m. /V^'^WuWVUW^ VWV t^^-0m^m^ ^^^zz^'i^w^' B^'^'^^^ ^'^^rmk^^^M '^ggm^^ ^^^:y'''y^^^ m^^^^^ *vww »VuwuVV^^WVVvVvuUv^'' LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. TTTSTTS" — — ®i^p. ©np^rig]^ Iftt Shelf ......PS — m'6 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. ij^m^ ^WWU^WWg^^ i^%'J^%. ^'^-^mm^ ^' '^% I'wwiyVwV^'W^'v, ^#i^WW^*^^^^ ^vv vg^^ga ,-^«WUWV-yW^^,w;^, v^'vvv; (yw#«^**^S»^^ w^My^m^ y-aw"ivi: ,vww 'V»yy v.y'VW'i WMMhJ^ '*'^wwvi Vvwmv^ ^.V^^^^y^^Ky' 'UWWWwyg^W^U^WWy..;uf,u /yvw^Wwwv WWyC'v: ^^^^^^^Owovgg^^'^u^^ir^ VVvVVVVV VV*^UVV\ ^I^^^^WWw^ to. 229. "^ -" - ao oEiajc^ ^^H ^^: mm^mms^^.^ ^^ ^ ^ ^ ^^ ^^ ^p ^ ^ ^^ ^ A m at CLOTH BHTDIITG i«r this volume can b« obtiined from any bookseller ^t ne-^^Jea'er, prict lOcts LOVELL'S LIBRARY -CATALOGUE. Hyperion, by H. W, Longfellow. .20 Outre-Mer, by H. W. Longfellow. 20 The Happy Boy, by BjOrnson 10 Arne, by Bjornson 10 Frankenstein, by Mrs. Shelley... 10 The Last of the Mohicans 20 Clytie, by Joseph Hatton 20 The Moonstone, by Collins, P't 1. 10 The Moonstone, by Collins, P'tll. 10 Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens. 20 The Coming Race, by Lytton 10 Leila, by Lord Lytton 10 The Three Spaniards, by Walker. 20 TheTricks of the GreeksUnveiled.20 L' Abbe Con Stan tin, byHalevy..20 Freckles, by R. F. Redcliff. . . .20 The Dark Colleen, by Harriett Jay.20 They Were Married! by Walter Besant and James Rice 10 Seekers «fter God, by Farrar 20 The Spanish Nun, byDeQuincey.lO The Green Mountain Boys 20 Fleurette, by Eugene Scribe 20 Second Thoughts, by Broughton.20 The New Magdalen, by Collins.. 20 Divorce, by Margaret Lee 20 Life of Washington, by Henley.. 20 Social Etiquette, by Mrs. Saville.l5 Single Heart and Double Face.. 10 Irene, by Carl Detlef 20 Vice Versa, by F. Anstey 20 Ernest Maltravers, by LordLyttonSO The Haunted House and Calderon the Courtier, by Lord Lytton.. 10 John Halifax, by Mif^s Mulock. ..20 800 Leagues on the Amazon 10 The Cryptogram, by Jules Verne.lO Life of Marion, by Horry 20 Paul and Virginia 10 Tale of Two Cities, by Dickens. .2 J The Hermits, by Kingsley 20 An Adventure in Thule, and Mar- riage of Moira Fergus, Black . 10 A Marriage in High Life 20 Robin, by Mrs. Parr 20 Two on a Tower, by Thos. Hardy.20 RaBselas, by Samuel Johnson — 10 Alice, or, the Mysteries, being Part II. of Ernest Maltravers. .20 Duke of Kandos, by A. Mathey. ..20 Baron Munchausen 10 A Princess of Thule, by Black.. 20 The Secret Despatch, by Grant, 20 Early Days of Christianity, by Canon Farrar, D D., Part I. . . .20 Early Days of Christianity, Pt. 11.20 Vicar of Wakefield, by Goldsmith. 10 Progress and Poverty, by Henry George 20 The Spy, by Cooper 20 East Lynne, br Mrs. Wood... 20 A Strange Story, by Lord Lytton.. .20 Adam Bede, by Eliot, Part 1 15 Adam Bede, Part II 15 The Golden Shaft, by Gibbon. . . .20 Portia, by The Duchess 20 Last Days of Pompeii, by Lytton. . 20 The Two Duchesses, by Mathey. .20 Tom Brown'B School Days 20 82. The Wooing O't, by Mrs. Alex- ander.Partl 15 The Wooing OH, Part II 15 63. The Vendetta, by Balzac 80 64. Hypatia,byCha8.Kingpley,P'tI.15 Hypatia, bv Kingsley, Part IL. ..15 65. Selma, by Mrs. J . G. Smith 15 66. Margaret and her Bridesmaids. .20 67. Horse Shoe Robinson, Part I 15 Horse Shoe Robinson, Part II. . . 15 68. Gulliver's Travels, by Swift 20 69. Amos Barton, by George Eliot... 10 70. The Berber, by W. E. Mayo 20 71. Silas Marner, by George Eliot. . .10 72. The Queen of the County 20 73. Life of Cromwell, by Hood... 15 74. Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bront^.20 75. Child's History of England 20 76. Molly Bawn, by The Duchess. . .20 77. Pillone, bv William BergsOe 15 78. Phyllis, by The Ducheee 20 79. Romola, by Geo. Eliot,c. Awful Justice stops, and, bowing gravely, listens to M. Hugo's verses, and, with true French politeness, says, " Mon cher Monsieur, these verses are charming, ravissans, delicieiix, and, coming from such a celebrite litterah'C as yourself, shall meet with every possible attention — in fact, had I required any- thing to confirm my 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 bow- ing, 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 liberty, sham mon- archy, sham glory, sham justice, — ou diable done la verite va-t-elle se nicher ? * # * * # The last rocket of the fete of July has just mounted, explo- ded, made a portentous bang, and emitted a gorgeous show of blue-lights, and then (like many reputations) disappeared to- tally : the hundredth gun on the Invalid terrace has uttered its last roar — and a great comfort it is for eyes and ears that the festival is over. We shall be able to go about our every-day business again, and not be hustled by the gendarmes or the crowd. The sight which I have just come away from is as brilliant, happy, and beautiful as can be conceived ; and if you want to see French people to the greatest advantage, you should go to a festival like this, where their manners, and innocent gayety, show a very pleasing contrast to the coarse and vulgar hilarity which the same class would exhibit in our own country — at Epsom racecourse, for instance, or Greenwich Fair. The great- est noise that I heard was that of a company of jolly villagers from a place in the neighborhood of Paris, who, as soon as the fireworks were over, formed themselves into a line, three or four abreast, and so marched singing home. As for the fire- THE FETES OF JULY. 39 works, squibs and crackers are very hard to describe, and very- little was to be seen of them : to me, the prettiest sight was the vast, orderly, happy crowd, the number of children, and the ex- traordinary care and kindness of the parents towards these little creatures. It does one good to see honest, heavy epiciers, fathers of families, playing with them in the Tuileries, or, as to-night, bearing them stoutly on their shoulders, through many long hours, in order that the little ones, too, may have their share of the fun. John Bull, I fear, is more selfish : he does not take Mrs. Bull to the public-house ; but leaves her, for the most part, to take care of the children at home. The fete, then, is over ; the pompous black pyramid at the Louvre is only a skeleton now ; all the flags have been miracu- lously whisked away during the night, and the fine chandeliers which glittered down the Champs Elysees for full half a mile, have been consigned to their dens and darkness. Will they 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 hacj seized, and was seizing daily, numbers of persons merely suspected of being disaffected (and you may fancy how liberty is understood, when some of these prisoners, the other day, on coming to trial, were sentenced to one day's imprisonment, after tkh'ty-six days' detentioii on sus- picioii). 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. Why should men be so mighty proud of having, on a certain day, cut a certain number of their fellow- countrymen's throats ? The Guards and the Line employed this time nine years did no more than those who cannonaded the starving Lyonnese, or bayoneted the luckless inhabitants of the Rue Transnounain : — they did but fulfil the soldier's honorable duty : — his superiors bid him kill and he killeth : — perhaps, had he gone to his work with a little more heart, the result would have been different, and then — would the con- quering party have been justified in annually rejoicing over the conquered t Would we have thought Charles X. justified in causing fireworks to be blazed, and concerts to be sung, and speeches to be spouted, in commemoration of his victory over his slaughtered countrymen ? — I vv'ish, 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 40 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK omnibuses to run, and the Tuileries in quiet, so that the nurse- maids might come as usual, and the newspapers be read for a halfpenny apiece. Shall I trouble you with an account of the speculations of these latter, and the state of the parties which they represent ? The complication is not a little curious, and may form, perhaps, a subject of graver disquisition. The July fetes occupy, as you may imagine, a considerable part of their columns just now, and it is amusing to follow them, one by one ; to read Tweedledum's praise, and Tweedledee's indignation — to read, in the Debats, how the King was received with shouts and loyal vivats — in the Natio7t, how not a tongue was wagged in his praise, but, on the instant of his departure, how the people called for the " Marseillaise " and applauded that. — But best say no more about the fete. The Legitimists were always indignant at it. The high Philippist party sneers at and de- spises it ; the Republicans hate it : it seems a joke against them. Why continue it ? — If there be anything sacred in the name and idea of loyalty, why renew this fete ? It only shows how a rightful monarch was hurled from hi$ throne, and a dexterous usurper stole his precious diadem. If there be any- thing noble in the memory of a day, when citizens, unused to war, rose against practised veterans, and, armed with the strength of their cause, overthrew them, why speak of it now ? or renew the bitter recollections of the bootless struggle and victory } O Lafayette ! O hero of two worlds ! O accom- plished Cromwell Grandison ! you have to answer for more than any mortal man who has played a part in history : two republics and one monarchy does the world owe to you ; and especially grateful should your country be to you. Did you not, in '90, make clear the path for honest Robespierre, and, in *3o, prepare the way for — [The Editor of the Btmgay Beacon would insert no more of this letter, which is, therefore, forever lost to the public] ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 4 ^ 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 study and appre- ciate the school. The French list of painters contains some very good names — no very great ones, except Poussin (unless the admirers of Claude choose to rank him among great painters), — and I think the school was never in so flourishing a condition as it is at the present day. They say there are three thousand artists in this town alone ; of these a handsome minority paint not merely tolerably, but well understand their business : draw the figure accurately ; sketch with cleverness ; and paint portraits, churches, or restaurateurs' shops, in a de- cent 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 j better un- derstood, and, generally, far better paid than with us. There are a dozen excellent schools in which a lad may enter here, and, under the eye of a practised master, learn the apprentice- ship of his art at an expense of about ten pounds a year. In England there is no school except the Academy, unless the student can afford to pay a very large sum, and place himself under the tuition of some particular artist. Here, a young man, for his ten pounds, has all sorts of accessory instruction, models, &c. ; and has further, and for nothing, numberless incitements to study his profession which are not to be found in England : — the streets are filled with picture-shops, the people them- selves are pictures walking about ; the churches, theatres, eat- ing-houses, concert rooms are covered with pictures : • Nature itself is inclined more kindly to him, for the sky is a thousand times more bright and beautiful, and the sun shines for the greater part of the year. Add to this, incitements more selfish, but quite as powerful: a French artist is paid very handsomely ; 42 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. for five hundred a year is much where all are poor ; and has a rank in society rather above his merits than below them, being caressed by hosts and hostesses in places where titles are laughed at and a baron is thought of no more account than a banker's clerk. The life of the young artist here is the easiest, merriest, dirtiest existence possible. He comes to Paris, probably at sixteen, from his province ; his parents settle forty pounds a year on him, and pay his master ; he establishes himself in the Pays Latin, or in the new quarter of Notre Dame de Lorette (which is quite peopled with painters) ; he arrives at his atelier at a tolerably early hour, and labors among a score of compan- ions as merry and poor as himself. Each gentleman has his favorite tobacco-pipe ; and the pictures are painted in the midst of a cloud of smoke, and a din of puns and choice French slang and a roar of choruses, of which no one can form an idea who has not been present at such an assembly. You see here every variety of coiffiwe that has ever been known. Some young men of genius have ringlets hanging over their shoulders — you may smell the tobacco with which they are scented across the street ; some have straight locks, black, oily, and redundant ; some have toupets in the famous Louis- Philippe fashion ; some are cropped close ; some have adopted the present mode — which he who would follow must, in order to do so, part his hair in the middle, grease it with grease, and gum it with gum, and iron it flat down over his ears ; when arrived at the ears, you take the tongs and make a couple of ranges of curls close round the whole head, — such curls as you may see under a gilt three-cornered hat, and in her Britan- nic Majesty's coachman's state wig. This is the last fashion. As for the beards, there is no end to them ; all my friends the artists have beards who can raise them ; and Nature, though she has rather stinted the bodies and limbs of the French nation, has been very liberal to them of hair, as you may see by the following specimen. Fancy these heads and beards under all sorts of caps — Chinese caps, Mandarin caps, Greek skull-caps, English jockey-caps, Russian or Kuzzilbash caps, Middle-age "caps (such as are called, in heraldry, caps of maintenance), Spanish nets, and striped worsted nightcaps. Fancy all the jackets you have ever seen, and you have before you, as well as pen can describe, the cos- tumes of these indescribable Frenchmen. In this company and costume the French student of art passes his days and acquires knowledge ; how he passes his ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 43 evenings, at what theatres, at ^\i2X giiingiiettes^ in company with what seducing little milliner, there is no need to say ; but I knew one who pawned his coat to go to a carnival ball, and walked abroad very cheerfully in his blouse for six weeks, until he could redeem the absent garment. These young men (together with the students of sciences) comport themselves towards the sober citizens pretty much as the German bursch towards tho. philister, or as the military man, during the empire, did to ih^pekin; — from the height of their poverty they look down upon him with the greatest imaginable scorn — a scorn, I think, by which the citizen seems dazzled, for his respect for the arts is intense. The case is very differ- ent in England, where a grocer's daughter would think she made a mesalliance by marrying a painter, and where a literary man (in spite of all we can say against it) ranks below that class of gentry composed of the apothecary, the attorney, the Mdne-merchant, whose positions, ni country towns at least, are so equivocal. As for instance, my friend the Rev. James Asterisk, who has an undeniable pedigree, a paternal estate, and a living to boot, once dined in Warwickshire, in company with several squires and parsons of that enlightened county. Asterisk, as usual, made himself extraordinarily agreeable at dinner, and delighted all present with his learning and wit. " Who is that monstrous pleasant fellow ? " said one of the squires. " Don't you know .? " replied another. " It's Asterisk, the author of so-and-so, and a famous contributor to such-and- such a magazine." "Good heavens!" said the squire, quite horrified, " a literary man ! I thought he had been a gentle- man ! " Another instance : M. Guizot, when he was Minister here, had the grand hotel of the Ministry, and gave entertainments to all the great de par le inonde., as Brantome says, and entertained them in a proper ministerial magnificence. The splendid and beautiful Duchess of Dash was at one of his ministerial parties ; and went, a fortnight afterwards, as in duty bound, to pay her respects to M. Guizot. But it happened, in this fortnight, that M. Guizot was Minister no longer ; having given up his port- folio, and his grand hotel, to retire into private life, and to occupy his humble apartments in the house which he possesses, and of which he lets the greater poi:tion. A friend of mine was present at one of the ex-Minister's 'soirees., where the Duchess of Dash made her appearance. He says the Duchess, at her entrance, seemed quite astounded, and examined the premises with a most curious wonder. Two or three shabby little rooms, 44 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOIC. with ordinary furniture, and a Minister e7i retraite, who lives by letting lodgings ! In our country was ever such a thing heard of ? No, thank heaven ! and a Briton ought to be proud of the difference. But to our muttons. This country is surely the paradise of painters and penny-a-liners ; and when one reads of M. Horace Vernet at Rome, exceeding ambassadors at Rome by his mag- nificence, and leading such a life as Rubens or Titian did of old ; whe^i one sees M. Thiers's grand villa in the Rue St. George (a dozen years ago he was not even a penny-a-liner : no such luck) ; when one contemplates, in imagination, M. Gudin, the marine painter, too lame to walk through the picture-gallery of the Louvre, accommodated, therefore, with a wheel-chair, a privilege of princes only, and accompanied — nay, for what I know, actually trundled — down the gallery by majesty itself — who does not long to make one of the great nation, exchange his native tongue for the melodious jabber of France ; or at least, adopt it for his native country, like Marshal Saxe, Napo- leon, and Anacharsis Clootz ? Noble people ! they made Tom Paine a deputy ; and as for Tom Macaulay, they would make a dynasty of him. Well, this being the case, no wonder there are so many painters in France ; and here, at least, we are back to them. At the Ecole Royale des Beaux Arts, you see two or three hundred specimens of their performances ; all the prize-men, since 1750, I think, being bound to leave their piize sketch or picture. Can anything good come out of the Royal Academy ? 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 very satisfactory. The subjects are almost all what are called classical : Orestes pursued by every variety of Furies ; numbers of little wolf- sucking Romuluses ; Hectors and Andromaches in a compli- cation of parting embraces, and so forth ; for it was the absurd maxim of our forefathers, that because these subjects had been the fashion twenty centuries ago, they must remain so in sceciila s(^culoru7n ; because to these lofty heights giants had scaled, behold the race of pygmies must get upon stilts and jump at them likewise ! and on the canvas, and in the theatre, the French frogs (excuse the pleasantry) were instructed to swell out and roar as much as possible like bulls. What was the consequence, my dear friend 1 In trying to make themselves into bulls, the frogs make themselves into jackasses, as might be expected. For a hundred and ten years ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 45 the classical humbug oppressed the nation ; and you may see, in this gallery of the Beaux Arts, seventy years' specimens of the dulness which it engendered. Now, as Nature made every man with a nose and eyes of his own, she gave him a character of his own too , and yet we, O foolish race ! must try our very best to ape some one or two of our neighbors, whose ideas fit us no more than their breeches ! It is the study of nature, surely, that profits us, and not of these imitations of her. A man, as a man, from a dust- man up to ^schylus, is God's work, and good to read, as all works of Nature are : but the silly animal is never content ; is ever trying to fit itself into another shape ; wants to deny its own identity, and has not the courage to utter its own thoughts. Because Lord Byron was wicked, and quarrelled with the world ; and found himself growing fat, and quarrelled with his victuals, and thus, naturally, grew ill-humored, did not half Europe grow ill-humored too? Did not every poet feel his young affections withered, and despair and 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 the 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 one of the classical pictures exhibited is worth much more than two-and-sixpence. Borrowed from statuary, in the first place, the color of the paintings seems, as much as possible, to 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, round chins, short upper lips, just as they were ruled down for you in the drawing-books, as if the latter were the revelations of beauty, issued by supreme authority, from which there was no appeal ? Why 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 why Agamemnon should set 46 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. the fashions, and remain ava^ avdpcov to eternity : and there is a classical quotation, which you may have occasionally heard, beginning Vixe7'e fortes^ &c., which, as it avers that there was a great number of stout fellows before Agamemnon, may not un- reasonably 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 by Prometheus, the blind old Puritan's work by that of the fiery Grecian poet, does not Milton's angel sur- pass /Eschylus'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 splen- did hand. There is the sublime, if you please — a new sublime ■ — an original sublime — quite as sublime as the Greek sublime. See yonder, in the midst of his angels, the Judge of the world descending in glory ; and near him, beautiful and gentle, and yet indescribably august and pure, the Virgin by his side. There is the " Moses," the grandest figure that ever was carved in stone. It has about it something frightfully majestic, if one may so speak. In examining this, and the astonishing picture of "The Judgment," or even a single feature of it, the spec- tator'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 1 How did he suffer the painful labor of invention ? One fancies that he would have been scorched up, like Semele, by sights too tremendous for his vision to bear. One cannot imagine him, with our small physical endowments and weaknesses, a man like ourselves. As for the Ecole 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 they had left the academy, and began thinking for themselves. There is only one picture among the many hundreds that has, to my idea, much merit (a charming composition of Homer singing, signed Jourdy) ; and the only good that the academy 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, only weighed the pupils down, and cramped their hands, their eyes, and their imaginations ; drove ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 47 them away from natural beauty, which, thank God, is fresh and attainable by us all, to-day, and yesterday, and to-morrow ; and sent them rambliaig 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 archway of the Renaissance, and fragments of sculpture, you can hardly see, on a fine day, a place more ria?it and pleasing. Passing from thence up the picturesque Rue de Seine, let us walk to the Luxerrtbourg, where bonnes, students, grisettes, and old gentlemen with pigtails, love to wander in the melan- choly, quaint old gardens; where the peers have a new and comfortable court of justice, to judge all the emeiites which are to take place ; and where, as everybody knows, is the picture- gallery of modern French artists, whom government thinks worthy of patronage. A very great proportion of the pictures, as we see by the catalogue, are by the students whose works we have just been to visit at the Beaux Arts, and who, having performed their pilgrimage to Rome, have takea 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, however, that it has been supposed that no man could be a great poet unless he wrote a very big poem, the tradition is kept up among the painters, and we have here a vast number of large canvases, with figures of the proper heroical length and nakedness. The anti-classicists did not arise in France until about 1827 ; and in consequence, up to that period, we have here the old classical faith in full vigor. There is Brutus, having chopped his son's head off, with all the agony of a father, and then, calling for number two ; there is ^neas carrying off old Anchises ; there are Paris and Venus, as naked as two Hottentots, and many more such choice sub- jects from Lempriere. But the chief specimens of the sublime are in the way of murders, with which the catalogue swarms. Here are a few extracts from it : — 7. Beaume, Chevalier de la Legion d'Honneur. " The Grand Dauphiness Dying." t8. Blonde], Chevalier de la, &c. " Zenobia found Dead." 36. Debay, Chevalier. " The Death of Lucretia." 38. Dejuinne. "The Death of Hector." 48 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 34. Court, Chevalier de la, &c. "The Death of Caesar.'' 39,40,41. Delacroix, Chevalier ._ "Dante and Virgil in the Infernal Lake,*' "The Massacre of Scio," and " Medea going to Murder her Children." 43. Delaroche, Chevalier. "Joas taken from among the Dead." 44. " The Death of Queen Elizabeth." 45. " Edward V. and his Brother " (preparing for death). 50. " Hecuba going to be Sacrificed." Drolling, Chevalier. 51. Dubois. " Young Clovis found Dead." 56. Henry Chevalier, "The Massacre of St. Bartholomew." 75. Guerin, Chevalier. *' Cain, after the Death of Abel." 83. Jacquand. " Death of Adelaide de Comminges." 88. " The Death of Eudamidas." •93. "The Death of Hymetto." 103. " The Death of Philip of Austria."— And so on. You see what woeful sulfjects they talfe, and how profusely they 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 con- sidered so eminently sublime and poetical. It is good at the end of a tragedy ; but, then, it is good because it is the end, and because, by the events foregone, the mind is prepared for it. But these men will have nothing but fifth acts ; and seem to skip, as unworthy, all 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 anti-humbuggists should heartily, according to the strength that is in them, endeavor to pull down. What, for in- stance, could Monsieur Lafond care about the death of Eudam- idas ? What was Hecuba to Chevalier Drolling, or Chevalier Drolling to Hecuba ? I would lay a wager that neither of them ever conjugated to-toj^ 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 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 " Medea " is a genuine creation of a noble fancy. For most of the others, Mrs. Brownrigg, and her two female 'prentices, would have done as well as the desperate Colchian with her 7c/.yo. (fO~(/-a. M. Delacroix has produced a number of rude, barbarous pictures; but there is the stamp of genius on all of ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 49 them, — the great poetical intention, which is worth all your execution. Delaroche is another man of high merit ; with not such a great hea7't, perhaps, as the other, but a fine and care- ful draughtsman, and an excellent arranger of his subject. " The Death of Elizabeth " is a raw young performance seem- ingly — not, at least, to my taste. The " Enfans d'Edouard " is renowned over Europe, and has appeared in a hundred different ways in print. It is properly pathetic and gloomy, and merits fully its high reputation. This painter rejoices in such subjects — in what Lord Portsmouth used to call " black jobs." He has killed Charles I. and Lady Jane Gray, 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 of smoking a cigar. Horace Vernet, whose beautiful daughter Delaroche mar- ried, is the king of French battle-painters — an amazingly rapid and dexterous draughtsman, who has Napoleon and all the campaigns by heart, and has painted the Grenadier Frangais 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 pleasing ; and not the less so for a little pretty affectation of attitude 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 coloring pleasantly bright and gaudy ; and the French students study it incessantly; there are a dozen who copy it for one who copies Delacroix. His little scraps of wood-cuts, in the now publishing " Life of Napoleon," are perfect gems in their way, and the noble price paid for them not a penny more than he merits. The picture, by Court, of " The Death of Caesar," is remark- able for effect and excellent workmanship ; and the head of Brutus (who looks like Armand Carrel) is full of energy. There are some beautiful heads of women, and some very good color in the 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 4 50 "2 HE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, manner ; the picture is full of o?tdion and melanchoty 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 in- fant. 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 dash- ing sea-pieces of Gudin, and one or two landscapes by 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 im- itating better models, at any rate ; and one begins to perceive that the odious classical dynasty is no more. Poussin's mag- nificent "Polyphemus " (I only know a print of that marvellous composition) has, perhaps, suggested the first-named picture ; and the latter has been inspired by a good enthusiastic study of the 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 fol- lowed him from Venice to Rome, or from Florence to Ferrara. In regard of Ingres' individual merit as a painter, the writer of this is not a fair judge, having seen but three pictures by him ; one being a plafond in the Louvre, which his disciples much admire. Ingres stands between the Imperio-Davido-classical school of French art, and the namby-pamby mystical German school, which is for carrying us back to Cranach and Durer, and which is making progress here. For everything here finds imitation : the French have the genius of imitation and caricature. This absurd humbug, called the Christian or Catholic art, is sure to tickle our neighbors, and will be a favorite with them, when better known. My dear ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. ^t MacGilp, I do believe this to be a greater humbug than the humbug of David and Girodet, inasmuch as the latter was founded on Nature at least ; whereas the former is made up of silly affectations, and improvements upon Nature. Here, for instance, is Chevalier Ziegier's picture of " St. Luke paint- ing 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 eyeing his paint-brush with an intense ominous mystical look. They call this Catholic art. There is nothing, my dear friend, more easy in life. First, take your colors, and rub them down clean, — ■ bright carmine, bright yellow, bright sienna, bright ultramarine, bright green. Make the costumes of your figures as much as pos- sible 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 croziers, censers, and other such gimcracks, as you may see in the Catholic chapels, in Sutton Street and elsewhere. Deal in Virgins, and dress them like a burgomaster's wife by Cranach or Van Eyck. Give them all long twisted tails to their gowns, and proper angular draperies. Place all their heads on one side, with the eyes shut, and the proper solemn simper. At the back of the head, draw, and gild with gold-leaf, a halo, or glory, of the exact shape of a cart-wheel : and you have the thing done. It is Catholic art tout ci-ache, as Louis Philippe says. We have it still in England, handed down to us for four centuries, in the pictures on the cards, as the redoubtable king and queen of clubs. Look at them : you will see that the cos- tumes and attitudes are precisely similar to those which figure in the catholicities of the school of Overbeck and Cornelius. Before you take your cane at the door, look for one instant at the statue-room. Yonder is Jouffley's " Jeune Fille con- fiant son premier secret a Ve'nus." Charming, charming ! It is from the exhibition of this year only ; and, I think, the best sculpture in the gallery — pretty, fanciful, naive; admirable in workmanship and imitation of Nature. I have seldom seen flesh better represented in marble. Examine, also, Jaley's " Pudeur," Jacquot's "Nymph," and Rude's ''Boy with the Tortoise." These are not very exalted subjects, or what are called exalted, and do not go beyond simple, smiling beauty and nature. But what then ? Are we gods, Miltons, Michel Angelos, that can leave earth when we please, and soar to ^2 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, heights immeasurable ? No, my dear MacGilp ; but the fools of academicians would fain make us so. Are you not, and half the painters in London, panting for an opportunity to show your genius in a great " historical picture ? " O blind race ! Have you wings ? Not a feather : and yet you must be ever puffing, sweating up to the tops of rugged hills ; and, arrived there, clapping and shaking your ragged elbows, and making as if you would fly ! Come down, silly Daedalus ; come down to the lowly places in which Nature ordered you to walk. The sweet flowers are springing there ; the fat muttons are waiting there ; the pleasant sun shines there ; be content and humble, and take your share of the good cheer. While we have been indulging in this discussion, the om- nibus has gayly conducted us across the water ; and k garde qui veille a la porte du Louvre nc defe7id pas our entry. What a paradise this gallery is for French "students, or for- eigners who sojourn in the capital ! It is hardly necessary to say that the brethren of the brush are not usually supplied by Fortune with any extraordinary wealth, or means of enjoying the luxuries with which Paris, more than any other city, abounds. But here they have a luxury which surpasses all others, and spend their days in a palace which all the money of all the Rothschilds could not buy. They sleep, perhaps, in a garret, and dine in a cellar ; but no grandee in Europe has such a drawing-room. Kings' houses have, at best, but damask hangings, and gilt cornices. What are these to a wall covered with canvas by Paul Veronese, or a hundred yards of Rubens ? Artists from England, who have a national gallery that re- sembles a moderate-sized gin-shop, who may not copy pictures, except under particular restrictions, and on rare and particular days, may revel here to their hearts' content. Here is a room half a mile long, with as many windows as Aladdin's palace, open from sunrise till evening, and free to all manners and all varieties of study : the only puzzle to the student is to select the one he shall begin upon, and keep his eyes away from the rest Fontaine's grand staircase, with its arches, and painted ceilings and shining Doric columns, leads directly to the gal- lery ; but it is thought too fine for working days, and is only opened for the public entrance on Sabbath. A little back stair (leading from a court, in which stand numerous bas-reliefs, and a solemn sphinx, of polished granite,) is the common entry for students and others, who, during the week, enter the gallery. Hither have lately been transported a number of the works ON- THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 53 of French artists, which formerly covered the walls of the Lux- embourg (death only entitles the French painter to a place in the Louvre) ; and let us confine ourselves to the Frenchmen only, for the space of this letter. I have seen, in a fine private collection at St. Germain, one or two admirable single figures of David, full of life, truth, and gayety. The color is not good, but all the rest excellent ; and one of these so much-lauded pictures is the portrait of a washerwoman. " Pope Pius," at the Louvre, is as bad in color as remarkable for its vigor and look of life. The man had a genius for painting portraits and common life, but must attempt the heroic ; — failed signally ; and what is worse, carried a whole nation blundering after him. Had you told a French- man so, twenty years ago, he would have thrown the dementi in your teeth ; or, at least, laughed at you in scornful incredulity. 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 glory 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-fashioned people, who believe in the Emperor, believe in the Theatre Fran^ais, 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 become 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, valiant knights, and savage Highlanders, who, with trunk hosen and buff jerkins, fierce two-handed swords, and harness on their back, did challenge, combat, and overcome the heroes and demigods of Greece and Rome. Not7'e Dame d la rescoiissel Sir Brian de Bois Guilbert has borne Hector of Troy clear out of his saddle. Andromache may weep : but her spouse is be- yond the reach of physic. See ! Robin Hood twangs his bow, and the heathen gods fly, howling. Montjoie Saint Denis / down goes Ajax under the mace of Dunois ; and yonder are Leoni- das and Romulus begging their lives of Rob Roy Macgregor. Classicism is dead. Sir John Froissarthas taken Dr. Lempriere by the nose, and reigns sovereign. Of the great pictures of David the defunct, we need not, then, say much. Romulus is a mighty fine young fellow, no dovbt : and if he has come out to battle stark naked (except a 54 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. very handsome helmet), it is because the costume became him and shows off his figure to advantage. But was there ever anything so absurd as this passion for the nude, which was followed by all the painters of the Davidian epoch? And how are we to suppose yonder straddle to be the true characteristic of the heroic and the sublime ? Romulus stretches his legs as far as ever nature will allow; the Horatii, in receiving their swords, think proper to stretch their legs too, and to thrust for- ward their arms, thus, — Romulus. The Horatii. Romulus's is 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 mas- ters' earliest, I believe, is likewise one of his best : the details are exquisitely painted. Helen looks needlessly sheepish, and Paris has a most odious ogle ; but the limbs of the male jfigure 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 t 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 ac- count for the enthusiasm which this performance inspired on its first appearance before the public. In the same room with it is Girodet's ghastly " Deluge " and Gericault's dismal " Medusa." Gericault died, they say, for want of fame. He was a man who possessed a consider- able fortune of his own ; but pined because no one in his day would purchase his pictures, and so acknowledge his talent. At present, a scrawl from his pencil brings an enormous' price. All his works have a grand cachet ; he never did anything mean. When he painted the " Raft of the Medusa," it is said he lived for a long time among the corpses which he painted, and that his studio was a second Morgue. If you have not seen the picture, you are familiar, probably, with Reynolds's admirable engraving of it. A huge black sea ; a raft beating upon it ; a ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 55 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, be- cause 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 shoul- ders 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 envelopes all this dismal group. The old father is represented with a bag of money in his hand ; and the tree, which the man catches, is cracking, and just on the point of giving way. These two points were considered very fine by the critics : they are two such ghastly epigrams as continually disfigure French Tragedy. For this reason I have never been able to read Racine with pleasure, — the dialogue is so crammed with these lugubrious good things — melancholy antitheses — sparkling undertakers' wit; but this is heresy, and had better be spoken discreetly. The gallery contains a vast number of Poussin's pictures ) they put me in mind of the color of objects in dreams, a strange, hazy, lurid hue. How noble are some of his land- scapes ! What a depth of solemn shadow is in yonder wood, near which, by the side of a black water, halts Diogenes. The air is thunder-laden, and breathes heavily. You hear ominous whispers in the vast forest gloom. Near it is a landscape, by Carel Dujardin, I believe, con- ceived in quite a different mood, but exquisitely poetical too. A horseman is riding up a hill, and giving money to a blowsy beggar-wench. O matutini rores aurcBque sahibres ! 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 the grass, and feel the fresh, salu- brious airs (" the breath of Nature blowing free," as the corn law man sings) blowing free over the heath ; silvery vapors are rising up from the blue lowlands. You can tell the hour of the morning and the time of the year : you can do anything but describe it in words. As with regard to the Poussin above mentioned, one can never pass it without bearing away a cer- tain pleasing, dreamy feeling of awe and musing; the other landscape inspires the spectator infallibly with the most Se- 56 ^t^E PARIS SKETCH BOOfC. lightful briskness and cheerfulness of spirit. Herein lies the vast privilege of the landscape-painter : he does not address you with one fixed particular subject or expression, but with a thousand never contemplated by himself, and which only arise out of occasion. You may always be looking 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 delightful, cheerful, silent companions for a man than half a dozen land- scapes hung round his study. Portraits, 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 perpetu- ally in your face ! There is a little Watteau here, and a rare piece of fantas- tical brightness and gayety it is. What a delightful affectation about yonder ladies flirting their fans, and trailing about in their long brocades ! What splendid dandies are those, ever- smirking, turning out their toes, with broad blue ribbons to tie up their crooks and their pigtails, and wonderful gorgeous crimson satin breeches ! Yonder, in the midst of a golden atmosphere, rises a bevy of little round Cupids, bubbling up in clusters as out of a champagne-bottle, and melting away in air. There is, to be sure, a hidden analogy between liquors and pictures : the eye is deliciously tickled by these frisky Watteaus, and yields itself up to a light, smiling, gentlemanlike intoxication. Thus, were we inclined to pursue further this mighty subject, yonder landscape of Claude; — calm, fresh, deli- cate, yet full of flavor, — should be likened to a bottle of Cha- teau Margaux. And what is the Poussin before spoken of but Romance Gelee ? — heavy, sluggish, — the luscious odor al- most sickens you ; a sultry sort of drink ; your limbs sink un- der it ; you feel as if you had been drinking hot blood. An ordinary man would be whirled away in a fever, or would hobble off this mortal stage, in a premature gout-fit, if he too early or too often indulged in such tremendous drink. I think in my heart I am fonder of pretty third-rate pictures than of your great thundering first-rates. Confess how many times you have read Beranger, and how many Milton ? If you go to the Star and Garter, don't you grow sick of that vast, luscious landscape, and long for the sight of a couple of cows, or a donkey, and a few yards of common ? Donkeys, my dear MacGilp, since we have come to this subject, say not so ; Rithmond Hill for them. Milton they never grow tired of; ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 57 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 medi- ocrity. I have never heard that we were great geniuses. Earthy are we, and of the earth ; glimpses of the sublime are but rare to us ; leave we them to great geniuses, and to the donkeys ; and if it nothing profit us aerias tejitdsse domos along with them, let us thankfully remain below, being merry and humble. I have now only to mention the charming " Cruche Cas- see " of Greuze which all the young ladies delight to copy : and of which the color (a thought too blue, perhaps) is marvel- lously graceful and delicate. There are three more pictures by the artist, containing exquisite female heads and color ; but they have charms for French critics which are difficult to be discovered by English eyes ; and the pictures seem weak to me. A very fine picture by Bon Bollongue, " Saint Benedict resuscitating a Child," deserves particular attention, and is superb in vigor and richness of color. You must look, too, at the large, noble, melancholy landscapes of Philippe de Cham- pagne ; 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 repre- sentation of objects. Every one of Lesueur's church-pictures are worth examin- ing and admiring ; they are full of " unction " and pious mys- tical 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 names (out with it, and say Raphael at once). I hate those simpering Madonnas. I declare that the '' Jardin- iere " is a puking, smirking miss, with nothing heavenly about her. I vow that the " Saint Elizabeth " is a bad picture, — a bad composition badly drawn, badly colored, in a bad imita- tion of Titian, — a piece of vile affectation. I say, that when Raphael painted this picture two years before his death, the spirit of painting had gone out of him ; he was no longer in- spired 1 it luas time that he should die ! ! There, — the murder is out ! My paper is filled 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, jg THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. holy. But such things are most difficult to translate into words ; — one lays down the pen, and thinks and thinks. The figures appear, and take their places one by one : ranging them- selves according to order, in light or in gloom, the colors are reflected duly in the little camera obscura of the brain, and the whole picture lies there complete ; but can you describe it ? No, not if pens were fitch-brushes, and words were bladders of paint. With which, for the present, adieu. Your faithful M. A. T. To Mr. Robert MacGilp, Newman Street, London. THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. Simon Gambouge was the son of Solomon Gambouge ; and as all the world knows, both father and son were astonishingly clever fellows at their profession. Solomon painted landscapes, which nobody bought ; and Simon took a higher line, and paint- ed 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 lovely 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 : — Portrait of a lady — Griskinissa; Sleeping Nymph — Griskinissa, without a rag of clothes, lying in a forest ; Maternal Solicitude — Griskinissa again, with young Master Gambouge, who Was by this time the offspring of their affections. The lady brought the painter a handsome little fortune of a couple of hundred pounds ; and as long as this sum lasted no woman could be more lovely or loving. But want began speed- ily to attack their little household ; bakers' bills were unpaid \ j:ent was 4ue, and the reckless landlord gave no quarter ; and, THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 59 to crown the whole, her father, unnatural butcher ! suddenly stopped the supplies of mutton-chops ; and swore that his daughter, and the dauber her husband, should have no more of his wares. At first they embraced tenderly, and, kissing and crying over their little infant, vowed to heaven that they would do without : but in the course of the evening Griskinissa grew peckish, and poor Simon pawned his best coat. When this habit of pawning is discovered, it appears to the poor a kind of Eldorado. Gambouge and his wife were so de- lighted, that they, in the course of a month, made away with her gold chain, her great warming-pan, his best crimson plush in- expressibles, two wigs, a washhand basin and ewer, fire-irons, window-curtains, crockery, and arm-chairs. Griskinissa said, smiling, that she had found a second father in her uncle, — 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 taking to drinking ; she swallowed the warming-pan in the course of three days, and fuddled herself one whole evening with the crimson plush breeches. Drinking is the devil — the father, that is to say, of all vices. Griskinissa's face and her mind grew ugly together ; her good humor changed to bilious, bitter discontent : her pretty, fond epithets, to foul abuse and swearing ; her tender blue eyes grew watery and blear, and the peach-color on her cheeks fled from its old habitation, and crowded up into her nose, where, with a number of pimples, it stuck fast. Add to this a dirty, draggle- tailed chintz ; long, matted hair, wandering into her eyes, and over her lean shoulders, which were once so snowy, and you have the picture of drunkenness and Mrs. Simon Gambouge. Poor Simon, who had been a gay, lively fellow enough in the days of his better fortune, was completely cast down by his present ill-luck, and cowed by the ferocity of his wife. From morning till night the neighbors could hear this woman's tongue, and understand her doings ; bellows went skimming across the room, chairs were flumped down on the floor, and poor Gambouge's oil and varnish pots went clattering through the windows, or down the stairs. The baby roared all day ; and Simon sat pale and idle in a corner, taking a small sup at the brandy-bottle, when Mrs. Gambouge was out of the way. One day, as he sat disconsolately at his easel, furbishing up a picture of his wife, in the character of Peace, which he had commenced a year before, he was more than ordinarily desper- 6o THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, ate, and cursed and swore in the most pathetic manner. " O miserable fate of genius ! " cried he, " was I, a man of such commanding talents, born for this ? to be bullied by a fiend of a wife ; to have my masterpieces neglected by the world, or sold only for a few pieces ? Cursed be the love which has mis- led me ; cursed be the art which is unworthy of me ! Let me dig or steal, let me sell myself as a soldier, or sell myself to the Devil, I should not be more wretched than I am now ! " " Quite the contrary," cried a small cheery voice. " What 1 " exclaimed Gambouge, trembling and surprised. " Who's there ? — where are you i* — who are you ? " " You were just speaking of me," said the voice. Gambouge held, in his left hand, his palette ; in his right, a bladder of crimson lake, which he was about to squeeze out upon the mahogany. " Where are you t " cried he again. " S-q-u-e-e-^-e ! " exclaimed the little voice. Gambouge picked out the nail from the bladder, and gave a squeeze ; where, 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 oily manner. When first born he was little bigger than a tadpole ; then he grew to be as big as a mouse ; then he arrived at the size of a cat : and then he jumped off the palette, and, turning head over heels, asked the poor painter what he wanted with him. The strange little animal twisted head over heels, and fixed himself at last upon the top of 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'm always at hand : besides, I am not half so black as I am painted, as you will see when you know me a little better." "Upon my word," said the painter, it is a very singular sur- prise which you have given me. To tell truth, 1 did not even believe in your existence." The little imp put on a theatrical air, and, with one of Mr. Macready's best looks, said, — " There are more things in heaven and earth. Gambogio, Than are dreamed of in your philosophy-" Gambouge, being a Frenchman, did not understand the quotation, but felt somehow strangely and singularly interested in the conversation of his new friend. Diabolus continued : " You are a man of merit, and want THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN, 6 1 money ; you will starve on your merit ; you can only get money from me. Come, my friend, how much is it ? I ask the easiest interest in the world : old Mordecai, the usurer, has made you pay twice as heavily before now : nothing but the signature of a bond, which is a mere ceremony and the transfer of an arti- cle which, in itself, is a supposition — a valueless, windy, uncer- tain property of yours, called, by some poet of your own, I think, an a?iimula, vagula, blandula — bah ! there is no use beat- ing about the bush — I mean a soul. Come, let me have it ; you know you will sell it some other way, and not get such good pay for your bargain ! " — and, having made this speech, the Devil pulled out from his fob a sheet as big as a double Times, only there was a different stamp in the corner. It is useless and tedious to describe law documents ; law- yers only love to read them ; and they have as good in Chitty as any that are to be found in the Devil's own ; so nobly have the apprentices emulated the skill of the master. Suffice it to say, that poor Gambouge read over the paper, and signed it. He was to have all he wished for seven years, and at the end of that time was to become the property of the ; ^robibrb that, during the course of the seven years, every single wish which he might form should be gratified by the other of the contracting parties ; otherwise the deed became null and 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 day — " never, at least, unless you want me ; for everything you ask will be performed in the most quiet and every-day manner : believe me, it is best and most gentle- manlike, 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, you know ; and of this you are the best judge." So saying, Diabolus disappeared ; but whethei up the chimney, through the keyhole, or by any other aperturs or contrivance, nobody knows. Simon Gambouge was left in a fever of delight, as, heaven forgive me ! I believe many a worthy man would be, if he were allowed an opportunity to make a similar bargain. " Heigho ! " said Simon. " I wonder whether this is a reality or a dream. I am sober, I know ; for who will give m& credit for the means to get drunk ? and as for sleeping, I'm too hungry for that. I wish I could see a capon and a bottle ot white wine." 5 2 THE PA RIS SKE TCH B O OK. " Monsieur Simon ! " cried a voice on the landing-place. "C'est ici," quoth Gambouge, hastening to open the door. He did so ; and lo ! there was a restaurateur'' s boy at the door, supporting a tray, a tin-covered dish, and plates on the same ; and, by its side, a tall amber-colored flask of Sauterne. " I am the new boy, sir," exclaimed this youth, on entering ; "but I believe this is the right door, and you asked for these things." Simon grinned, and said, " Certainly, 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, although he knew that they were for old Simon, the Jew dandy, who was mad after an opera girl, and lived on the floor beneath. ^'Go, my boy," he said; "it is good: call in a couple of hours, and remove the plates and glasses." The little waiter trotted down stairs, and Simon sat greedily down to discuss the capon and the white wine. He bolted the legs, he devoured the wings, he cut every morsel of flesh from the breast ; — seasoning his repast with pleasant draughts of wine, and caring nothing for the inevitable bill, which was to follow all. " Ye gods ! " said he, as he scraped away at the backbone, " what a dinner ! what wine I — and how gayly served up too ! " There were silver forks and spoons, and the remnants of the fowl were upon a silver dish. " Why, the money for this dish and these spoons," cried Simon, " would keep me and Mrs. G. for a month ! I wish " — and here Simon whistled, and turned round to see that nobody was peeping — " I wish the plate were mine." Oh, the horrid progress of the Devil ! " Here they are," thought Simon to himself ; " why should not I take the?n ? " And take them he did. " Detection," said he, " is not so bad as starvation ; and I would as soon live at the galleys as live with Madame Gambouge." So Gambouge shovelled dish and spoons into the flap of his surtout, and ran down stairs as if the Devil were behind him — as, indeed, he was. He immediately made for the house of his old friend the pawnbroker — that establishment which is called in France the Mont de Peiet. " I am obliged to come to you again, my old friend," said Simon, " with some family plate, of which I beseech you to take care." The pawnbroker smiled as he examined the goods. " I can give you nothing upon them," said he. THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 63 " What ! " cried Simon ; " not even tlie worth of the silver ?" " 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 ! how fearful is retribution, how deep is despair, how bitter is remorse for crime: — when crime is found out I — otherwise, conscience takes matters much more easily. Gambouge cursed his fate, and swore henceforth to be virtuous. "But, hark ye, my friend," continued the honest broker, " there is no reason why, because I cannot lend upon these things, I should not buy them : they will do to melt, if for no other purpose. Will you have half the money ?— speak, or I peach." Simon's resolves about virtue were dissipated instanta- neously. " Give me half," he said, " and let me go. — What scoundrels are these pawnbrokers ! " ejaculated he, as he passed out of the accursed shop, " seeking every wicked pretext to rob the poor man of his hard-won gain." When he had marched forwards for a street or two, 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 many a rogue has done before him, and found half a hundred persons busy at a table of rouge et noir. Gambouge's five napoleons looked insignificant by the side of the heaps which were around him ; but the effects of the wine, of the theft, and of the detection by the pawnbroker, were upon him, and he threw down his capital stoutly upon the o o. It is a dangerous spot that o o, or double zero ; but to Simon it was more lucky than to the rest of the world. Tlie 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. " O diabolus ! " cried he, " Now it is that I begin to believe in thee 1 Don't talk about merit," he cried ; " talk about fortune. 54 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. Tell me not about heroes for the future — tell me of zeroes,^'* And down went twenty napoleons more upon the o. The Devil was certainly in the ball : round it twirled, and dropped into zero as naturally as a duck pops its head into a pond. Our friend received five hundred pounds for his stake ; and the croupiers and lookers-on began to stare at him. There were twelve thousand pounds 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 revenues of a prince for half a year ! Gambouge, as soon as he felt that he was a capitalist, and that he had a stake in the country, discovered that he was an altered man. He repented of his foul deed, and his base 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 I " So he went back to the pawnbroker with the gloomiest face imaginable. " My friend," said he, " I have forgotten my family and my religion. Here is thy money. In the name of heaven, restore me the plate which I have wrong- fully 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 I am worth." And here he produced a billet of five hundred francs. " Look," said he, " this money is all I own ; it is the payment of two years' lodg- ing. 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 wandering houseless. But I cannot bear this load of ignominy — I cannot suffer the thought of this crime. I will go to the person to whom I did wrong. I will starve, I will confess j but I will, I ivill 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." " 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 twenty ? Have I it not THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 65 in my pocket ? Art thou not a convicted dealer in stolen goods ? Yield, scoundrel, yield thy money, or I will bring thee to jus- tice ! " The frightened pawnbroker bullied and battled for a while ; but he gave up his money at last, and the dispute ended. Thus it will be seen that Diabolus had rather a hard bargain in the wily Gambouge. He had taken a victim prisoner, but he had assuredly caught a Tartar. Simon now returned home, and, to do him justice, paid the bill for dinner, and restored the plate. %: ^ * * # And now I may add (and the reader should ponder upon this, as a profound picture of human life,) that Gambouge, since he had grown rich, grew likewise abundantly moral. He was a most exemplary father. He fed the poor, and was loved by them. He scorned a base action. And I have no doubt that Mr. Thurtell, or the late lamented Mr. Greenacre, in similar circumstances, would have acted like the worthy Simon Gam- bouge. There was but one blot upon his character — he hated Mrs. Gam. worse than ever. As he grew more benevolent, she grew more virulent : when he went to plays, she went to Bible societies, and vice versa : in fact, she led him such a life as Xantippe led Socrates, or as a dog leads* a cat in the same kitchen. With all his fortune — for, as may be supposed, Simon prospered in all worldly things — he was the most miserable dog in the whole city of Paris. Only in the point of drinking did he and Mrs. Simon agree ; and for many years, and during a considerable number of hours in each day, he thus dissipated, partially, his domestic chagrin. 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 1 He lived so long, and in his worldly matters prospered so much, there was so little sign of devilment in the accomplishment of his wishes, and the increase of his prosperity, that Simon, at the end of six years, began to doubt whether he had made any such bargain at all, as that which we have described at the commencement of this history. He had grown, as we said, very pious and moral. He went regularly to mass, and had a confessor into the bargain. He resolved, therefore, to consult that reverend gentleman, and to lay before him the whole matter. " I am inclined to think, holy sir," said Gambouge, after he had concluded his history, and shown bow, in some miraculous 66 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 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 confortably together, and entered afterwards a cafe^ where they sat down to refresh themselves after the fatigues of their devotion. A respectable old gentleman, with a number of orders at his button-hole, presently entered the room, and sauntered up to the marble table, before which reposed Simon and his clerical friend. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, as he took a place opposite them, and began reading the papers of the day. " Bah ! " said he, at last, — " sont-ils grands ces journaux Anglais ? Look, sir," he said, handing over an immense sheet of The Times to Mr. Gambouge, " was ever anything so mon- strous ? " Gambouge smiled politely, and examined the proffered page. " It is enormous," he said ; " but I do not read English." " Nay," said the man with the orders, " look closer at it, Signor Gambouge ; it is astonishing how easy the language is." Wondering, Simon took the sheet of paper. He turned pale as he looked at it, and began to curse the ices and the waiter. " Come, M. rAbbe,"' 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 ; "I do not mind speaking before the Abbe here, who will be my very good friend one of these days ; but I thought it necessary to refresh your memory, con- cerning our little business transaction six years since ; and could not exactly talk of it at churchy as you may fancy." Simon Gambouge had seen, in the double-sheeted Times^ the paper signed by himself, which the little Devil had pulled out of his fob. * # * # # There was no doubt on the subject ; and Simon, who had but a year to live, grew more pious, and more careful than ever. He had consultations with all the doctors of the Sorbonne and all the lawyers of the Palais. But his 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 pennyworth of consolation. Then he grew outrageous in his demands upon the Devil, THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 67 and put him to all sorts of absurd and ridiculous tasks ; but they were all punctually performed, until Simon could invent no news ones, and the Devil sat all day with his hands in his pockets doing nothing. One day, Simon's confessor came bounding into the room, with the greatest glee. " My friend," said he, " I have it ! Eureka ! — I have found it. Send the Pope a hundred thousand crowns, build a new Jesuit college at Rome, give a hundred 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 vefifre 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. They heard an inordinate roar of laughter, and there was Diabolus sitting opposite to them, holding his sides, and lashing his tail about, as if he would have gone mad with glee. " Why," said he, "what nonsense is this ! do you suppose I care about thatV and he tossed the Pope's missive into a corner. " M. I'Abbe knows," he said, bowing and grimning, " 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 1 You might just as well be absolved by your under butler." " Egad," said the Abbe, " the rogue is right — I quite forgot the fact, which he points out clearly enough." " No, no, Gambouge," continued Diabolus, with horrid familiarity, " go thy ways, old fellow, that cock won^t fights 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, according to the newspapers, cities and nations are found when a murder is committed, or a lord ill of the gout — a situation, we say, more easy to imagine than to describe. To add to his woes, Mrs. Gambouge, who was now first made acquainted with his compact, and its probable consequen- ces, raised such a storm about his ears, as made him wish almost that his seven years were expired. She screamed, she 68 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. scolded, she swore, she wept, she went into such fits of hysterics, that poor Gambouge, who had completely knocked under to her, was worn out of his life. He was allowed no rest, night or day : he moped about his fine house, solitary and wretched, and cursed his stars that he ever had married the butcher's daughter. It wanted six months of the time. A sudden and desperate resolution seemed all at once to have taken possession of Simon Gambouge. He called his family and his friends together — he gave one of the greatest feasts that ever was known in the city of Paris — he gayly pre- sided at one end of his table, while Mrs. Gam., splendidly arrayed, gave herself airs at the other extremity. After dinner, using the customary formula, he called upon Diabolus to appear. The old ladies screamed, and hoped he would not appear naked ; the young ones tittered, and longed to see the monster : everybody was pale with expectation and affright. A very quiet, gentlemanly man, neatly dressed in black, made his appearance, to the surprise of all present, and bowed all round to the company. " I will not show my credentials ^^^ he said, blushing, and pointing to his hoofs, which were cleverly hidden by his pumps and shoe-buckles, " unless the ladies absolutely wish it ; but I am the person you want, Mr. Gam- bouge ; pray tell me what is your will." "You know," said that gentleman, in a stately and deter- mined voice, "that you are bound to me, according to our agreement, for six months to come." " I am," replied the new comer. " You are to do all that I ask, whatsoever it may be, or you forfeit the bond which I gave you ? " " It is true." " You declare this before the present company ? " " Upon my honor, as a gentleman," said Diabolus, 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, mildly addressing his lady, " will you be so polite as to step this way ? You know I must go soon, and I am anxious, before this noble company, to make a provision for one who, in sickness as in health, in poverty as in riches, has been my truest and fondest com- panion." Gambouge mopped his eyes with his handkerchief — all the company did likewise. Diabolus sobbed audibly, and Mrs. THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 69 Gambouge sidled up to her husband's side, and took him ten- derly by the hand. " Simon ! " said she, " is it true ? and do you really love your Griskinissa ?" Simon continued solemnly : " Come hither, Diabolus ; you are bound to obey me in all things for the six months during which our contract has to run ; take, then, Griskinissa Gam- bouge, 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 flogged by Lord B in the House, — not Mr. Cartlitch, of Astley's Amphitheatre, in his most pathetic passages, could look more crest-fallen, and howl more hideously, than Diabolus did now. "Take another year, Gam- bouge," screamed he ; " two more — ten more — a century ; roast me on Lawrence's gridiron, boil me in holy water, but don't ask that : don't, don't bid me live with Mrs. 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 colic. 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 key- hole. ***** Gambouge screamed with pain and started up. " You drunken, lazy scoundrel ! " cried a shrill and well-known voice, " you have been asleep these two hours : " and here he received another terrible box on the ear. It was too true, he had fallen asleep at his work ; and the beautiful vision had been dispelled by the thumps of the tipsy Griskinissa. Nothing remained to corroborate his story, except the bladder of lake, and this was spirited 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. 70 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, My last accounts of Gambouge are, that he has left the arts, and is footman in a small family. Mrs. Gam. takes in washing ; and it is said that her continual dealings with soap- suds and hot water have been the only things in life which have kept her from spontaneous combustion. CARTOUCHE, I HAVE been much interested with an account of the exploits of Monsieur Louis Dominic Cartouche, and as New- gate and the highways are so much the fashion with us in England, we may be allowed to look abroad for histories of a similar tendency. It is pleasant to find that virtue is cosmo- polite, and may exist among wooden-shoed Papists as well as honest Church-of-England men. Louis Dominic was 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 years later, and in the Marais ; — of respectable parents, of course. Think of the talent that our two countries produced about this time : Marlborough, Villars, Mandrin, Turpin, Boileau, Dryden, Swift, Addison, Moliere, Racine, Jack Sheppard, and Louis Cartouche, — all famous within the same twenty years, 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 very early; they showed a passion for their art, as little Raphael did, or little Mozart ; and the history of Cartouche's knaveries begins almost with his breeches. Dominic's parents sent him to school at the college of Clermont (now Louis le Grand) ; and although it lias never been discovered that the Jesuits, who directed that seminary, advanced him much in classical . or theological knowledge, Cartouche, in revenge, showed, by repeated instances, his own natural bent and genius, which no difficulties were strong enough to overcome. His first great action on record, although not successful in the end, and tinctured with the innocence of CARTOUCHE. 71 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 Cler- mont, he only was the possessor of a cap to sleep in, suspicion (which, alas, was confirmed) immediately fell upon him : and by this little piece of youthful naivete, a scheme, prettily con- ceived 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 supply the students, under contribution. Not always, however, desirous of robbing these, he used to deal with them, occasionally, on honest principles of barter ; that is, whenever he could get hold of his school-fellows' knives, books, rulers, or playthings, which he used fairly to exchange for tarts and gingerbread. It seemed as if the presiding genius of evil was determined to patronize this young man ; for before he had been long at college, and soon after he had, with the greatest difficulty, escaped from the nightcap scrape, an opportunity occurred by which he was enabled to gratify both his propensities at once, and not only to steal, but to steal sweetmeats. It happened that the principal of the college received some pots of Nar- bonne honey, which came under the eyes of Cartouche, and in which that young gentleman, as soon as ever he saw them, determined to put his fingers. The president of the college put aside his honey-pots in an apartment within his own ; to which, except by the one door which led into the room, which his reverence usually occupied, there was no outlet. There was no chimney in the room ; and the windows looked into the court, where there was a porter at night, and where crowds passed by day. What was Cartouche to do 1 — have the honey he must. Over this chamber, which contained what his soul longed after, and over the president's rooms, there ran a set of 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 storey and the floor of the upper. Some of these planks did young Cartouche remove ; and having descended by means of a rope, tied a couple of others to the neck of the honey-pots, climbed back again, and drew up his prey in safety. He then cunningly fixQd the planks again in their old. places, and retired to gorge 7 2 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. himself upon his booty. And, now, se^ 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 honey-pots ! As Cartouche dug his spoon into one of them, he brought out, besides a quantity of golden honey, a couple of golden louis, which, with ninety-eight more of their fellows, were comfortably hidden in the pots. Little Dominic, who, before, had cut rather a poor figure among his fellow- students, now appeared in as fine clothes as any of them could boast of ; and when asked by his parents, on going home, how he came by them, said that a young nobleman of his school-fellows had taken a violent fancy to him, and made him a piesent of a couple of his suits. Cartouche the elder, good man, went to thank the young nobleman ; but none such could be found, and young Cartouche disdained to give any explanation of his manner of gaining the money. Here, again, we have to regret and remark the inadvertence of youth. Cartouche lost a hundred louis — for what ? For a pot of honey not worth a couple of shillings. Had he fished out the pieces, and replaced the pots and the honey, he might have been safe, and a respectable citizen all his life after. The principal would not have dared to confess the loss of his money, and did not, openly ; but he vowed vengeance against the stealer of his sweetmeat, and a rigid search was made. 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 unpunished — 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 Ferious 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 indignant father had in pickle for him. As he was coming home from school, on the first day after his crime, when he received permission to go abroad, one of his brothers, who was on the look-out for CARTOUCHE. 73 him, met him at a short distance from home, and told him what was in preparation ; which so frightened this young thief, that he decUned 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 whatever professions he tried, — whether he joined the gypsies, which he did, — whether he picked pockets on the Pont Neuf, which occupation history attributes to him, — poor Cartouche was always hungry. Hungry and ragged, he wan- dered from one place and profession to another, and regretted the honey-pots at Clermont, and the comfortable soup and bouilli at home. Cartouche had an uncle, a kind man, who was a merchant, and had dealings at Rouen. One day, 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 turnip-peelings, that had been flung out on the quay, and was eating them as greedily as if they had been turkeys and truffles. The worthy man examined the lad a little closer. O heavens ! it was their runaway prodigal — it was little Louis Dominic ! The merchant was touched by his case ; and forgetting the night- caps, 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 jDcace was made ; and his mother got him new clothes, and filled his belly, and for a while Louis was as good a son as might be. But why attempt to baulk the progress of genius t 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, des- perately enamored of a lovely washerwoman. To be success- ful 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 handker- chiefs and silk stockings, and a treat into the country or to the play. Now, how are all these things to be had without money? Cartouche saw at once that it was impossible ; and as his father would give him none, he was obliged to look for it elsewhere. He took to his old courses, and lifted a purse here, and a watch there ; and found, moreover, an accommodating gentleman, who took the wares off his hands. ^4 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. This gentleman introduced him into a* very select and agreeable society, in which Cartouche's merit began speedily to be recognized, and in which he learnt how pleasant it is in life to have friends to assist one, and how much may be done by a proper division of labor. M. Cartouche, in fact, formed part of a regular company or gang of gentlemen, who were 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 mar- ried to a rich young gentleman from the provinces. As is the fashion in France, the parents had arranged the match among themselves ; and the young people had never met until just be- fore the time appointed for the marriage, when the bridegroom came up to Paris with his title-deeds, and settlements, and money. Now there can hardly be found in history a finer in- stance of devotion than Cartouche now exhibited. He w^ent to his captain, explained the matter to him, and actually, for the good of his country, as it were (the thieves might be called his country), sacrificed his sister's husband's property. In- formations 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, by ascending quietly at the window. They arrived at the room where the bridegroom kept his great chest, and set industriously to work, filing and picking the locks which defended the treasure. The bridegroom slept in the next room ; but however tenderly Cartouche and his workmen handled their tools, from fear of disturbing his slumbers, their benevolent design was disappointed, for awaken him they did ; and quietly slipping out of bed, he came to a place where he had a complete view of all that was going on. He did not cry out, or frighten him- self sillily ; but, on the contrary, contented himself with watch- ing the countenances of the robbers, so that he might recog- nize them on another occasion ; and, though an avaricious man, he did not feel the slightest anxiety about his money-chest ; for the fact is, he had removed all the cash and papers the day before. As soon, however, as they had broken all the locks, and found the nothing which lay at the bottom of the chest, he shouted with such a loud voice, " Here, Thomas ! — John ! — officer! — keep the gate, fire at the rascals ! " that they, inconti- CARTOUCHE. 75 ently 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 obligedto yield ; and brought with him one or two of his companions, who had been, by the way, present in the affair of the empty money-boxes ; and though he never fancied that there was any danger in meeting his brother-in-law, for he had no idea that he had been seen on the night of the attack, with a natural modesty, which did him really credit, he kept out of the young bridegroom's sight as much as he could, and showed no desire to be presented to him. At supper, 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 following. The bridegroom pledged him very gracefully in a bumper ; and was in the act of making him a pretty speech, on the honor of an alliance with such a family, and on the pleasures of brother- in-lawship in general, when, looking in his face — ye gods ! he saw the very man who had been filing at his money-chest a few 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 Cartouche, humbly declin- ing any connection with his famiiy. 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 heavy heart, that he would not. What was he to do with the lad ? He did not like to ask for a lettre de cachet^ and shut him up in the Bastile. He determined to give him a year's dis- cipline at the monastery of St. Lazare. But how to catch the young gentleman t Old Cartouche knew that, were he to tell his son of the scheme, the latter would never obey, and, therefore, he determined to be very cunning. He told Dominic that he was about to make a heavy bargain with the fathers, and should require a witness \ so they THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 1 76 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 conspiracy ; and the carriage drew up, and his father descended, and, bidding him wait for a minute in the coach, promised to return to him. Cartouche looked out ; on the other side of the way half a dozen men were posted, evidently with the intention of arresting him. Cartouche now performed a great and celebrated stroke of genius, which, if he had not been professionally employed in the morning, he never could have executed. He had in his pocket a piece of linen, which he had laid hold of at the door of some shop, and from which he quickly tore three suitable stripes. One he tied round his head, after the fashion of a nightcap ; a second round his waist, like an apron ; and with the third he covered his hat, a round one, with a large brim. His coat and his periwig he left behind him in the carriage ; and when he stepped out from it (which he did without asking the coachman to let down the steps), he bore exactly the ap- pearance of a cook's boy 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 annoyed 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 rascally 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 how 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 by his friends ;'S0 much so, that one day, the captain of the band thought fit to compliment him, and vowed that when he (the captain) died, Cartouche should infallibly be called to the command-in-chief. This conversation, so flat- tering to Cartouche, was carried on between the two gentlemen as they were walking, one night, on the quays by the side of the Seine. Cartouche, when the captain made the last remark, blushingly protested against it, and pleaded his extreme youth as a reason why his comrades could never put entire trust in CARTOUCHE. 77 in him. " Psha, man ! " said the captain, " thy youth is in thy favor ; thou wilt Uve only the Ioniser 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 1 He answered, not by words, but by actions. Drawing his knife from his girdle, he instantly dug into the captain's left side, as near his heart as possible ; and then, seizing that imprudent commander, precipitated him violently into the water of the Seine, to keep company with the gudgeons and river-gods. When he returned to the band, and recounted how the captain had basely attempted to assassinate him, and how he, on the contrary, had, by exertion of superior skill, overcome the captain, not one of the society believed a word of his history ; but they elected him captain forthwith. I think his excellency 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 thou- sand, instead of a hundred of them, who knows but that a new and popular dynasty might not have been founded, and " Louis Dominic, premier Empereur des Frangais," might have per- formed innumerable glorious actions, and fixed himself in the hearts of his people, just as other monarchs have done, a hundred years after Cartouche's death. A story 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 booty, — making the passengers lie down on the decks, and rifling them at leisure. " This money will be but very little among three," whispered Cartouche to his neighbor, as the three conquerors were making merry over their gains ; " if you were but to pull the trigger of your pistol in the neigh- borhood of your comrade's ear, perhaps it might go off, 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- 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 dis- loycUy and avarice ! " So Cartouche slew the second robber; 78 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOR. 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, with tales of the triumphs of Cartouche and his band ; how he robbed 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 police offered a reward ot 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 Rey- nie," 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 you make the slightest noise or cry, I will stick this poisoned dagger between your ribs, as sure as my name is Cartouche ! " At the sound of this dreadful name, M. de la Reynie sunk incontinently down on his stomach, and submitted to be care- fully gagged and corded ; after which Monsieur Cartouche laid his hands upon all the money which was kept in the lieutenant's cabinet. Alas ! and alas ! many a stout bailiff, and many an honest fellow of a spy, went, for that day, without his pay and his victuals. There is a story 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 in- formation, which would infallibly lead to the scoundrel's capture. But poor Potter was disappointed in his designs ; for, before he could fulfil them, he was made the victim of Cartouche's cruelty. 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, ta- ken his papers, and would come to Paris himself, bearing the CARTOUCHE. 79 name and clothes of the unfortunate Abbe, by the Lille coach, on such a day. The Lille coach arrived, was surrounded by 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 find them condescend- ing 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 lovely lady, clad in widow's weeds, and bound to Paris, with 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 pretty 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 Montmorency, 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, suddenly on his knees, and said, "Leonora, do you love me .'*" the poor thing heaved the gen- tlest, 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 ! " The fact is, the old Baron's titles and estates had passed away to his nephews ; his dowager was only left with three hundred thousand livres, in rentes stir Petat, — 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 had estates and wealth which might authorize him to aspire to the hand of a duchess, at least. The unfortunate widow never for a moment suspected the cruel trick that was about to be played on her ; and, at the request of her affianced husband, sold out her money, and realized it in gold, to be made over to him on the day when 8o THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, the contract was to be signed. The day arrived ; and, accord- ing to the custom in France, the relations of both parties attended. The widow's relatives, though respectable, were not of the first nobility, being chiefly persons of Xh^ finance 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 Montmoren- cies, Crequis, De la Tours, and Guises at his back. His homme d'afif'aires brought his papers in a sack, and displayed 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 Marshal de Villars, stepping up to him, said, " Captain, do you know who the president of the court of Arras, yonder, is ? It is old Manasseh, the fence, of Brussels. I j3awned 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 body ! " said his Grace, " but the comptroller-general's lady, there, is no other than that old hag 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 ! " ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NO VELS. 8 1 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 in- clined to follow the easy and comfortable study 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 foolish, 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 employments, and to such dull studies as you fancy ; go and bob for triangles, from the Pons Asinorum ; go enjoy your dull black draughts of metaphysics ; go fumble over history books, and dissert upon Herodotus and Livy ; our histories are, perhaps, as true as yours j our drink is the brisk sparkling champagne drink, from the presses of Colburn, Bentley and Co. ; our walks are over such sunshiny pleasure- grounds as Scott and Shakspeare have laid out for us ; and if our dwellings 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 contempt of their neighbors i's the custom of all barbarous tribes ; — witness the learned Chinese : Tippoo Sultaun declared that there were not in all Europe ten thousand men : the Scla- vonic hordes, it is said, so entitled themselves from a word in 6 82 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. their jargon, which signifies " to speak ; " the ruffians imagined 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 Marshal 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 had been 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 legioln charged the French infantry at Blenheim ; and Csesar, writing home to his mamma, said, ' Madame, tout est perdu for s V honfieur .^ " What a contemptible science this is, then, about which quartos 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 " Ga- zetteer," or getting by heart a fifty-years-old edition of the " Court Guide." 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 collec- tions 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 ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 83 of French modern works, that have not as yet, we believe, attracted the notice of the English public. Of such works there appear many hundreds yearly, as may be seen by the French catalogues ; but the writer has not so much to do with works political, philosophical, historical, met- aphysical, 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 society 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 society, how many French houses he has entered, and how many 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 year we live in France, and grow gray, and see no more. We play ecarte with Monsieur 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 acquamtance with her since we 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 VGitiire, a pumpkin ; and her ge?is^ so many rats : but the real, rougeless, intime Flicflac, we know not. This privilege is granted to no Englishman : we may understand the French language as well as Monsieur de Levizac, but never can penetrate into Flicflac's confidence : our ways are not her ways; our manners of thinking, not hers : when we say a good thing, 84 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. in the course of the night, we are wondrous lucky and pleased ; Flicflac will trill you off fifty in ten minutes, and wonder at the betise of the Briton, who has never a word to say. We are married, and have fourteen 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 day she reaches sixty, she thinks you a fool. We won't play at ecarte with Trefle on Sunday nights ; and are seen walking, about one o'clock (accompanied by fourteen red-haired children, with fourteen gleaming prayer-books), away from the church. " Grand Dieu ! " cries Trefle, '' is that man mad ? He won't play at cards on a Sunday ; he goes to church on a Sunday : he has fourteen children ! " Was ever Frenchman known to do likewise ? Pass we on to our argument, which is, that with 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 in- formation not to be worth a sixpence ; they 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 mighty 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 novel, from the next circulating library, he sends his imagination a-gadding, and gains acquaintance with people and manners whom he could not hope otherwise to know. Twopence a volume bears us whithersoever we will ; — back to Ivanhoe and Coeur de Lion, or to Waverley and the Young Pretender, along with Walter Scott ; up to 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 years hence, should sit down to write the history of our time, would do wrong to put that great contemporary history of " Pickwick " aside as a frivolous work. It contains true char- acter 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 ways of the ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 85 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 may give the reader some notion of manners in that capital. If not original, at least the drawings are accurate ; for, as a Frenchman might have lived a thousand years in England, and never could have written "Pickwick," an Englishman cannot hope to give a good description of the inward thoughts and ways of his neighbors. To a person inclined to study 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 occasionally wounds the English sense of propriety (as what French man or woman alive will not ?) does so more by slighting than by 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 society — rascals enough, but living in no state of convulsive crimes; and we follow him in his lively, 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 years, 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 very difficult of translation, and the sparkle sadly evaporates during the process of decanting. 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 would be too wearisome to keep me awake, except that of conversing with you. Indeed, were I pot to write to you now, when should I find the possibility of 86 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. doing so ? Time flies here with such a frightful rapidity, my pleasures and my affairs whirl onwards together in such a tor- rentuous galopade, that I am compelled to seize occasion by the forelock ; for each moment has its imperious employ. Do not then accuse me of negligence : if my correspondence has not always that regularity which I would fain give it, attribute the fault solely to the whirlwind in which I live, and which carries me hither and thither at its will. " However, you are not the only person with whom I am behindhand : I assure you, on the contrary, that you are one of a very numerous and fashionable company, to whom, towards the discharge of my debts, I propose to consecrate four hours to-day. I give you the preference to all the world, even to the lovely Duchess of San Severino, a delicious Italian, whom for my 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 ?i'importe, I commence with thee : friendship before love or money — friendship before everything. My despatches concluded, I am engaged to ride with the Marquis de Grigneure, the Comte de Castijars, and Lord Cobham, in order that we may recover, for a breakfast at the Rocher de Cancale that Grigneure has lost, the appetite which we all of us so cruelly abused last night at the Ambas- sador's. On my honor, my dear fellow, everybody was of a caprice prestigieux and a co?nfortable mirobolant. Fancy, for a banquet-hall, a royal orangery hung with white damask ; the boxes of the shrubs transformed into so many 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 my esteem. " Here I pause, to call for my valet-de-chambre, and call for tea ; for my head is heavy, and I've no time for a headache. In serving me, this rascal of a Frederic has broken a cup, true Japan, upon my honor — the rogue does nothing else. Yester- day, for instance, did he not thump me prodigiously, 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 my furniture ; and in consequence of this, Eneas, an audacious young negro, in whom wisdom hath not waited for years — Eneas, my groom, I say, will probably be elevated to the post of valet-de-chambre. But where was I ? I think I was speaking to you of an oyster breakfast, to which, ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NO VELS, 87 on our return from the Park (du Bois), a company of pleasant rakes are invited. After quitting Borel's, we propose to ad- journ to the Barriere du Combat, where Lord Cobham proposes to try some bull-dogs, which he has brought over from England — one of these, O'Connell, (Lord Cobham is a Tory,) 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 only place, by the way, where a man who respects himself may be seen,) — and then away 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 2i pas-de-trois, and our box patronizes her. After the opera, I must show my face at two or three salons in the Faubourg St. Honore, and having thus performed my 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 Bac- chanal 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, equally curious and instructive. But pause we for the present, to con- sider 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 " Englishmen-sportsmen ; " he imitates their clubs — their love of horse-flesh : he calls his palefrenier a groom, wears blue bird's-eye neck-cloths, sports his pink out hunting, rides steeple-chases, and has his Jockey Club. The " tigers and lions " alluded to in the report have been borrowed from our own country, and a great compliment is it to Monsieur de Ber- nard, the writer of the above amusing sketch, that he has such a knowledge of English names and things, as to give a Tory 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 Boulingrog^ and appears vastly delighted at the "/erisimilitude of the title. 88 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, For the ^^ rugissements et bondissemetits^ bacchanak et saiur- nale, galop infernal, ronde du sabbat tout le tre?nblement,^^ these words give a most clear, untranslatable idea of the Carnival ball. A sight more hideous can hardly strike a man's eye. I was present at one where the four thousand guests whirled screaming, reeling, roaring, out of the ballroom in the Rue St. Honore, and tore down to the column in the Place Vendome, round which they went shrieking their own music, twenty miles an hour, and so tore madly back again. Let a man go alone to such a place of amusement, and the sight for him is perfectly terrible ; the horrid frantic gayety of the place puts him in mind mord 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 with 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 permit 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 dandy of " Flicoteau's " and the Pays Latin — the Paris student, whose exploits among the grisettes are so celebrated, and whose fierce republicanism keeps gendarmes forever on the alert. The following is M. de Bernard's description of him : — *' I became acquainted with Dambergeac when we were students at the Ecole da Droit ; we lived in the same hotel on the Place du Pantheon. No doubt, madam, you have occasionally met little children dedicated to the Virgin, and, to this end, clothed in white raiment from head to foot : my friend, Dain- bergeac, had received a different 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, Dambergeac was christened by the pagan name of Harmodius. It was a kind of moral tricolor-cockade, which the ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NO VELS. 89 child was to bear through the vicissitudes of all the revolutions to come. Under such influences, my friend's character began to develop itself, and, fired by 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 ac- quaintance. "He was then a young man of eighteen, with a tall, slim figure, a broad chest, and a flaming black eye, out of all which personal charms he knew how to draw the most advantage ; and though his costume was such as Staub might probably have Criticised, he had, nevertheless, a style peculiar to him- self — to himself and the students, among whom he was the 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 voluminous rim, cast solemn shadows over a countenance bronzed by a southern sun : he wore, at one time, enormous flowing black locks, which he sacrificed piti- lessly, however, and adopted a Brutus, as being more revolu- tionary : finally, he carried an enormous club, that was his code and digest : in like manner, De Retz used to carry a stiletto in his pocket, by way 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 ex- aminations, he trusted to luck, and to his own facility, which was prodigious : as for honors, he never aimed at them, but was content to do exactly as little as was necessary for him to gain his degree. In like manner he sedulously avoided those horrible circulating libraries, where daily are seen to con- gregate the ' reading men ' of our schools. But, in revenge, there was not a milliner's shop or a Ungere's, in all our quartier Latin, which he did not industriously 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 occa- sionally come to us of fabulous adventures by him accomplish- ed in the far regions of the Rue de la Paix and the Boulevard Poissoniere. Such recitals were, for us less favored mortals, like tales of Bacchus conquering in the East ; they excited our ambition, but not our jealousy ; for the superiority of Har- modious was acknowledged by us all, and we never thought of rivalry with him, No man ever cantered a hack through the 90 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. Champs Elyse'es 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 Be'ranger with such a roaring melodious bass. He was the monarch of the Prado in winter ; in summer of the Chaumiere and Mount Parnasse. Not a frequenter of those fashionable places of entertainment showed a more ami able laisser-alle?' in the dance — that peculiar dance at which gendarmes think proper to blush, and which squeamish society has banished from her salons. In a word, Harmodious was the prince of maiivais sujds, 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, namely ; in which he was as turbulent and enthusiastic as in pleasure. La Fatrie was his idol, his heaven," his nightmare ; by day he spouted, by night he dreamed, of his country. I have spoken to you of his coiffure a la Sylla ; need I mention his pipe, his meerschaum pipe, of which General Foy's head was the bowl ; his handkerchief with the Charte printed thereon ; and his cele- brated tricolor braces, which kept the rallying 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 belonged to clubs, frequented associations, read the Coftstitutionnel (lAhQr^Xs, in those days, swore by the Consti- tutionfiel)^ harangued peers and deputies who had deserved well of their country ; and if death happened to fall on such, and the Cotistitutionnel declared their merit, Harmodious was the very first to attend their obsequies, or to set his shoulder to their coffins. " Such were his tastes and 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, missionaries were rife about Paris, and endeavored to re-illume the zeal of the faithful by public preaching in the churches. ^ Infatnes Jesiiites /' would Harmodious 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 exacti- tude the meetings of the reverend gentlemen. But, instead of a contrite heart, Harmodious only brought the abomination of desolation into their sanctuary. A perpetual fire of fulminat- ing balls would bang from under the feet of the faithful ; odors of impure assafoetida would mingle with the fumes of the in- ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NO VELS. 9 1 cense ; 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, woe be to them when Harmodious was in the pit ! They knew him, and trembled before him, like the earth before Alexander ; and his famous war-cry, ''La Carte an chapeaii /' was so much dreaded, that the ' entrepreneurs de siicch dramatiqiies ' demanded twice as much to do the Odeon Theatre (which we students and Harmodious frequented), as to applaud at any other place of amusement : and, indeed, their double pay was hardly gained ; Harmodious 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, tur- bulent Paris student, than any with which a foreigner could furnish him : the grisette is his heroine ; and dear old Be- ranger, the cynic-epicurean, has celebrated him and her in the most delightful verses in the world. Of these we may have occasion to say a word or two anon. Meanwhile let us follow Monsieur de Bernard in his amusing descriptions of his coun- trymen somewhat farther ; and, having seen how Dambergeac was a ferocious 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, loyal 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 m.iddle of the room, a large bureau, surrounded by ortho- dox 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 plaster- cast of the ' Roides Fran^ais.' Recollecting my friend's former republicanism, I smiled at this piece of furniture ; but before I had time to carry my observations any farther, a heavy rolling sound of carriage-wheels, that caused the windows to rattle 92 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 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 by a brace of gendarmes, sword in hand. A tall gen- tleman, 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 study was opened, and I embraced my friend. " After the first warmth and salutations, we began to exam, ine 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, aftei a moment. " ' In revenge I find you fat and rosy : if I am a walking satire on celibacy, — you, at least, are a living panegyric on marriage.' " In fact a great change, and such an one as many people would call a change for the better, had taken place in my friend • he had grown fat, and announced a decided disposition to become what French people call a bel homme : that is, a very 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, neatly 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 my friend a regular bourgeois physiognomy, wax-doll-like : he looked a great deal too well ; and, added to this, the solemnity of his prefectural costume, gave his whole appear- ance a pompous well-fed look that by no means pleased. " ' I surprise you,' said I, ' in the midst of your 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 Bishop, who has just made his diocesan visit, and whom I have just conducted to the limit of the arrondissemeiit: " * What ! ' said I, ' you have gendarmes for guards,, and dance attendance on bishops ? There are no more janissaries and Jesuits, I suppose 1 ' The sub-prefect smiled. " * I assure you that my gendarmes are very worthy fellows ; and that among the gentlemen who compose our cler2:y there are some of the very best rank and talent : besides, my wife is niece to one of the vicars-general.' ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NO VELS. 93 " ' What have you done with that great Tasso beard that poor Armandine used to love so ? ' " ' My wife does not Uke a beard ; and you know that what is permitted to a student is not very 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, your sittings with village mayors and petty councils, how do you manage to remain awake ? ' " ' In the commencement,' said Harmodius, gravely, ' it was very difficult ; and, in order to keep my 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 snufi at a sitting.' " ' Ah ! a propos of snuff : you are near Spain here, and were always a famous smoker. Give me a cigar, — it will take away the musty odor of these piles of papers.' " ' Impossible, my dear ; I don't smoke ; my wife cannot bear a cigar.' " His wife ! thought I : always his wife ; and I remember Juliette, who really 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 his pocket an enormous gold snuff-box, on which figured the selfsame head that I had before remarked in plaster, but this time surrounded with a ring of pretty princes and prin- cesses, all nicely painted in miniature. As for the statue of Louis Philippe, that, in the cabinet of an official, is a thing of course ; but the snuff-box seemed to indicate a degree of senti- mental and personal devotion, such as the old Royalists were only supposed to be guilty of. " ' What ! you are turned decided juste milieu t " said I. " ' I am a sous-prefet,' answered Harmodious. " I had nothing to say, but held my tongue, wondering, not at the change which had taken place in the habits, manners, and opinions of my friend, but at my own folly, 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 my chair. * Vou at mass, like a decent serious Christian, without crackers in your pocket, and bored keys to whistle through ? ' — The sous-prefet 94 ^'-^-^ PARIS SKETCH BOOIC. rose, his countenance was calm, and an indulgent smile played upon his lips, as he said, ' My arrondissement is very devout ; and not to interfere with the belief of the population is the maxim of every wise politician : I have precise orders from Government on the point, too, and go to eleven o'clock mass every Sunday." There is a great deal of curious matter for speculation in the accounts here so wittily given by 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 testimony that the words altogether 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 Mon- sieur Dambergeac the sous-prefet, and his friend, a rich store of calm internal debauch^ which does not, let us hope and pray, exist in England. Hearken to M. de Gus- tan, and his smirking whispers about the Duchess of San Severino, who pour son bonheur particular, &c., &c. Listen to Monsieur Dambergeac's friend's remonstrances concerning pauvrd yuliette, who grew sick at the smell of a pipe ; to his naive admiration of the fact that the sous-prefet goes to church : and we may set down, as axioms, that religion is so uncommon among the Parisians, as to awaken the surprise of all candid observers ; that gallantry 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 pro- fessing /rreligion who would be remarked and reprehended in England ; and, if the second-named vice exists, at any rate, it adopts the decency of secrecy, and is not 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 of Boccaccio over again, in the thousand and one French novels which depict society in that country. For instance, here are before us a few specimens (do not, madam, be alarmed, you 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 toji, in his style, which, if we ON SOME FRENCH- FASHTONABLIL NOVELS. 95 judge aright, cannot be discovered in Balzac, or Soulie, or Dumas. We have then — " Gerfaut," a novel : a lovely creature 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 lovely crea- ture 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 dissipa- tion ; 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 tlwee lovers ; all of whom find out their mutual connexion one starry night ; for the lady of forty is of a romantic poetical turn, and has given her three admirers a star apiece ; saying to one and the other, " Alphonse, when yon pale orb rises in heaven, think of me ; " " Isidore, when that bright planet sparkles in the sky, remember your Caroline," &c. " Un Acte de Vertu," from which we have taken Damber- geac's history, 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 Viel-Castel, we find, though with infinitely less wit, exactly 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 Countess his wife. The Countess his wife, in order to rame?ier her lord to his conjugal duties, is counselled, by a friend, to pretend to take a, lover : one is found, who, poor fellow! takes the affair in earnest : climax — duel, despair, and what not ? In the " Faubourg St. Germain," another novel by the same writer, which professes to describe the very pink of that society which Napoleon dreaded more than Russia, Prussia, and Austria, there is an old husband, of course ; a sentimental young 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 being a flirt, a7id taking a second lover, to the utter despair, confusion, and annihilation of the first. Why, ye gods, do Frenchmen marry at all ? Had Pere Enfantin (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 g6 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, discomfort might have been avoided : — would it not be advisable that a great reformer and lawgiver of our own, Mr. Robert Owen, should be presented at the Tuileries, and there jDropound his scheme for the regeneration of France ? He might, perhaps, be spared, for our country is not yet sufficiently 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 young maiden — for his money ; or a widow of seventy may buy a gay young fellow of twenty, for a certain number of bank-billets. If mariages de convetiance take place here (as they will wherever avarice, and poverty, and desire, and yearning after riches are to be found), at least, thank God, such unions are not arranged upon a regular organized system ; there is a fiction of attachment with us, and there is a consolation in the deceit (" the homage," according to the old mot of Rochefoucauld,. " which vice pays to virtue ") ; for the very falsehood shows that the virtue exists somewhere. We once heard a furious old French colonel in- veighing against the chastity of English demoiselles : " Figurez- vous, sir," said he (he had been a prisoner in England), that these women come down to dinner in low dresses, and walk out alone with the men ! " — and, pray heaven, so may 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 days) 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 Faubourg St. Germain, it is impossible for most foreigners to say ; but some of his descriptions will not fail to astonish the English reader ; and all are filled with that remark- able //^/{Z" contempt of the institution called marriage, which we have seen in M. de Bernard. The romantic young nobleman of Westphalia arrives at Paris, and is admitted into what a celebrated female author calls la C7'eme de la creme de la haute volee 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 moment 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 in- fluence, the whole of his future life." Is it not remarliabl^, that a young nobleman^ with these ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 97 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 lady, with a great deal of esprit, to whom forty years* experience of the great world had given a prodigious per- spicacity 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 forever 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 complex- ion 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 j a dull, heavy creature, as much capable of understanding a woman's heart as I am of speaking bas-Breton.' " ' Well, Monsieur de Belport, you will speak bas-Breton. Monsieur de Stolberg has not your admirable ease of manner, nor your facility of telling nothings, nor your — in a word, that particular something which makes you the most recherche man of the Faubourg Saint Germain ; and even I avow to you that, were I still young and a coquette, and that I took it into my head to have a lover, I would prefer you.' " All this was said by the Duchess, with a certain air of raillery and such a mixture of earnest and malice, that Mon- sieur 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 carrjdng his attachment to the height of passion ; and these passions, do you know, have frightened me all my life, One cannot retreat 7 98 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. at will from the grasp of a passionate lover ; one leaves behind one some fragment of one's moral self^ or the best part of one's physical life. A passion, if it does not kill you, adds cruelly to your years ; in a word, it is the very lowest possible taste. And now you understand why I should prefer you, M. de Bel- port — you who are reputed to the leader of the fashion.' " * Perfectly,' murmured the gentleman, piqued more and more. "'Gerard de Stolberg w/// be passionate. I don't know what woman will please him, or will be pleased by him ' (here the Duchess of Chalux spoke more gravely) ; ' but his love will be no play, I repeat it to you once more. All this astonishes you, because you, great leaders of the ton that you are, never can fancy that a hero of romance should be found among your 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 he?'o 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 ro- mance. •vf •?? -3r ^ TT " Gerard de Stolberg was not, as yet, initiated into the thou- sand secrets in the chronicle of the great world : he knew but superficially the society in which he lived ; and, therefore, he devoted his evening to the gathering of all the infor- mation which he could acquire from the indiscreet conver- sations of the people about him. His whole man became ear and memory ; 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 investigation would have taught him. The talk of a ball is more indiscreet than the confiden- tial chatter of a company of idle women. No man present at a ball, whether listener or speaker, thinks he has a right to af- fect any indulgence for his companions, and the most' learned in malice will always pass for the most witty„ " ' How ! ' said the Viscount de Mondrage : ' the Duchess of Rivesalte arrives alone to-night, without her inevitable Dor- milly I ' — 'And the Viscount, as he spoke, pointed towards a tall and slender young woman, who, gliding rather than walking, met the ladies by whom she passed, with a graceful and modest ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 99 salute, and replied to the looks of the men by brilUajit 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 mustaches, the blushing consciousness of his good luck ? They call him the fourth chap- ter oiihe. 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 ! — the very incarnation of jealousy ; the second edition, revised, corrected, and considerably enlarged ; as jeal- ous as poor Gressigny, who is dying of it.' " ' What ! Gressigny too ? why, 'tis growing quite into fashion : egad ! /must try and be jealous,' said Monsieur de Beauval. ' But see ! here conaes the delicious Duchess of Bellefiore,' " &c., &c., &c. * * # * * Enough, enough : this kind of fashionable Parisian conver- sation, wdiich is, says our author, " a prodigious labor of im- provising," 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 some- what monotonous at least to an English reader, and " prodi- gious " only, if we may take leave to say so, for the wonderful rascality which all the conversationists betray. Miss Never- cut and the Colonel, in Swift's famous dialogue, are a thou- sand 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 as old as Lady herself, and who should begin to tell us " of what she would do if ever she had a mind to take a lover ; " and another duchess, with a fourth lover, tripping modestly among the ladies, and returning the gaze of the men by veiled glances, full of coquetry and attack ! — Par- bleu, if Monsieur de Viel-Castel should find himself among a society of French duchesses, and they should tear his eyes^out, and send the fashionable Orpheus floating by the Seine, his slaughter might almost be considered as justifiable Counticide. loo THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 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 pocket than belonged to the whole fifth form in which we were companions. When he was about fifteen. Jack suddenly retreated from C , and presently 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 inky corduroys, and now appeared in such a splendid military suit as won the respect of all of us. His hair was dripping with oil, his hands were covered with rings, he had a dusky 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 Swishtail, 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 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 Lady Mary Slamken at a ball. '' 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 " " 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 off little Hicks, 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 A GAMBLER'S DEATH. lOi marched in to be whacked by old Swishtail. I promise you 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 belonged to Cornet Attwood, of the n — th dragoons. When we came to think more coolly over our quondam school-fellow's swaggering talk and manner, we were not quite so impressed by 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 monstrously improbable that the smallest boy 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 veracity. He and I, though never great friends, had been close companions r I 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 my old comrade, who had forgotten all our former intimacy, in his steeple-chases with Captain Boldero and his duel with Sir George Grig. Nothing more was heard of Attwood for some years ; a tailor one day came down to C , who had made clothes for Jack in his school-days, and furnished him with regimentals : he produced a long bill for one hundred and twenty pounds and upwards, and asked where news might be had of his customer. Jack was in India, with his regiment, shooting tigers and jackals, no doubt. Occasionally, from that distant country, some mag- nificent rumor would reach us of his proceedings. Once I heard that he had been called to a court-martial for unbecom- ing 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 away. Jack's image dis- appeared likewise, and I ceased to ask or think about my college chum. A year since, as I was smoking my cigar in the " Estaminet du Grand Balcon," an excellent smoking-shop, where the tobac- co is unexceptionable, and the Hollands of singular merit, a 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 brandy. I did not much admire the impudence or the appearance of my 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 I02 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. and gold rings to see us at C school : a man in the tenth part of a century learns a deal of worldly wisdom, and his hand, which goes naturally forward to seize the gloved finger of a millionaire, or a milor, draws instinctively back from a dirty fist, encompassed by 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 very affectionate or very poor. You, my dear sir, who are reading this history, know very well the great art of shaking hands : recollect how you shook Lord Dash's hand the other day, and how you shook ojf poor Blank, when he came to borrow five pounds of you. However, the genial influence of the Hollands speedily dis- sipated anything 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 Swish- tail. Jack told me that he had quitted the army in disgust ; and that his father, who was to leave him a fortune, had died ten thousand pounds in debt : he did not touch upon his own circumstances ; but I could read them in his elbows, which were peeping through his old frock. He talked a great deal, however, 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 quantity 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 day, no sort of notion how our palaver concluded. — Only, on the next morning, I did not possess a certain five- pound note, which on the previous evening was in my sketch- book (by far the prettiest drawing by the way in the collection); but there, instead, was a strip of paper, thus inscribed : — lOU Five Pounds. John Attwood, Late of the N — th Dragoons. I suppose Attwood borrowed the money, from this remjarkable and ceremonious acknowledgment on his part : had I been so- ber I would just as soon have lent him the nose on my face ; for, in my then circumstances, the note was of much more conse- quence to me. As I lay, cursing my ill fortune, and thinking how on earth I should manage to subsist for the next two months, Attwood A GAMBLER'S DEA TH. 103 burst into my little garret — his face strangely flushed — singing and shouting as if it had been the night before. " Titmarsh," cried he, " you are my preserver ! — my best friend ! Look here, and here, and here ! " And at every word Tvlr. Attwood produced a handful of gold, or a glittering heap of five-franc pieces, or a bundle of greasy, dusky bank-notes, more beauti- ful than either silver or gold : — he had won thirteen thousand francs after leaving me at midnight in my garret. He separated my poor little all, of six pieces, from this shining and imposing collection ; and the passion of envy entered my soul : I felt far more anxious now than before, although starvation was then staring me in the face ; I hated Attwood for 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 my chagrin ; and I will do my friend the justice to say, that he nobly shared some portion of his good fortune with me. As far as the creature comforts were concerned I feasted as well as he, and never was particular as to settling my share of the 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 many frogs on his coat as in the old days, and frequented all the flash resturateurs' and boarding-houses of the capital. Madame de Saint Laurent, and Madame la Baronne de Vau- drey, and Madame la Comtesse de Don Jonville, ladies of the highest rank, who keep a socieie choisie and condescend to give dinners at five-francs a-head, vied with each other in their at- tentions 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 society, it may be seen, was not very select ; nor, in 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. 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 played every night. Of course, such a humble fellow as I, could not hope for a continued acquaintance and intimacy with Attwood. He gre\v I04 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. overbearing and cool, I thought ; at any rate I did not admire my situation as his follower and dependent, and left his grand din- ner 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 busi- ness, 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 man- ner as made Flapper's eyes wink : the poor fellow had but three bottles, and Jack bade fair to swallow them all. How- ever, the West Indian remedied the evil, and producing a napo- leon, 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 man- ner 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 lung- ing at each other with a pair of single-sticks, the barrister hav- ing a very strong notion that he was Richard the Third. At last Fips hits 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." Young Mr. Flapper had a small pair of pocket-pistols, which the tipsy barrister had suddenly remembered, and with which he proposed to sacrifice the West Indian. Gortz was nothing loth, but was quite as valorous as the lawyer. Attwood, who, in spite of his potations, seemed the soberest man of the party, had much enjoyed the scene, until this sud- den demand for the weapons. " Pshaw ! " said he, eagerly, A GAMBLER'S DEATH. 105 " don't give these men the means of murdering each other ; sit down and let us have another song." But they 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 Att- wood, looking much confused ; " I took the pistols home with me to clean them ! " I don't know what there was in his tone, or in his words, but we were sobered all of a sudden. Attwood was conscious of the singular effect produced by him, for he blushed, and en- deavored to speak of other things, bur 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 you a napoleon, Titmarsh, in your purse ? " Alas ! I was not so rich. My reply was, that I was coming to Jack, only in the morning, to borrow a similar sum. He did not make any reply, but turned away homeward : I never heard him speak another word. ***** Two mornings after (for none of our party met on the day succeeding the supper), I was awakened by my porter, who brought a pressing letter from Mr. Gortz : — " Dear T — I wish you would come over here to breakfast. There's a row about Att- wood. — Yours truly, " Solomon Gortz." I immediately 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 twenty 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 Venus beckoning him up the stairs. On arriving at the West Indian's, at about mid-day (it was a Sunday morning), I found that gentleman in his dressing-gown, discussing, in the com- pany of Mr. Fips, a large plate of bifteck aux p07n77ies. " Here's a pretty row ! " said Gortz, quoting from his letter \ — " Attwood's off — have a bit of beefsteak t " " What do you mean ? " exclaimed I, adopting the familiar phraseology of my acquaintances: — "Attwood off.? — has he cut his stick ? " " Not bad," said the feeling and elegant Fips — " not such a bad guess, my boy ; but he has not exactly cut his sticks " What then ? " " Why^ his throat^ The man's mouth was full of bleeding beef as he uttered this gentlemanly witticism. io6 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. I wish I could say that, I was myself in the least affected by the news. I did not joke about it like my friend Fips ; this was more for propriety's sake than for feeling's : but for my old school acquaintance, the friend of my early days, the merry as- sociate 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 ad- mire and follow : but this charming and fantastic spirit only leads them, one by one, into ruin, and then leaves them. The novelist wdio describes her beauty, says that his heroine is a fairy, and has no heart. I think the intimacy 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 frienship made by it ; it only entices men and ruins them ; it is only a phantom of friendship and feeling, called up by 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 pitiful figure), we passed sundry criticisms upon poor Attwood's character, expressed our horror at his death — which sentiment was fully proved by Mr. Fips, who declared that the notion of it made him feel quite faint, and was obliged to drink a large glass of brandy ; and, finally, we agreed that we would go and see the poor fellow's corpse, and witness, if necessary, 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 back his pistol. Accordingly, we sallied forth, and speedily arrived at the hotel which Attwood inhabited still. He had occupied, for a time, very fine apartments in this house : and it was only on arriving there that day that we found he had been gradually driven from his magnificent suite of rooms au premier, to a little chamber in the fifth story : — we mounted, and found him. It was a little shabby room, with a few articles of rickety furniture, 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 in ; for in all his drawers and cupboards there was not a single article of cloth- ing ; he had pawned everything by which he could raise a penny — desk, books, dressing-case, and clothes ; and not a single half penny was found in his possession. He was lying with one hand on his breast, the other falling towards the ground. There was an expression of perfect A GAMBLER'S DEATH. 107 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 toy than a weapon to take away the life of this vigor- ous young 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 peu," 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-forty francs. In the whole world there was not a soul to love him or lament him. We, his friends, were looking at his body more as an object of curi- osity, watching it with a kind of interest with which one fol- lows the fifth act of a tragedy, and leaving it with the same feeling with which one leaves the theatre when the play is over and the curtain is down. Beside Jack's bed, on his little " table de nuit," lay the remains of his last meal, and an open letter, which we read. It was from one of his suspicious apquaintances of former days, and ran thus : " Ou es tu, cher Jack? why you not come and see me — tu me dois de I'argent, entends tu ? — uu chapeaii, une cachemire, a box of the Play. Viens demain soir, je t'attendrai at eight o'clock. Passage des Panoramas. My Sir is at his country. " Adieu i demain. " Samedi." " Finine." I shuddered as I walked through this very Passage des Panoramas, in the evening. The girl was there, pacing to and fro, and looking in the countenance of every passer-by, to recog- nize Attwood. " Adieu a demain ! " — there was a dreadful meaning in the words, which the writer of them little knew. " Adieu ^ 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 poverty and despera- tion, 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 ex- pense of the arrondissement, in a nook of the burial-place be- yond 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 io8 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. grave. The three men who have figured in this history acted as Jack's mourners ; and as the ceremony was to take place so early in the morning, these men sat up the night through, and were ahiost 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 very happy to get home to a warm and comfortable breakfast and finished the day royally at Frascati's. NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. Any person who recollects the history of the absurd out- break of Strasburg, in which Prince Louis Napoleon Bonaparte figured, three years ago, must remember that, however silly the revolt was, however foolish its pretext, however doubtful its aim, and inexperienced its leader, there was, nevertheless, a party, and a considerable one in France, that were not unwilling to lend the new projectors their aid. The troops who declared against the Prince were, it was said, all but willing to declare for him ; and it was certain that, in many of the regiments of the army, there existed a strong spirit of disaffection, 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 ad- mirers ; Robespierrism has a select party of friends. If, in a country where so many quacks have had their day. Prince Louis Napoleon thought he might renew the imperial quackery, why should he not ? It has recollections with it that must always be dear to a gallant nation ; it has certain claptraps in its vocabulary that can never fail to inflame a vain, restless, grasp- ing, disappointed one. NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 109 In the first place, and don't let me endeavor to disguise it, they hate us. Not all the protestations of friendship, not all the wisdom of Lord Palmerston, not all the diplomacy of our distinguished plenipotentiary, 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 fury that never sleeps ; the moderate party, if they admit the utility of our alliance, are continually pointing out our treachery, 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 volleys of fierce de- nunciations against our unfortunate country. They 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 in late, have had the uppermost, they perpet- uate the shame and mortification of the losing party, the bitter- ness of past defeats, and the eager desire to avenge them. A party which knows how to cxploiie?- 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 boun- dary — stand among the nations — popular development — Rus- sian alliance, and a reduction of la perfide 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 Napokon's ideas really were ;^ what good had already resulted from the practice of them ; how cruelly they had been thwarted by foreign wars and difficulties ; and what vast benefits would no THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. have resulted from them ; ay, and (it is reasonable to conclude) might still, if the French nation would be wise enough to pitch upon a governor that would continue the interrupted scheme. It is, however, to be borne in mind that the Emperor Napoleon had certain arguments in favor of his opinions for the time being, which his nephew has not employed. On the 13th Ven- demiaire, when General Bonaparte believed in the excellence of a Directory, it may be remembered that he aided his opin- ions by forty pieces of artillery, and by Colonel Murat at the head of his dragoons. There was no resisting such a philoso- pher ; 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 Directory, 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 bayonets, caused it to prevail. Error vanished in an instant. At once five hundred of its high- priests tumbled out of windows, and lo ! three Consuls ap- peared to guide the destinies of France ! How much more expeditious, reasonable, and clinching was this a:rgument of the i8th Brumaire, than any one that can be found in any pam- phlet ! A fig for your duodecimos and octavos ! Talk about points, there are none like those at the end of a bayonet ; and the most powerful of styles is a good rattling " article " from a nine-pounder. At least this is our interpretation of the manner in which were always propagated the Idecs NapoUoniennes. Not such, however, is Prince Louis's belief ; and, if you wish to go along with him in opinion, you will discover that a more liberal, peaceable, prudent Prince never existed : you will read that " the mission of Napoleon " was to be the " testame?itary execu- tor of the revolution ; " and the Prince should have added the legatee ; or, more justly still, as well as the executor, he should be called the executioner, and then his title would be complete. In Vendemiaire, the military Tartuffe, he threw aside the Revo- lution's natural heirs, and made her, as it were, alter her will ; on the i8th of Brumaire he strangled her, and on the 19th seized on her property, and kept it until force deprived him of it. Illustrations, to be sure, are no arguments, but the example 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 NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 1 1 1 were ready to avouch the exact contrary. 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 back to the days when we ourselves were as loud and mad in his dispraise. Who does not remember his own personal hatred ancl horror, twenty-five years ago, for the man whom we used to call the •' bloody Corsican upstart and assassin .? " What stories ance. And, even if you must water the tree of civilization with your blood — if you must see your projects misunderstood, and your sons without a country, wan- dering 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 humanity approve.' " This grand mission Napoleon performed to the end. His task was difficult. He 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 every new truth that arises, is to wound rather than to convince — rather than to gain proselytes, 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 be- comes the basis of new social order. " Liberty will follow the same march as the Christian reli gion. Armed with death from the ancient society of Rojne, it for a long while excited the hatred and fear of the people. At last, by 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 Char- lemagne bore it triumphant throughout Europe. Religion then laid down her arms of war. It laid open to all the principles NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 1^5 of peace and order which it contained ; it became the prop of government, as it was the organizing element of society. Thus will it DC with liberty. In 1793 it frightened people and sover- eigns alike ; then, having clothed itself in a milder garb, it in- simiateditself everywhere i?i the traifi of our battalions. In 181 5 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 war- like accoutrements. With the contest their fears returned. Let us hope that they will soon cease, and that liberty will soon re- sume 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. Without the Consulate and the Empire, the revolution would have been only a grand drama, leaving grand revolutions but no traces : the revolution would have been drowned in the counter-revolution. The contrary, how- ever, 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 revolution, he confirmed Kings, and ennobled people.' He purified the revolution, in separating the truths which it contained from the passions that, during its delirium, disfig- ured it. He ennobled the people in giving them the con- sciousness 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 re- generative genius, to identify one's self with the sentiments of the people, and boldly to direct them towards the desired point. To accomi^ish such a task your Jih'e should respond to that of the people^ as the Emperor 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 cer- tain other combinations of round figures, to exactly o. 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, J 1 5 THE PARIS SKE TCH BOOK. blundering arguments, and blundering assertions ; but this is surely the grandest bkinder 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 prop- erty to young officers of artillery. We have all read the history of his rise. The constitution of the year III. was car- ried. Old men of the Montague, disguised royalists, Paris sections, Fittetcobourg^ 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 knowledge of a young officer, who would not hesitate to defend its cause, and who effectually beat the majority. The tale may 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, by doses of cannon-balls promptly administered, he cured the fever of the sections — that fever which another camp- physician (Menou) declined to prescribe for ; we know how he abolished the Directory ; 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 ? — by 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 bayonet 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 any 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 dic- tatorial than might possibly be agreeable. For this the Prince has always an answer ready — it is the same poor one that Na- poleon uttered a million of times to his companions in exile — the excuse of necessity. He would hcivQ been very liberal, but that the people were not fit for it ; or that the cursed war pre- vented him — or any other reason why. His first duty, how- ever, says his apologist, was to form a general union of French- men, and he set about his plan in this wise : — " Let us not forget, that all which Napoleon undertook, in order to create a general fusion, he performed without renoun- NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM, 117 cing the principles of the revolution. He recalled the emigres, without touching upon the law by which their goods had been confiscated and sold as public property. He re-established the Catholic religion at the same time that he proclaimed the liberty of conscience, and endowed equally the ministers of all sects. He caused himself to be consecrated by the Sovereign Pontiff, without conceding to the Pope's demand any of the liberties of the Galilean 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 privileges or pre- rogatives, and these titles were conferred on all ranks, on all services, on all professions. Under the empire all idea of caste was destroyed ; no man ever thought of vaunting 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 principle of equality in all its exten- sion. It was necessary to restore the prestige with which the Government had been formerly invested, and to make the prin- ciples of the revolution take root in the public manners. At the commencement of a new society, it is the legislator who makes or corrects the manner ; 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 what 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 what not, v/hose rank has descended 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 com- mencement of the Russian campaign ? But for Napoleon's imperial father-in-law, Poland would have been a kingdom, and his race, perhaps, imperial still. Why was he to fetch this princess out of Austria to make heirs for his throne .? 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 for brothers, and a bevy of aides-de-camp dressed out like so many 1 1 8 THE PARIS SKE TCH BOOK, mountebanks from Astley's, with dukes' coronets, and grand blue velvet marshals' batons ? We have repeatedly his words for it. He wanted to create an aristocracy — another acknowl- edgment on his part of the Republican dilemma — another apology for the revolutionary blunder. To keep the republic within bounds, a despotism is necessary ; to rally round the despotism, an aristocracy must be created ; and for what have we been laboring all this while 1 for what have bastiles been battered down, and kings' heads hurled, as a gage of battle, in the face of armed Europe ? To have a Duke of Otranto in- stead 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 only to end in establish- ing a Prince Fergus O'Connor, or a Cardinal Wade, or a Duke Daniel Whittle Harvey ? Great as those patriots are, we love them better under their simple family 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 may 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 day, '' Le Roitrouve convenahle that you 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 always 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 necessary, as the Prince confesses, to restore the old prestige of the Government, in order to make the people respect 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 — they must tend to despotism ; " they must personify themselves in a man," 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 armed Frenchmen, qui viarcheront avec moiy pour moi^ et comme NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 119 moiy And this is the legacy 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 unwittingly 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 an^ embroideries, pounce upon what money and plate they can lay their hands on, and when the allies appear before Paris, when for courage and manliness there is yet hope, when with fierce marches hastening to the relief of his capital, bursting through ranks upon ranks of the enemy, and crushing or scattering them from the path of his swift and victorious despair, 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 dignitaries, are off on the wings of all the winds — -profli- gati sunt, they are away with the money-bags, and Louis Stan- islas Xavier rolls into the palace of his fathers. With regard to Napoleon's excellence as an administrator, a legislator, a constructor of public works, and a skilful finan- cier, his nephew speaks with much diffuse praise, and few persons, 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 every man in France except one. His vast pub- lic works and vaster wars were carried on without new loans or exorbitant 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 unnecessarily and lavishly thrown away. As for the former and material improvements, it is not necessary to confess here that a despotic energy can effect such far more readily than a Govern- ment of which the strength is diffused in many conflicting parties. No doubt, if we could create a despotic government machine, a steam autocrat, — passionless, untiring, and supreme, — we should advance further, and live more at ease than under I20 THE PARIS SKETCH BOO A: any other form of government. Ministers might enjoy their pensions and follow their own devices ; Lord John might com- pose histories or tragedies 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 idojra ixovvovj his natural Anacreontics ; but alas, not so : if the despotic Govern- ment has its good side. Prince Louis Napoleon must acknowl- edge 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 Emperor and his admirer and would-be successor have had the chance of re-establishing it.^ " Fly from steeple to steeple " the eagles of the former did actually, 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 country declared against him too ; and, with old Lafayette for a mouthpiece, the representatives 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 Napo- leon IL " L'Empereur est mort, vive I'Empereur ! " shouted Prince Lucien. Psha ! not a soul echoed the words : the play 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 Stanislas Xavier rolled back to the bosom of his people. In like manner Napoleon III. returned from exile, and made his appearance on the frontier. His 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, by the orders of the sovereign, it was removed to the American shores, and there magnanimously let loose. Who knows, how- ever, how soon it may be on the wing again, and what a flight it will take t THE STOJ^ V OF MAR Y ANCEL. " Go, my nephew," said old Father Jacob to me," and com- plete thy studies at Strasburg : Heaven surely hath ordained thee for the ministry in these times of trouble, and my excel- lent friend Schneider will work out the divine intention." THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL. 121 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 sacristan ; I swept the church, chanted the prayers with my shrill treble, and swung the great copper incense-pot on Sundays and feasts ; and I toiled over the Fathers for the other days of the week. The old gentleman said that my progress was prodigious, and, without vanity, I believe he was right, for I then verily con- sidered that praying was my vocation, and not fighting, as I have found since. You would hardly conceive (said the Captain, swearing a great oath) how devout and how learned I was in those days ; I talked Latin faster than my own beautiful /«-/$• of Alsatian French ; I could utterly overthow in argument every Protestant (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 they 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 dwelf in this place, and a large farm and a pleasant house was then in the possession of another uncle — uncle Edward. He was the youngest of the three sons of my grandfather ; but Jacob, the elder, had shown a decided vocation for the church, from, I believe, the age of three, and now was by no means tired of it at sixty. My father, who was to have inherited the paternal property, was, as I hear, a terri- ble scamp and scapegrace, quarrelled with his family, and disappeared altogether, living and dying at Paris ; so far as we knew through my mother, who came, poor woman, with me, a child of six months, on her bosom, was refused all shelter by my grandfather, but was housed and kindly cared for by my good uncle Jacob. Here she lived for about seven years, 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 my 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, Mary, Sibout three years older than I, and certainly she was the dear- 122 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK, est little treasure with which Providence ever blest a miserly father ; by 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 beauty, which, perhaps, had something to do with the love of these gentlemen. However, Mary declared that she intended to live single, turned away 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 any saint or martyr. As for me, at the mature age of twelve I had made a kind of divinity of her, and when we sang ** Ave Maria " on Sundays I could not refrain from turning to her, where she knelt blushing and praying and looking like an angel, as she was. Besides her beauty, Mary had a thousand good qualities ; she could play better on the harpsichord, she could dance more lightly, she could make better pickles and puddings, than any girl in Alsace ; there was not a want or a fancy 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 you for a year of all the pretty kindnesses that she would do for me ; how, when she found me of early mornings among my books, her presence "would cast a light upon the day ; " how she used to smooth and fold my little surplice, 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 mustache, so I will drop it, if you please. Amongst other favors she showed me, Mary used to be par- ticularly fond of kissing me : it was a thing I did not so much value in those days, but I found that the more I grew alive to the extent of the benefit, the less she would condescend to confer it on me ; till, at last when I was about fourteen, she discontin- ued it altogether, of her own wish at least ; only sometimes 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 day 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 THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL. 123 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 comencement 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 fur- nished 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 wept and roared incessantly : when Mary squeezed me, for the 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 part to play, and it would have been wrong for her to be in love with a young chit of fourteen — 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 the letter which she wrote me a month afterwards — then^ nobody was by, and the conse- quence was that the letter was half washed away with her weep- ing ; if she had used a watering-pot the thing could not have been better done. Well, I arrived at Strasburg — a dismal, old-fashioned, rick- ety town in those days — and straightway presented myself and letter at Schneider's door ; over it was written — COMITE DE SALUT PUBLIC. Would you believe it ? I was so ignorant a young fellow, that I had no idea of the meaning of the words ; however, I 1 2 4 THE PARIS SKE TCH BOOK. 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 Robespierre, Marat, and the like ; a great bust of Mirabeau, mutilated, with the Word Traitre underneath ; lists and republican proclama- tions, tobacco-pipes and fire-arms. At a deal-table, stained with grease and wine, sat a gentleman, with a huge pig-tail dangling down to that part of his person which immediately 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. Every now and then he would make brief remarks upon the personages or the incidents of his book, by which I could judge that he was a man of the very keenest sensibilities — " Ah, brigand!" "O malheureuse ! " "O Charlotte, Charlotte!" The work which this gentleman was perusing is called " The Sorrows of Werter ; " it was all the rage in those days, and my friend was only following the fashion. I asked him if I could see Father Schneider ? he turned towards me a hideous, pim- pled face, which I dream of now at forty years' distance. "Father who.?" said he. "Do you imagine that citizen Schneider has not thrown off the absurd mummery of priest- hood t If you were a little older you would go to prison for calling him Father Schneider — many a man has died for less ; " 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 your head off than of drinking this tum- bler of beer." He swallowed, himself, the frothy liquid, and then pro- ceeded 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 Wiirzburg, and afterwards entered a convent, where he remained nine years. He here became distinguished for his learning and his talents as a preacher, and became chaplain to Duke Charles of Wiirtemberg. The doctrine of the Illuminati began about this time to spread in Germany, and Schneider speedily joined THE S rOR Y OF MARY A NCEL. 1 2 5 the sect. He had been a professor of Greek at Cologne ; and being compelled on account of his irregularity, to give up his chair, he came to Strasburg at the commencement of the French Revolution, and acted for some time a principal part as a revolutionary 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 army. 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 bi- ography, we had grown tolerable 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 Mary, that the gentlemen 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 in love myself ; and you know that when a man is in that condition, his taste is not very refined, any maudlin trash of prose or verse appearing sublime to him, provided it corre- spond, in some degree, with his own situation. " Candid youth ! " cried my unknown, " I love to hear thy innocent story and look on thy guileless face. There is, alas ! so much of the contrary in this world, so much terror and crime and blood, that we who mingle with it are only 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 fondly shook my hand. I blessed my stars that I had, at the very outset of my career, met with one who was so likely 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 worthy man then gave me to understand that he held a place under Government. • I was busy in en- deavoring to discover what his situation might be, when the 1 2 6 THE PA RIS SKE TCH B O OK. 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 my astonishment, something very like a blow " You drunken, talking fool," he said, " you are always after your time. Fourteen people are cooling their heels yonder, waiting until you have finished your beer and your sentiment ! " My friend slunk muttering out of the room. *' That fellow," said Schneider, turning to me, " is our public excutioner : a capital hand too if he would but keep decent time ; but the brute is always drunk, and blubbering over ' The Sorrows of Werter ! ' " # * * * # I know not whether it was his old friendship for my uncle, or my proper merits, which won the heart of this the sternest ruffian 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, they 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 speedily mounted a cockade as large as that of my friend the executioner. The occupations of this worthy were unremitting. Saint 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 country 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 my 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. My love for my dear cousin increased as my whiskers grew ; and when I was scarcely seventeen, I thought myself man enough to marry her, and to cut the throat of any 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 had penetrated even to that quiet and distant place. The hideous " Fete of the Supreme Being " had been celebrated at Paris ; the practice of our ancient re- ligion was forbidden ; its professors were most of them in con- THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL. 7 cealment, or in exile, or had expiatefl on the scaffold their crime of Christianity. In our poor village my uncle's church was closed, and he, himself, an inmate in my brother's house, only owing his safety to his great popularity among his former flock, and the influence of Edward Ancel. The latter had taken in the Revolution a somewhat pro- minent part ; that is, he had engaged in many 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 rus- tic lives, the revolutionary fury which prevailed in the cities had hardly reached the country people. The occasional visit of a commissary from Paris or Strasburg served to keep the flame alive, and to remind the rural swains of the existence of a Republic in France. Now and then, when I could gain a week's leave of absence, I returned to the village, and was received with tolerable polite- ness by my uncle, and with a warmer feeling by his daughter. I won't describe to you the progress of our love, or the wrath of my uncle Edward, when he discovered that it still continued. He swore and he* stormed ; he locked Mary 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 marry a hopeless, penniless subaltern ; and Mary declared she would not marry without his consent. What had I to do ? — to despair and to leave her. As for my poor uncle Jacob, he had no counsel to give me, and, indeed, no spirit left ; his little church was turned into a stable, his sur- plice torn off his shoulders, and he was only too lucky in keep- ing his head on them. A bright thought struck him : suppose you were to ask the advice of my old friend Schneider regarding this marriage ? he has ever been your friend, and may help you now as before. (Here the Captain paused a little.) You may fancy (con- tinued 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 cutthroat as Schneider ; but we thought nothing of it in those days ; guillotining was as com- mon as dancing, and a man was only thought the better patriot the more severe he might be. I departed forthwith to Stras- burg, and requested the vote and interest of the Citizen Pres- ident of the Committee of Public Safety. He heard me with a great deal of attention, I described 128 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. to him most minutely the circumstance, expatiated upon the charms of my 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 tiny feet ; and furthermore, I added that she possessed a fortune which ought, by rights, to be mine, but for the miserly old father. " Curse him for an aristocrat ! " concluded I, in my wrath. As I had been discoursing about Mary's charms Schneider listened with much complacency and attention : when I spoke about her fortune, his interest redoubled ; and when I called her father an aristocrat, the worthy ex-Jesuit gave a grin of satisfaction, which was really quite terrible. O fool that I was to trust him so far ! * * # * # The very same evening an officer waited upon me with the following note from Saint Just : — " Strasburg, Fifth Year of the Republic, one and indivisible, ii 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. 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 cockade. It was the portable guillotine which Schneider always carried with him on his travels. The boiirreau 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 by receiving a message that the citizen Schneider was in the village, and was coming to greet THE STOR Y OF MAR Y ANCEL. 1 29 his old friend. Old Jacob was in an ecstasy, for he /onged to see his college acquaintance, and he hoped also that Schneider had come into that part of the country upon the marriage- business of your humble servant. Of course Mary was sum moned to give her best dinner, and wear her best frock ; and her father made ready to receive the new State dignitary. Schneider's carriage speedily rolled into the court-yard, and Schneider's cart followed, as a matter of course. The ex-priest only entered the house ; his companion remaining with the horses to dine in private. Here was a most touching meeting between him and Jacob. They talked over their old college pranks and successes ; they capped Greek verses and quoted ancient epigrams upon their tutors, who had been dead since the Seven Years' War. Mary 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 quietly, 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 this pleasing colloquy, he found the tone of the society strangely altered. Edward Ancel, pale as a sheet, trembling, and crying for mercy ; poor Mary weeping ; and Schneider pacing ener- getically about the apartment, raging about the rights of man, the punishment of traitors, and the one and indivisible Re- public. '' 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 brotheil 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 you know," said he, turning to Edward 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 profit. 9 no THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. "Do you know," resumed Schneider, in a voice of thunder, *' for what purpose I came hither, and by whom I am accom- panied ? I am the administrator of the justice of the Republic. The life of yourself and your family is in my hands : yonder 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 your doom is sealed without hope, and your last hour is come. Ho ! Gregoire ! " shouted he ; " is all ready t " 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 t " said Schneider. " The guillotine is in the court-yard ; your name is on my list, and I have wit- nesses to prove your crime. Have you a word in your de- fence ? " Not a word came ; the old gentleman was dumb ; but his daughter, who did not give way to his terror, spoke for him. "You cannot, sir," said she, "although you say it,7^