, his little person trembling with fright and pleasure ; and he fell asleep, and dreamed of res- cuing ladies, and destroying monsters, like a second Amadis de Gaul. When he awoke in the morning, he found a partv of his friends in his room : one was examining his coat and waist- coat ; another was casting rnaiiy’^ curious glances at his inex- pressibles. “Look here!” said this gentleman, holding up the garment to the light; “one- — two — three gashes! T am hanged if the cowards did not aim at Poinsinet’s legs ! There are four holes in the sw^ord arm of his coat, and seven have gone right through coat and waistcoat. Good heaven ! Poin- sinet, have 3"Ou had a surgeon to 3'our wounds?” “Wounds!” said the little man, springing up, “I don’t know — that is, I hope — that is — O Lord ! O Lord! I hope Pm not wounded!” and, after a proper examination, he dis- covered he was not. “Thank heaven! thank heaven!” said one of the wags ( wlio, indeed, during the slumbers of Poinsinet had been occu- pied in making these very holes through the garments of that individual), “if 3'ouhave escaped, it is by a miracle. Alas! alas ! all 3'our enemies have not been so luck3x” “How! is any] )ody wounded? ” said Poinsinet. “My dearest friend, prepare yourself; that unhapp3^ man who came to revenge his menaced honor — that gallant officer — that injured husband. Colonel Count de Cartentierce — ” “Well?” “Is NO more! he died this morning, pierced through with 12 178 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. nineteen wounds from 3’our hand, and calling upon his countr}^ to revenge his murder.” When this awful sentence was pronounced, all the auditory gave a pathetic and simultaneous sob ; and as for Poinsinet, he sank back on his bed with a howl of terror, which would have melted a Visigoth to tears, or to laughter. As soon as his U'lTor and remorse had, in some degree, subsided, his comrades spoke to him of the necessity of making his escape ; and, hud- dling on his clothes, and bidding them all a tender adieu, he set off, incontinentl}^ without his breakfast, for England, America, or Russia, not knowing exactl}" which. One of his companions agreed to accompany him on a part of this journe}', — that is, as far as the barrier of St. Denis, which is, as eveiybody knows, on the high road to Dover ; and there, being tolerably' secure, they entered a tavern for break- fast ; which meal, the last that he ever was to take, perhaps, in his native city, Poinsinet was just about to discuss, when, behold ! a gentleman entered the apartment where Poinsinet and his friend were seated, and, drawing from his pocket a paper, with “ Au nom du Roy” flourished on the top, read from it, or rather from Poinsinet’s own figure, his exact signale- ment^ laid his hand on his shoulder, and arrested him in the name of the King, and of the provost-marshal of Paris. “I arrest you, sir,” said he, gravel}", “ with regret ; 3-011 have slain, with seventeen wounds, in single combat. Colonel Count de Cartentierce, one of his Majesty’s household ; and, as his mur- derer, you fall under the immediate authority of the provost- marshal, and die without trial or benefit of clerg}-.” You may fancy how the poor little man’s appetite fell when he lieard this speech. “In the provost-marshal’s hands?” said his friend : “ then it is all over, indeed ! When does my poor friend suffer, sir?” “At half-past six o’clock, the day after to-morrow,” said the ofiicer, sitting down, and helping himself to wine. “But stop,” said he, suddenl}’ ; “sure I can’t mistake? Yes — no — yes, it is. M3" dear friend, m3" dear Durand! don’t 3'ou recollect 3^0111’ old schoolfellow, Antoine?” And herewith the officer flung himself into the arms of Durand, Poinsinet’s comrade, and they performed a most affecting scene of friend- ship. “This may be of some service to you,” whispered Durand to Poinsinet ; and, after some further parle}", lie asked the officer when he was liound to deliver up his prisoner ; and, hearing that he was not called upon to appear at the Marshalsea before six LITTLE POINSINET. 179 o’clock at night, Monsieur Durand prevailed upon IMonsieur An- toine to wait until that hour, and in the meantime to allow his prisoner to walk al)out the town in his company. This request was, with a little difficulty, granted ; and poor Poinsinet begged to be carried to the houses of Ihs various friends, and bid them farewell. Some were aware of the trick that had been played upon him : others were not ; but the poor little man’s credulity was so great, that it was impossible to undeceive him ; and he went from house to house bewailing his fate, and followed b}' the complaisant marshal’s officer. The news of his death he received with much more meekness than could have been expected ; but what he could not reconcile to himself was, the idea of dissection afterwards. ‘AVTiat can they want with me?” cried the poor wretch, in an unusual tit of candor. “ I am very small ami ugl}^ ; it would be ditferent if I were a tall fine-looking fellow.” But he was given to un- derstand that beaut}^ made very little difierence to the surgeons, who, on the contrary, would, on certain occasions, prefer a de- formed man to a handsome one ; for science was much advanced b}^ the study of such monstrosities. With this reason Poinsinet was obliged to be content ; and so i)aid his rounds of visits, and repeated his dismal adieux. The officer of the provost-marshal, however amusing Poin- sinet’s woes might have been, began, bjAhis time, to grow very weary of them, and gave him more than one opportunity to es- cape. He w'ould stop at shop-windows, loiter round corners, and look up in the sky, but all in vain : Poinsinet would not es- cape, do what the other would. At length, luckily, about din- ner-time, the officer met one of Poinsinet’s friends and his own : and the three agreed to dine at a tavern, as the}' had break- fasted ; and here the officer, who vowed that he had been up for five weeks incessantly, fell suddenly asleep, in the profoundest fatigue ; and Poinsinet was persuaded, after much hesitation on his part, to take leave of him. And now, this danger overcome, another was to be avoided. Beyond a doubt the police w'ere after him, and how was he to avoid them? He must be disguised, of course ; and one of his friends, a tall, gaunt lawyer’s clerk, agreed to provide him with habits. 8o little Poinsinet dressed himself out in the clerk’s dingy black suit, of which the knee-breeches hung down to his heels, and the waist of the coat reached to the calves of !iis legs ; and, furthermore, he blacked his eyebrows, and ^vore a huge black periwig, in which his friend vowed that no one could recognize 180 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. him. But the most painful incident, with regard to the periwig, was, that Poinsinet, whose solitary beauty — if beaut}^ it might be called — was a head of copious, cuiiing, yellow hair, was compelled to snip oif ev^ery one of liis golden locks, and to rub the bristles with a black dye; ''loi- if your wig were to come off,” said the lawyer, and 3'our fair hair to tumble over your shoulders, every man would know, or at least suspect 3^011.” So off' the locks were cut, and in his black suit and periwig little Poinsinet went abroad. His friends had their cue ; and when he appeared amongst them, not one seemed to know him. He was taken into compa- nies wliere his character was discussed before him, and his won- derful escape spoken of. At last he was introduced to the very officer of the provost-marshal who had taken him into custod3^, and who told him that he had been dismissed the provost’s ser- vice, in consequence of the escape of the prisoner. Now, for the first time, poor Poinsinet thought himself tolerabl3^ safe, and blessed his kind friends who had procured for him such a com- plete disguise. How this affair ended 1 know not, — whether some new lie was coined to account for his release, or whether he was simply told that he had been hoaxed : it mattered little ; for the little man was quite as read3” to be hoaxed the next da3’. Poinsinet was one day invited to dine with one of the servants of the Tuileries ; and, before his arrival, a person in company had been decorated with a knot of lace and a gold ke3’ , such as chamberlains wear ; he was introduced to Poinsinet as the Count de Truchses, chamberlain to the King of Prussia. After dinner the conversation fell upon the Count’s visit to Paris ; when his Excellency, with a m3^sterious air, vowed that he had 01113^ come for pleasure. “ It is mighty well,” said a third person, “ and, of course, we can’t cross-question your lordship too closel3^ ; ” but at the same time it was hinted to Poinsinet that a person of such consequence did not travel for nothing^ with which opinion Poinsinet solemnly agreed ; and, indeed, it was borne out by a subsequent declaration of the Count, who condescended, at last, to tell the compan3q in confidence, that he had a mission, and a most important one — to find, namely, among the literaiy men of France, a governor for the Prince Ro3ml of Prussia. The company seemed astonished that the King had not made choice of Voltaire or D’Alembert, and mentioned a dozen other distin- guished men who might be competent to this important dut3^ ; but the Count, as ma3^ be imagined, found objections to eveiy one of them ; and, at last, one of the guests said, that, if his Prussian Majesty was not particular as to age, he knew a person LITTLE POINSINET. 181 more fitted for the place than any other who could be found, — - his honorable friend, M. Foinsinet, was the individual to whom lie alluded. Good heavens ! ” cried the Count, “is it possible that the celebrated Foinsinet would take such a place? I would give the world to see him?'’ And yon may fancy how Foinsinet simpered and blushed when the introduction immediately' took place. The Count protested to him that the King would be charmed to know him ; and added, that one of his operas (for it must be told that onr little friend was a vaudeville-maker by trayle) had been acted seven-and-twenty times at the theatre at Fotsdam. His Excellency then detailed to him all the honors and privi- leges wliich the governor of the Frince Royal might expect ; and all the guests encouraged the little man’s vanity, by asking him for his protection and favor. In a short time onr hero grew so inliated with pride and vanity, tl\at he wns for patron- izing the chamberlain himself, who proceeded to infoiun him that he was furnished with all the necessary powers by' his sovereign, who had specially enjoined him to confer upon the future governor of his son the royml order of the Black Eagle. Foinsinet, delighted, was ordered to kneel down ; and the Count produced a large yellow ribbon, which he hung over his shoulder, and which was, he declared, the grand cordon of the order. You must fancy' Foinsinet’s face, and excessive delight at this ; for as for describing them, nobody can. For four-and- twenty hours the happy chevalier paraded through Faris with this flaring yellow ribbon ; and he was not undeceived until his friends had another trick in store for. him. He dined one day' in the company of a man who understood a little of the noble art of conjuring, and performed some clever tricks on the cards. Foinsinet’s organ of wonder was enor- mous ; he looked on with the gravity and awe of a child, and thonoiit the man’s tricks sheer miracles. It wanted no more to set his companions to work. “ Who is this wonderful man?” said he to his neighbor. “Why,” said the other, mysteriously, “one hardly knows who he is ; or, at least, one does not like to say' to such an in- discreet fellow as y’on are.” Foinsinet at once swore to be secret. “Well, then,” said his friend, “von will hear that man — that wonderful man — called by' a name which is not his : his real name is Acosta : he is a Fortnguese Jew, a Rosi- crucian, and Cabalist of the first order, and compelled to leave Lisbon for fear of the Inquisition. He performs here, as you 182 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. see, some extraordinaiy things, occasionally ; but the master of the house, who loves him excessively, would not, for the world, that his name should be made public.” “Ah. bah!” said Poinsinet, who affected the hel esprit; “ you don’t mean to say that you believe in magic, and ca- balas, and such trash ? ” “ Do I not? You shall judge for yourself.” And, accord- ingly, Poinsinet was presented to the magician, who pretended to take a vast liking for him, and declared that he saw in him certain marks which would infallibl}' lead him to great eminence in the magic art, if he chose to stud}' it. Dinner was served, and Poinsinet placed by the side of the miracle-worker, who became very confidential with him, and promised him — a}', before dinner was over — a remarkable instance of his power. Nobod}^ on this occasion, ventured to cut a single joke against poor Poinsinet ; nor could he fancy that any trick was intended against him, for the demeanor of the society towards him was perfectly grave and respectful, and the conversation serious. On a sudden, however, some- body exclaimed, “Where is Poinsinet? Did any one see him leave the room ? ” All the company exclaimed how singular the disappearance was ; and Poinsinet Inmself, growing alarmed, turned round to his neighbor, and was about to explain. “ liusli ! ” said the magician, in a whisper; “ I told you that you should see what I could do. I have made you invisible ; be quiet, and you shall see some more tricks that 1 shall play with these fellows.” Poinsinet remained then silent, and listened to his neigh- bors, who agreed, at last, that he was a quiet, orderly person- age, and had left the table earl}', being unwilling to drink too much. Presently they ceased to talk about him, and resumed their conversation upon other matters. At lirst it was very quiet and grave, but the master of the house brought back the talk to the subject of Poinsinet, and uttered all sorts of abuse concerning him. He begged the gentleman, who had introduced such a little scamp into his house, to bring him thither no more : whereupon the other took up, warmly, Poinsinet’s defence ; declared that he was a man of the greatest merit, frequenting the best society, and remarkable for hi^ talents as well as his virtues. “ Ah 1 ” said Poinsinet to the magician, quite charmed at what he heard, “ how ever shall I thank you, my dear sir, for thus showing me who my true friends are ? ” LITTLE POIXSTXET. 183 The magician promised him still further favors in prospect ; and told him to look out now, for he was about to throw all the coinpaii}' into a temporaiy fit of madness, which, no doubt, would be veiy amusing. In consequence, all the com[)anv, who had heard eveiy syl- lable of the conversation, began to perform the most extraor- dinaiy antics, mucli to the delight of Toinsinet. One asked a nonsensical question, and the other delivered an answer not at all to the purpose. If a man asked lor a drink, they poured him out a pepper-box or a napkin : they took a pinch of snuff, and swore it was excellent wine ; and vowed that the bread was the most delicious mutton ever tasted. The little man was delighted. ^^Ah!” said he, “these fellows are prettih’ punished for their rascally backbiting of me ! ” “ Gentlemen,” said the host, “ I shall now give you some celebrated champagne,” and he poured out to each a glass of water. “ Good heavens ! ” said one, spitting it out, with the most horrible grimace, “ where did 3 'ou get this detestable claret? ” “Ah, faugh!” said a second, ^^1 never tasted such vile corked burgund)’ in all my days ! ” and he threw the glass of water into Poinsinet’s face, as did half a dozen of the other guests, drenching the poor wretch to the skin. To complete this pleasant illusion, two of the guests fell to boxing across I^oinsinet, who received a number of the blows, and received them with the patience of a fakir, feeling himself more flattered 1y the precious privilege of beholding this scene invisible, than hurt by the blows and buffets which the mad company bestowed upon him. The fame of this adventure spread quicklv over Paris, and all the world longed to have at their houses the representation of Poiminet the Invisible. The servants and the whole compaiiy msed to be put up to the trick ; and Poinsinet, vdio believed in his invisibility as much as he did in his existence, went about with his friend and protector the magician. People, of course, never pretended to see him, and would very often not talk of him at all for some time, l)ut hold sober conversation about anvthing else in the world. When dinner was served, of course there was no cover laid for Poinsinet, who carried about a little stool, on which he sat b}^ the side of the magician, and always ate off his plate. Everyl)ody v/as astonished at the magician’s appetite and at the quantit}^ of v/ine he' drank ; as for little Poinsinet, he never once suspected aiy’ trick, and had such a 184 THE PAKIS SKETCH BOOK. confidence in his magician, that, I do believe, if the latter had told him to fling himself out of window, he would have done so, without the slightest trepidation. Among other m3’stifications in which the Portuguese en- chanter plunged him, was one which used to aflford alwa^’s a good deal of amusement. He informed Poinsinet, with great in3’steiy, that he was not himself ; he was not, that is to sa3’, that ugl3^, deformed little monster, called Poinsinet ; but that his birth was most illustrious, and his real name Polycarte. He was, in fact, the t>oii of a celebrated magician ; but other magicians, enemies of his father, had changed him in his cradle, altering his features into their present hideous shape, in order that a sill3' old fellow, called Poinsinet, might take him to be his own son, which little monster the magician had likewise spirited awa3’. The poor wi’etch was sadl3" cast down at this ; for he tried to fanc3’ that his person was agreeable to the ladies, of whom he was one of the warmest little admirers possible ; and to console him somewhat, the magician told him that his real shape was exquisitely beautiful, and as soon as he should ap- pear in it, all the beauties in Paris would be at his feet. But how to regain it? Oh, for one minute of that beaut3" ! ” cried the little man ; what would he not give to appear under that enchanting form ! ” The magician hereupon waved his stick over his head, [)ronounced some awful magical words, and twisted him round three times ; at the third twist, the men in compaiy' seemed struck with astonishment and en\y, the ladies clasped their hands, and some of them kissed his. Everybody declared his beauty to be supernatural. Poinsinet, enclnanted, rushed to a glass. “ Fool ! ” said the magician ; ‘‘do you suppose that you can see the change? My ])Ower to render you invisible, beautiful, or ten times more hideous even than von are, extends 011I3' to others, not to 3'^^^* lYou may look a thousand times in the glass, and you will only see those deformed limbs and disgusting features with which devilish malice has disguised 3"0u.’’ Poor little Poinsinet looked, and came back in tears.’ “’But,” resumed the magi- cian,'- — “ha, ha, ha! — 1 know a wa3" in which to disappoint the machinations of these fiendish magi.” “Oh, mv benefactor! — m3* great master! — for heaven’s sake tell it ! ” gasped Poinsinet. “Look you— it is this. A prey to enchantment and demoniac art all 3'our life long, you have lived until your present age perfectl3* satisfied ; na3*, absolutely^ vain of a LITTLE POINSINET. 185 [jersoii the most singularly hideous that ever walked the earth ! ” ‘‘ /s it? ” whispered Poinsiiiet. “ Indeed and indeed I didn’t think it so bad ! ” “He acknowledges it! he acknowledges it I” roared the magician. “ AVh-eteh, dotard, owl, mole, miserable buzzard! I have no reason to tell thee now that th}' Ibi-m is monstrous, tliat children cry, that cowards turn [)ale, that teeming matrons shudder to behold it. It is not thy lault tliat thou art thus ungainlv : but wherefore so blind ? wherefore so conceited of tli 3 'self ! 1 tell thee, Poiiisinet, that over every fresh instance of thy vanity tlie hostile enchanters rejoice and triumph. As long as thou art blindly satislied with th^'self ; as long as thou pretendest, in thy present odious shape, to win the love of aught above a negress ; nay, further still, until thou hast learned to regard that face, as others do, with the most intol- erable horror and disgust, to aljuse it when thou seest it, to despise it, in short, and treat that miserable disguise in which the enchanters have wrapped thee with the strongest hatred and scorn, so long art thou destined to wear it.” Such speeches as these, continuall}' repeated, caused Poin- sinet to be full}’ convinced of his ugliness ; he used to go about in companies, and take every opportunity of inveighing against himself; he made verses and epigrams against himself; he talked about “that dwarf, Poinsinet ; ” “that buffoon, Poiii- sinet ; ” “ that" conceited, hump-backed Poinsinet;” and he would spend hours before the glass, abusing his own face as he saw it rehected there, and vowing that he grew handsomer at every fresh epithet that he uttered. Of course the wags, from time to time, used to give him every possible encouragement, and declared that since this ex- ercise, his person was amazingly improved. The ladies, too, began to be so excessively fond of him, that the little fellow was obliged to caution them at last — for the good, as he said, of society ; he recommended them to draw lots, for he could not gratif}' them all ; but promised when his metamorphosis was complete, that the one chosen should become the happy Mrs. Poinsinet ; or, to speak more correctly^ Mrs. Polycarte. I am sorry to say, however, that, on the score of gallantry, Poinsinet was never quite convinced of the hideousness of his appearance. He had a number of adventures, accordingly, with the ladies, but strange to say, the husbands or fathers were always interrupting him. On one occasion he was made to pass the night in a slipper-bath full of water ; where, ah iS6 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. though he bad all his cloches on, he declared that he nearly caught his death of cold. Another night, in revenge j the poor fellow “ dans le simple appareil D’une beaute, qu’o/i vient d’arracher au sommeil,” spent a number of hours contemplating the beauty of the moon on the tiles. These adventures are pretty numerous in the memoirs of M. Poinsinet ; but the fact is, that people in France were a great deal more philosophical in those da}’s than the English are now, so that Poinsinet’s loves must be passed over, as not being to our taste. His magician w^as a great diver, and told Poinsinet the most wonderful tales of his two min- utes’ absence under water. These two minutes, he said, lasted through a year, at least, which he spent in the company of a naiad, more beautiful than Venus, in a palace more splendid than even Versailles. Fired b}' the description, Poinsinet used to dip, and dip, but he never was known to make an}^ mermaid ac- quaintances, although he fully believed that one day he should line! such. The invisible joke was brought to an end by Poinsinet’s too great reliance on it ; for being, as we have said, of a very ten- der and sanguine disposition, he one da}" fell in love with a lady in whose company he dined, and whom he actuall}^ pro- posed to embrace ; but the fair lady, in the hurry of the mo- ment, forgot to act up to the joke ; and instead of receiving Poinsinet’s salute with calmness, grew indignant, called him an impudent little scoundrel, and lent him a sound box on the ear. With this slaj) the invisibility of Poinsinet disappeared, the gnomes and genii left him, and he settled down into common life again, and was hoaxed only by vulgar means. A A"ast number of pages might be filled with narratives of the tricks that wmre played upon him ; but the}" resemble each other a good deal, as may be imagined, and the chief point remarkable about them is the wondrous faith of Poinsinet. After being introduced to the Prussian ambassador at the Tuile- ries, he was presented to tlie Turkish envoy at the Place Ven- dome, who recei\Td liiin in state, surrounded by the officers of his establishment, all dressed in the smartest dresses that the wardrobe of the Opera Comique could furnish. As the greatest honor that could be done to him, Poinsinet was invited to eat, and a tray was produced, on which was a delicate dish prepared in the Turkish manner. This consisted of a reasonable quantity of mustard, salt, cinnamon and ginger, LITTLE POINSIN'ET. 187 nutmegs and cloves, with a couple of tablespoonfuls of ca3'enne pepper, to give the whole a flavor ; ai>d Poiiisiiiet’s countenance may be imagined when he introduced into his mouth a quantity of this exquisite compound. “ The best of the joke was,” says flie author who records so man}’ of the pitiless tricks practised upon poor Poinsinet, “ that the little man used to laugh at them afterwards himself with perfect good humor ; and lived in the daily ho[)e that, from being the sufferer, he should become tie agent in these hoaxes, and do to others as he had been done by.” Passing, therefore, one day, on the Pont Neuf, with a friend, who had been one of the greatest performers, the latter said to him, “Poinsinet, my good fellow, thou hast suffered enough;- and thy sufferings have made thee so wise and cunning, that thou art worthy of entering among the initiated, and hoaxing in thy turn.” Poin- sinet was charmed ; he asked when he should be initiated, and how? It was told him that a moment would suflice, and that the ceremony might be performed on the spot . At this news, and according to order, Poinsinet flung himself straightway on his knees in the kennel ; and the other, dj-awi)ig his sword, solemnly initiated him into the sacred order of jokers. From tliat day the little man believed himself received into the so- ciety ; and to this having brought him, let ua bid him resuoct' ful adieu. THE HEVIL’S WAGER It was the hour of the night when there be none stirring save cliurch^’ar'.l ghosts — when all doors are closed except the gates of graves, arid all e}'es shut but the e}’es of wicked men. When there is no sound on the earth except the ticking of the grasshopper, or the croaking of obscene frogs in the poole. And no light except that of the blinking starres, and the wicked and devilish wills-o’-the-wisp, as they gambol among the marshes, and lead good men astraye. When there is nothing moving in heaven except the owle, as he liappeth along lazily ; or the magician, as he rides on his infernal broomsticke, whistling through the aire like the arrowes of a Yorkshire archere. It was at this hour (namely, at twelve o’clock of the night,) that two beings went winging through the black clouds, and holding converse with each other. Now the first was Mercurius, the messenger, not of gods (as the heathens feigned) , but of daemons ; and the second, with whom he held company, was the soul of Sir Roger de Rollo, the brave knight. Sir Roger was Count of Chauchign}^ in Champagne ; Seigneur of Santerre, Viilacerf and auitre lieux. But the great die as well as the humble ; and nothing remained of brave Rodger now, but his coffin and his deathless soul. And Mercurius, in order to keep fast the soul, his companion, had bound him round the neck with his tail ; which, when the soul was stubborn, he would draw so tight as to strangle him wellnigh, sticking into him the barbed point thereof ; whereat the poor soul. Sir Rollo, would groan and roar lustily. THE DEVIL’S WAGER. 189 “It is hard,” said the poor Sir Rollo, as they went gliding tdirough the clouds, “ tJiat 1 should thus be condemned for ever, and all for want of a single ave.” “ How, Sir Soul?” said the dminon. “ You were on earth so wicked, tliat not one, or a million of aves, could sullice to keep Irom hell-llame a creature like thee ; but cheer up and be merry ; thou wilt be but a subject ol’our lord the Devil, as am I ; and, pci‘lia[)s, thou will be advanced to posts of honor, as am 1 also : ” and to show his authoritie, he lashed with his tail the ribbes of the wretched Rollo. “Nevertheless, sinner as 1 am, one more ave would have saved me ; for mv sister, who was Abbess of St. Maiy of Chauchiguy, did so })revail, by her prayer and good works, for my lost ami wretched soul, that eveiy day 1 felt the pains of purgatory decrease ; the pitchforks which, on my first entry, had never ceased to vex and torment m}’ poor carcass, were now not ap})lied above once a week ; the roasting had ceased, the boiling had discontinued ; only a certain warmth was kept up, to remind me of my situation.” “ A gentle stewe,” said the dccmon. “ Yea, truly, 1 was but in a stew, and all from the effects of the prayers of my blessed sister. Hut yesterday, he who watched me in purgatory told me, that yet another praj^er from my sister, and my bonds should be unloosed, and 1, who am now a devil, should have been a blessed angel.” “ And the other ave?” said the daemon. “ She died, sir — my sister died — death choked her in the middle of the prayer.” And hereat the wretched spirit began to w^eepe and w^hine piteously ; his salt tears falling over his beard, and scalding the tail of Mercurius the devil. “It is, in truth, a hard case,” said the daemon; “but I know of no remed}^ save patience, and for that you wdll have an excellent opportunity in your lodgings below.” “ But I have relations,” said the Earl ; “ 1113 " kinsman Ran- dal, W'ho has inherited my lands, wall he not say a pra 3 "er for his uncle ? ” “ I’hou didst hate and oppress him wdien living.” “ It is true ; but an ave is not much ; his sister, my niece, Matilda — ” “ You shut her in a convent, and hanged her lover.” “ Had I not reason? besides, has she not others?” “ A dozen, without doubt.” “And my brother, the prior?” liege subject of m}^ lord the Devil: he never opens 190 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. his mouth, except to utter an oath, or to swallow a cup of wine.” “ And 3^et, if but one of these would but sa}' an aA^e for me, I should be saved.” “ Aves with them are rarse aves,” replied Mercurius, wag- ging his tail right waggishl}^ ; “ and, what is more, I will lay thee an}" wager that not one of these will say a pra}^er to save thee.” “I would wager willingly,” responded he of Chauchigri}" ; “ but what has a poor soul like me to stake?” “ EA"eiy evening, after the day’s roasting, my lord Satan giveth a cup of cold water to his servants ; I will bet thee thy water for a year, that none of the three will pray for thee.” “ Done ! ” said Rollo. “ Done ! ” said the daemon ; “ and here, if I mistake not, is thy castle of Chanchign}’.” Indeed, it was true. The soul, on looking down, perceived the tall towers, the courts, the stables, and the fair gardens of the castle. Although it was past midnight, there was a blaze of light in the banqueting-hall, and a lamp burning in the open window of the Lady Matilda. “ With whom shall we begin?” said the daemon : ‘‘ with the baron or the lady ? ” “ With the lady, if you will.” “Be it so ; her window is open, let us enter.” So they descended, and entered silently into Matilda’s chamber. The young lad}’’s e}'es were fixed so intentl}" on a little clock, that it was no wonder that she did not perceive the entrance of her two visitors. Her fair cheek rested on her white arm, and her white arm on the cushion of a great chair in Avhich she sat, pleasantly supported by sweet thoughts and swan’s down ; a lute was at her side, and a book of prayers lay under the table (for pietv is always modest). Like the amorous Alexander, she sighed and looked (at the clock) — and sighed for ten minutes or more, when she softl}^ breathed the word “Ed- ward ! ” At this the soul of the Baron was wroth. “ The jade is at her old pranks,” said he to the devil ; and then addressing Matilda: “ I pray thee, sweet niece, turn thy thoughts for a moment from that villanous page, Edward, and give them to thine affectionate uncle.” When she heard the voice, and saw the aAvful apparition of THE DEVIL’S WAGER. 191 her uncle (for a }"car’s sojourn in purgatoiy had not increased the comeliness of his appearance), she started, screamed, and of course fainted. But the devil Mercurius soon restored her to herself. “ What’s o’clock?” said she, as soon as she had recovered from her fit: “is he come?” “ Not tly lover, Maude, but thine uncle — that is, his soul. For the love of heaven, listen to me : I have been frying in pur- gatory for a year past, and should have been in heaven but for the want of a single ave.” “ 1 will sa}’ it for thee to-morrow, uncle.” “To-nigiit, or never.” “Well, to-night be it : ” and she requested the devil Mer- curius to give her the pi-ayer-book IVom under the table ; but he had no sooner touched the holy book than he dropped it with a shriek and a yell. “ It was hotter,” he sai toiy, at any rate, is not veiy edifying ; and so ma3^ be passed over : but, as a certain great philosopher told us, in very hum- ble and sim[)le words, tliat we are not to expect to gather gra[)es from thorns, or figs from thistles, we ma3', at least, demand, in all persons assuming the character of moralist or pliiloso[)her — order, soberness, and regularit3' of life; for we are a[)t to distrust the intellect that we fanc3" can be swayed by circumstance or passion ; and we know how circumstance and l)assion will sway tiie intellect : how mortified vanit3^ will form excuses for itself ; and how temper turns angril3^ upon con- science, that reproves it. How often have we called our judge our enem3', because he has given sentence against us ! — I low often have we called the right wrong, because the right condemns us ! And in the lives of maiy^ of the bitter foes of the Christian doctrine, can we find no personal reason for their hostility ? The men in Athens said it was out of re- gard for religion that the3' murdered Socrates ; but we have liad time, since then, to reconsider the verdict ; and Socrates’ character is prett3^ pure now, in spite of the sentence and the juiy of those da3’s. The Parisian philosophers will attempt to explain to 3'ou the changes through which Madame Sand’s mind has passed, — the initiatory triiils, labors, and sufferings which she has had to go through, before she reached her present happy MADAME SAND. 201 state of mental illumination. She teaches her wisdom in para- hies, ihat are, mostly, a couple of volumes long ; and began, first, an elo(pient attack on marriage, in the charming novel of “ Indiana.” “ Pity,” cried she, “ ibr the poor woman who, united to a being whose brute force makes him her superior, should venture to break the bondage which is imposed on her, and allow her heart to be free.” In support of this claim of pity, she writes two volumes of the most ex(|uisite prose. AVhat a tender, suffering creature is Indiana ; how little her husband appreciates that gentleness which he is crushing by his tyranny and brutal scorn ; how natural it is that, in the absence of his sympath}', she, poor clinging confiding creature, should seek elsewhere for shelter; how cautious sliould we be, to call criminal — to visit with too heavy a censure — an act w'hich is one of the natural impulses of a tender heart, that seeks but for a worth}^ oliject of love. But why attempt to tell the tale of beautiful Indiana? Madame Sand has \vritten it so well, that not the hardest-hearted lius- l)and in Christendom can fail to be touched by her sorrows, though he may refuse to listen to her argument. Let us grant, for argument’s sake, that the laws of marriage, especially the French laws of marriage, press A^eiy cruelly upon unfortunate women. But if one wants to have a ipiestion of this, or any nature, honestl}’ argued, it is better, surely, to apply to an indifferent person for an imi[)ire. For instance, the stealing of pocket- handkerchiefs or snuff-boxes may or may not be vicious ; l)ut if we, who have not the wit, or will not take the trouble to decide the question ourselves, ’want to hear the real rights of the matter, w^e should not, surely, ap[)ly to a pickpocket to know what he thought on the point. It might naturall}^ be })resumed that he would be rather a prejudiced person — par- ticularly as his reasoning, if successful, might get him out of 'gaol. This is a homely illustration, no doubt ; all w^e would urge by it is, that JMadame Sand having, according to the French newspapers, had a stern husband, and also having, according to the ne’^^spapers, sought " ‘ S}inpath3" ” elsewhere, her arguments ma}- be considered to be somewhat partial, and received with some little caution. And tell us who have been the social reformers? — the haters, that is, of the present sj^stem, according to which we live, love, many, have children, educate them, and endow them — are they pure themselves f I do believe not one ; and directl}^ a man begins to quarrel with the world and its ways, 202 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. and to lift up, as he calls it, the voice of his despair, and preach passionately to mankind about this tyrann}^ of faith, customs, laws ; if we examine what the personal character of the preacher is, we begin prettj" clearly to understand the value of the doctrine. Aii}^ one can see why Rousseau should be such a whimpering reformer, and Bj’ron such a free and easy misanthropist, and why our accomplished Madame Sand, Avho has a genius and eloquence inferior to neither, should take the present condition of mankind (French-kind) so much to heart, and labor so hotly to set it right. After “Indiana” (which, we presume, contains the lady’s notions upon wives and husbands) came “ Valentine,” which ma}^ be said to exhibit her doctrine, in regard of 3'oung men and maidens, to whom the author would accord, as we fanc}^ the same tender license. “Valentine” was followed by “ Lelia,” a wonderful book indeed, gorgeous in eloquence, and rich in magnificent [loetiy : a regular topsyturvj’fication of moralit}', a thieves’ aiul prostitutes’ apotheosis. This book has received some late enlargements and emendations b}' the writer ; it contains her notions on morals, which, as we have said, are so peculiar, that, alas ! they only can be mentioned here, not particularized: but of “S[)iridion” we may write a few pages, as it is lun* religious manifesto. In this work, the ladj' asserts her pantheistical doctrine, and openly attacks the received Christian creed. She declares it to be useless now, and unfitted to the exigencies and the de- gree of culture of the actual world ; and, though it would be liardH worth while to combat her opinions in due form, it is, at least, worth while to notice them, not merely from the ex- traordinary eloquence and gemius of the woman herself, but because they express the opinions of a great number of people besides : for she not only produces her own thoughts, but imi- tates those of others very eagerly ; and one finds in her writ- ings so much similarity with others, or, in others, so much resemblance to her, that the book before us may pass for the exiiression of the sentiments of a certain French part}". “ Dieu est mort,” says another writer of the same class, and of great genius too. — “Dieu est mort,” writes Mr. Henry Heine, speaking of the Christian God ; and he adds, in a dar- ing figure of speech, — “ N’entendez-vous pas sonner la Clo- chette"? — on porte les sacremens a un Dieu qui se meurt ! ” Another of the pantheist poetical philosophers, Mr. Edgar Quinet, has a poem, in Avhich Christ ^nd the Virgin Mary are made to die similarly, and the former is classed with Prome-^ MADAME SAND. 203 theiis. This book of “ Spirklion ” is a coiitiiuiation of the theme, and perhaps you will listen to some of the author’s expositions of it. It must be eonfessed that the eontroversialists of the present day have an eminent advantage over their [)redecessors in the days of folios ; it recpiired some learning then to write a book, and some time, at least — for the very hil)or of writing out a thousand siieli vast [>ages would demand a eonsiderable period. But now, in the age of duodecimos, the system is reformed alto- gether : a male or female controversialist draws upon his im- agination, and not his learning ; makes a stoiy instead of an argument, and, in the course of 150 [)ages (where the preacher has it all his own way) will prove or disprove you anything. And, to our shame be it said, we Protestants have set the example of this kind of [)roselytism — those detestable mixtures of truth, lies, false sentiment, false reasoning, bad grammar, correct and genuine philanthropy and piety — ^1 mean our relig- ious tracts, which any woman or man, be he ever so silljg can take upon himself to write, and sell for a penny, as if religious instruction were the easiest thing in the world. We, I say, have set the example in this kind of co’m[)osition, and all the sects of the earth will, doubtless, speedily follow it. I can point you out blasphemies in tamoiis [)ious tracts that are as dreadful as those above mentioned ; but this is no place for such discussions, and we had better return to Aladame Sand. As Mrs Sherwood expounds, by means of many touching his- tories and anecdotes of little boys and girls, her notions of church history, church catechism, church doctrine ; — as the author of “ Father Clement, a Roman Catholic Story,” demol- ishes the stately structure of eighteen centuries, the mighty and beautiful Roman Catholic fiiitli, in whose bosom repose so many saints and sages, — by the means of a three-and-sixpenny duo- decimo volume, which tumbles over the vast faliric, as David’s pebble-stone did Goliath; — as, again, the Roman Catholic author of “■Geraldine” falls foul of Luther and Calvin, and drowns the awful echoes of their tremendous protest by the sounds of her little half-crown trumpet : in like manner, by means of prett}’ sentimental tales, and cheap apologues, Mrs. Sand proclaims her truth — that we need a new Messiah, and that the Christian religion is no more ! O awful, awful name of God ! Light unbearable ! Mystery unfathomable ! Vastness immeasurable ! — Who are these who come forward to explain the mystery, and gaze unblinking into the depths of the light, and measure the immeasurable vastness to a hair? O name, 204 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. that God’s people- of old did fear to utter ! O light, that God’s prophet would have perished had he seen ! Who are these that are now so familiar with it? — Women, truly ; for the most part weak women — weak in intellect, weak may hap in spelling and grammar, but marvellously strong in faith : — women, who step down to the people with stately step and voice of authority, and deliver their twopenu}^ tablets, as if there were some Divine authority for the wu-etched nonsense recorded there ! With regard to the spelling and grammar, our Parisian P3Thoness stands, in the goodly fellowship, remarkable. Her st3'le is a noble, and, as far as a foreigner can judge, a strange tongue, beautifull3^ rich, and pure. She has a ver3^ exuberant imagination, and, with it, a veiy chaste style of expression. She never scarcel3^ indulges in declamation, as other modern prophets do, and 3'et her sentences are exquisite^ melodious and full. She seldom runs a thought to death (after the manner of some prophets, who, wdien the3’ catch a little one, toy with it until the3’ kill it), but she leaves you at the end of one of her brief, rich, melanchol3^ sentences, with plent3" of food for future cogitation. I can’t express to 3^11 the charm of them ; they seem to me like the sound of countiy bells — provoking I don’t know what vein of musing and meditation, and falling sweetly and sadl3* on the ear. This wonderful power of language must have been felt by most people who read Madame Sand’s first books, “ Valentine” and “ Indiana in “ Spiridion ” it is greater, I think, than ever ; and for those who are not afraid of the matter of the novel, the manner will be found most delightful. The author’s intention, I presume, is to describe, in a parable, her notions of the downfall of the Catholic church ; and, indeed, of the whole Christian scheme : she places her hero in a monastery in Ita(y, where, among the characters about him, and the events which occur, the particular tenets of Madame Dudevant’s doc- trine are not inaptl3’ laid down. Innocent, faithful, tender- hearted, a 3mung monk, b3^ name Angel, finds himself, when he has pronounced his vows, an object of aversion and hatred to the godl3" men whose lives he so much respects, and whose love he wmuld make an3' sacrifice to win. After enduring much, he flings himself at the feet of his confessor, and begs for his S3'in- pathv and counsel ; but the confessor spurns him awa3q and accuses him, fiercel3^, of some unknown and terrible crime — bids him never return to the confessional until contrition has touched his heart, and the stains which sully his spirit are, by sincere repentance, washed awa3\ 205 imadaaie sand. ‘‘Thus speaking,” says Angel, “Father Ilegesippuy tore