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diff --git a/2768-h/2768-h.htm b/2768-h/2768-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..926081c --- /dev/null +++ b/2768-h/2768-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14646 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Paris Sketch Book of Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, by William Makepeace Thackeray</title> + +<style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> +</head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Paris Sketch Book Of Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, by William Makepeace Thackeray</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Paris Sketch Book of Mr. M. A. Titmarsh</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: William Makepeace Thackeray</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: August, 2001 [eBook #2768]<br /> +[Most recently updated: August 12, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Donald Lainson and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK ***</div> + +<h1>THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK<br/> +OF MR. M. A. TITMARSH</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">By William Makepeace Thackeray</h2> + +<h3>Estes And Lauriat, Boston, Publishers</h3> + +<hr /> + +<p> +<big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> +</p> + +<p> +<br/> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0001">DEDICATORY LETTER</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0002">ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<br/> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0003">AN INVASION OF FRANCE.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0004">A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0005">THE FÊTES OF JULY.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0006">ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING:</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0007">THE PAINTER’S BARGAIN.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0008">A GAMBLER’S DEATH.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0009">NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0010">THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0011">BEATRICE MERGER.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0012">CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY IN PARIS.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0013">LITTLE POINSINET.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0014">THE DEVIL’S WAGER.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0015">MADAME SAND AND THE NEW APOCALYPSE.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0016">THE CASE OF PEYTEL:</a> +</p> + +<p> +<br/> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0017"><b>FOUR IMITATIONS OF BÉRANGER</b></a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0018">LE ROI D’YVETOT.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0019">THE KING OF BRENTFORD. ANOTHER VERSION.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0020">LE GRENIER.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0021">THE GARRET.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0022">ROGER-BONTEMPS.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0023">JOLLY JACK.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<br/> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0024">FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<a href="#link2H_4_0025">MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES.</a> +</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></a> DEDICATORY LETTER</h2> + +<p class="center"> +TO<br/> +M. ARETZ, TAILOR, ETC.<br/> +27, RUE RICHELIEU, PARIS. +</p> + +<p> +SIR,—It becomes every man in his station to acknowledge and praise virtue +wheresoever he may find it, and to point it out for the admiration and example +of his fellow-men. +</p> + +<p> +Some months since, when you presented to the writer of these pages a small +account for coats and pantaloons manufactured by you, and when you were met by +a statement from your creditor, that an immediate settlement of your bill would +be extremely inconvenient to him; your reply was, “Mon Dieu, Sir, let not +that annoy you; if you want money, as a gentleman often does in a strange +country, I have a thousand-franc note at my house which is quite at your +service.” +</p> + +<p> +History or experience, Sir, makes us acquainted with so few actions that can be +compared to yours,—an offer like this from a stranger and a tailor seems +to me so astonishing,—that you must pardon me for thus making your virtue +public, and acquainting the English nation with your merit and your name. Let +me add, Sir, that you live on the first floor; that your clothes and fit are +excellent, and your charges moderate and just; and, as a humble tribute of my +admiration, permit me to lay these volumes at your feet. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +Your obliged, faithful servant,<br/> +M. A. TITMARSH. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"></a> ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST +EDITION.</h2> + +<p> +About half of the sketches in these volumes have already appeared in print, in +various periodical works. A part of the text of one tale, and the plots of two +others, have been borrowed from French originals; the other stories, which are, +in the main, true, have been written upon facts and characters that came within +the Author’s observation during a residence in Paris. +</p> + +<p> +As the remaining papers relate to public events which occurred during the same +period, or to Parisian Art and Literature, he has ventured to give his +publication the title which it bears. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +LONDON, <i>July</i> 1, 1840. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"></a> AN INVASION OF FRANCE. +</h2> + +<p class="center"> +“Cæsar venit in Galliam summâ diligentiâ.” +</p> + +<p> +About twelve o’clock, just as the bell of the packet is tolling a +farewell to London Bridge, and warning off the blackguard-boys with the +newspapers, who have been shoving Times, Herald, Penny Paul-Pry, Penny +Satirist, Flare-up, and other abominations, into your face—just as the +bell has tolled, and the Jews, strangers, people-taking-leave-of their +families, and blackguard-boys aforesaid, are making a rush for the narrow plank +which conducts from the paddle-box of the “Emerald” steamboat unto +the quay—you perceive, staggering down Thames Street, those two +hackney-coaches, for the arrival of which you have been praying, trembling, +hoping, despairing, swearing—sw—, I beg your pardon, I believe the +word is not used in polite company—and transpiring, for the last +half-hour. Yes, at last, the two coaches draw near, and from thence an awful +number of trunks, children, carpet-bags, nursery-maids, hat-boxes, band-boxes, +bonnet-boxes, desks, cloaks, and an affectionate wife, are discharged on the +quay. +</p> + +<p> +“Elizabeth, take care of Miss Jane,” screams that worthy woman, who +has been for a fortnight employed in getting this tremendous body of troops and +baggage into marching order. “Hicks! Hicks! for heaven’s sake mind +the babies!”—“George—Edward, sir, if you go near that +porter with the trunk, he will tumble down and kill you, you naughty +boy!—My love, DO take the cloaks and umbrellas, and give a hand to Fanny +and Lucy; and I wish you would speak to the hackney-coachmen, dear, they want +fifteen shillings, and count the packages, love—twenty-seven +packages,—and bring little Flo; where’s little Flo?—Flo! +Flo!”—(Flo comes sneaking in; she has been speaking a few parting +words to a one-eyed terrier, that sneaks off similarly, landward.) +</p> + +<p> +As when the hawk menaces the hen-roost, in like manner, when such a danger as a +voyage menaces a mother, she becomes suddenly endowed with a ferocious presence +of mind, and bristling up and screaming in the front of her brood, and in the +face of circumstances, succeeds, by her courage, in putting her enemy to +flight; in like manner you will always, I think, find your wife (if that lady +be good for twopence) shrill, eager, and ill-humored, before, and during a +great family move of this nature. Well, the swindling hackney-coachmen are +paid, the mother leading on her regiment of little ones, and supported by her +auxiliary nurse-maids, are safe in the cabin;—you have counted twenty-six +of the twenty-seven parcels, and have them on board, and that horrid man on the +paddle-box, who, for twenty minutes past, has been roaring out, NOW, +SIR!—says, NOW, SIR, no more. +</p> + +<p> +I never yet knew how a steamer began to move, being always too busy among the +trunks and children, for the first half-hour, to mark any of the movements of +the vessel. When these private arrangements are made, you find yourself +opposite Greenwich (farewell, sweet, sweet whitebait!), and quiet begins to +enter your soul. Your wife smiles for the first time these ten days; you pass +by plantations of ship-masts, and forests of steam-chimneys; the sailors are +singing on board the ships, the bargees salute you with oaths, grins, and +phrases facetious and familiar; the man on the paddle-box roars, “Ease +her, stop her!” which mysterious words a shrill voice from below repeats, +and pipes out, “Ease her, stop her!” in echo; the deck is crowded +with groups of figures, and the sun shines over all. +</p> + +<p> +The sun shines over all, and the steward comes up to say, “Lunch, ladies +and gentlemen! Will any lady or gentleman please to take anythink?” About +a dozen do: boiled beef and pickles, and great red raw Cheshire cheese, tempt +the epicure: little dumpy bottles of stout are produced, and fizz and bang +about with a spirit one would never have looked for in individuals of their +size and stature. +</p> + +<p> +The decks have a strange look; the people on them, that is. Wives, elderly +stout husbands, nurse-maids, and children predominate, of course, in English +steamboats. Such may be considered as the distinctive marks of the English +gentleman at three or four and forty: two or three of such groups have pitched +their camps on the deck. Then there are a number of young men, of whom three or +four have allowed their moustaches to BEGIN to grow since last Friday; for they +are going “on the Continent,” and they look, therefore, as if their +upper lips were smeared with snuff. +</p> + +<p> +A danseuse from the opera is on her way to Paris. Followed by her bonne and her +little dog, she paces the deck, stepping out, in the real dancer fashion, and +ogling all around. How happy the two young Englishmen are, who can speak +French, and make up to her: and how all criticise her points and paces! Yonder +is a group of young ladies, who are going to Paris to learn how to be +governesses: those two splendidly dressed ladies are milliners from the Rue +Richelieu, who have just brought over, and disposed of, their cargo of Summer +fashions. Here sits the Rev. Mr. Snodgrass with his pupils, whom he is +conducting to his establishment, near Boulogne, where, in addition to a +classical and mathematical education (washing included), the young gentlemen +have the benefit of learning French among THE FRENCH THEMSELVES. Accordingly, +the young gentlemen are locked up in a great rickety house, two miles from +Boulogne and never see a soul, except the French usher and the cook. +</p> + +<p> +Some few French people are there already, preparing to be ill—(I never +shall forget a dreadful sight I once had in the little dark, dirty, six-foot +cabin of a Dover steamer. Four gaunt Frenchmen, but for their pantaloons, in +the costume of Adam in Paradise, solemnly anointing themselves with some charm +against sea-sickness!)—a few Frenchmen are there, but these, for the most +part, and with a proper philosophy, go to the fore-cabin of the ship, and you +see them on the fore-deck (is that the name for that part of the vessel which +is in the region of the bowsprit?) lowering in huge cloaks and caps; snuffy, +wretched, pale, and wet; and not jabbering now, as their wont is on shore. I +never could fancy the Mounseers formidable at sea. +</p> + +<p> +There are, of course, many Jews on board. Who ever travelled by steamboat, +coach, diligence, eilwagen, vetturino, mule-back, or sledge, without meeting +some of the wandering race? +</p> + +<p> +By the time these remarks have been made the steward is on the deck again, and +dinner is ready: and about two hours after dinner comes tea; and then there is +brandy-and-water, which he eagerly presses as a preventive against what may +happen; and about this time you pass the Foreland, the wind blowing pretty +fresh; and the groups on deck disappear, and your wife, giving you an alarmed +look, descends, with her little ones, to the ladies’ cabin, and you see +the steward and his boys issuing from their den under the paddle-box, with each +a heap of round tin vases, like those which are called, I believe, in America, +expectoratoons, only these are larger. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +The wind blows, the water looks greener and more beautiful than +ever—ridge by ridge of long white rock passes away. “That’s +Ramsgit,” says the man at the helm; and, presently, “That +there’s Deal—it’s dreadful fallen off since the war;” +and “That’s Dover, round that there pint, only you can’t see +it.” And, in the meantime, the sun has plumped his hot face into the +water, and the moon has shown hers as soon as ever his back is turned, and +Mrs.—(the wife in general,) has brought up her children and self from the +horrid cabin, in which she says it is impossible to breathe; and the poor +little wretches are, by the officious stewardess and smart steward +(expectoratoonifer), accommodated with a heap of blankets, pillows, and +mattresses, in the midst of which they crawl, as best they may, and from the +heaving heap of which are, during the rest of the voyage, heard occasional +faint cries, and sounds of puking woe! +</p> + +<p> +Dear, dear Maria! Is this the woman who, anon, braved the jeers and brutal +wrath of swindling hackney-coachmen; who repelled the insolence of haggling +porters, with a scorn that brought down their demands at least eighteenpence? +Is this the woman at whose voice servants tremble; at the sound of whose steps +the nursery, ay, and mayhap the parlor, is in order? Look at her now, +prostrate, prostrate—no strength has she to speak, scarce power to push +to her youngest one—her suffering, struggling Rosa,—to push to her +the—the instrumentoon! +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of all these throes and agonies, at which all the passengers, who +have their own woes (you yourself—for how can you help THEM?—you +are on your back on a bench, and if you move all is up with you,) are looking +on indifferent—one man there is who has been watching you with the utmost +care, and bestowing on your helpless family the tenderness that a father denies +them. He is a foreigner, and you have been conversing with him, in the course +of the morning, in French—which, he says, you speak remarkably well, like +a native in fact, and then in English (which, after all, you find is more +convenient). What can express your gratitude to this gentleman for all his +goodness towards your family and yourself—you talk to him, he has served +under the Emperor, and is, for all that, sensible, modest, and well-informed. +He speaks, indeed, of his countrymen almost with contempt, and readily admits +the superiority of a Briton, on the seas and elsewhere. One loves to meet with +such genuine liberality in a foreigner, and respects the man who can sacrifice +vanity to truth. This distinguished foreigner has travelled much; he asks +whither you are going?—where you stop? if you have a great quantity of +luggage on board?—and laughs when he hears of the twenty-seven packages, +and hopes you have some friend at the custom-house, who can spare you the +monstrous trouble of unpacking that which has taken you weeks to put up. Nine, +ten, eleven, the distinguished foreigner is ever at your side; you find him +now, perhaps, (with characteristic ingratitude,) something of a bore, but, at +least, he has been most tender to the children and their mamma. At last a +Boulogne light comes in sight, (you see it over the bows of the vessel, when, +having bobbed violently upwards, it sinks swiftly down,) Boulogne harbor is in +sight, and the foreigner says,— +</p> + +<p> +The distinguished foreigner says, says he—“Sare, eef you af no +’otel, I sall recommend you, milor, to ze ’Otel Betfort, in ze +Quay, sare, close to the bathing-machines and custom-ha-oose. Good bets and +fine garten, sare; table-d’hôte, sare, à cinq heures; breakfast, sare, in +French or English style;—I am the commissionaire, sare, and vill see to +your loggish.” +</p> + +<p> +... Curse the fellow, for an impudent, swindling, sneaking French +humbug!—Your tone instantly changes, and you tell him to go about his +business: but at twelve o’clock at night, when the voyage is over, and +the custom-house business done, knowing not whither to go, with a wife and +fourteen exhausted children, scarce able to stand, and longing for bed, you +find yourself, somehow, in the Hôtel Bedford (and you can’t be better), +and smiling chambermaids carry off your children to snug beds; while smart +waiters produce for your honor—a cold fowl, say, and a salad, and a +bottle of Bordeaux and Seltzer-water. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +The morning comes—I don’t know a pleasanter feeling than that of +waking with the sun shining on objects quite new, and (although you have made +the voyage a dozen times,) quite strange. Mrs. X. and you occupy a very light +bed, which has a tall canopy of red “percale;” the windows are +smartly draped with cheap gaudy calicoes and muslins; there are little mean +strips of carpet about the tiled floor of the room, and yet all seems as gay +and as comfortable as may be—the sun shines brighter than you have seen +it for a year, the sky is a thousand times bluer, and what a cheery clatter of +shrill quick French voices comes up from the court-yard under the windows! +Bells are jangling; a family, mayhap, is going to Paris, en poste, and wondrous +is the jabber of the courier, the postilion, the inn-waiters, and the +lookers-on. The landlord calls out for “Quatre biftecks aux pommes pour +le trente-trois,”—(O my countrymen, I love your tastes and your +ways!)—the chambermaid is laughing and says, “Finissez donc, +Monsieur Pierre!” (what can they be about?)—a fat Englishman has +opened his window violently, and says, “Dee dong, garsong, vooly voo me +donny lo sho, ou vooly voo pah?” He has been ringing for half an +hour—the last energetic appeal succeeds, and shortly he is enabled to +descend to the coffee-room, where, with three hot rolls, grilled ham, cold +fowl, and four boiled eggs, he makes what he calls his first FRENCH breakfast. +</p> + +<p> +It is a strange, mongrel, merry place, this town of Boulogne; the little French +fishermen’s children are beautiful, and the little French soldiers, four +feet high, red-breeched, with huge pompons on their caps, and brown faces, and +clear sharp eyes, look, for all their littleness, far more military and more +intelligent than the heavy louts one has seen swaggering about the garrison +towns in England. Yonder go a crowd of bare-legged fishermen; there is the town +idiot, mocking a woman who is screaming “Fleuve du Tage,” at an +inn-window, to a harp, and there are the little gamins mocking HIM. Lo! these +seven young ladies, with red hair and green veils, they are from neighboring +Albion, and going to bathe. Here comes three Englishmen, habitués evidently of +the place,—dandy specimens of our countrymen: one wears a marine dress, +another has a shooting dress, a third has a blouse and a pair of guiltless +spurs—all have as much hair on the face as nature or art can supply, and +all wear their hats very much on one side. Believe me, there is on the face of +this world no scamp like an English one, no blackguard like one of these +half-gentlemen, so mean, so low, so vulgar,—so ludicrously ignorant and +conceited, so desperately heartless and depraved. +</p> + +<p> +But why, my dear sir, get into a passion?—Take things coolly. As the poet +has observed, “Those only is gentlemen who behave as sich;” with +such, then, consort, be they cobblers or dukes. Don’t give us, cries the +patriotic reader, any abuse of our fellow-countrymen (anybody else can do +that), but rather continue in that good-humored, facetious, descriptive style +with which your letter has commenced.—Your remark, sir, is perfectly +just, and does honor to your head and excellent heart. +</p> + +<p> +There is little need to give a description of the good town of Boulogne, which, +haute and basse, with the new light-house and the new harbor, and the +gas-lamps, and the manufactures, and the convents, and the number of English +and French residents, and the pillar erected in honor of the grand Armée +d’Angleterre, so called because it DIDN’T go to England, have all +been excellently described by the facetious Coglan, the learned Dr. Millingen, +and by innumerable guide-books besides. A fine thing it is to hear the stout +old Frenchmen of Napoleon’s time argue how that audacious Corsican WOULD +have marched to London, after swallowing Nelson and all his gun-boats, but for +cette malheureuse guerre d’Espagne and cette glorieuse campagne +d’Autriche, which the gold of Pitt caused to be raised at the +Emperor’s tail, in order to call him off from the helpless country in his +front. Some Frenchmen go farther still, and vow that in Spain they were never +beaten at all; indeed, if you read in the Biographie des Hommes du Jour, +article “Soult,” you will fancy that, with the exception of the +disaster at Vittoria, the campaigns in Spain and Portugal were a series of +triumphs. Only, by looking at a map, it is observable that Vimeiro is a mortal +long way from Toulouse, where, at the end of certain years of victories, we +somehow find the honest Marshal. And what then?—he went to Toulouse for +the purpose of beating the English there, to be sure;—a known fact, on +which comment would be superfluous. However, we shall never get to Paris at +this rate; let us break off further palaver, and away at once.... +</p> + +<p> +(During this pause, the ingenious reader is kindly requested to pay his bill at +the Hotel at Boulogne, to mount the Diligence of Laffitte, Caillard and +Company, and to travel for twenty-five hours, amidst much jingling of +harness-bells and screaming of postilions.) +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +The French milliner, who occupies one of the corners, begins to remove the +greasy pieces of paper which have enveloped her locks during the journey. She +withdraws the “Madras” of dubious hue which has bound her head for +the last five-and-twenty hours, and replaces it by the black velvet bonnet, +which, bobbing against your nose, has hung from the Diligence roof since your +departure from Boulogne. The old lady in the opposite corner, who has been +sucking bonbons, and smells dreadfully of anisette, arranges her little parcels +in that immense basket of abominations which all old women carry in their laps. +She rubs her mouth and eyes with her dusty cambric handkerchief, she ties up +her nightcap into a little bundle, and replaces it by a more becoming +head-piece, covered with withered artificial flowers, and crumpled tags of +ribbon; she looks wistfully at the company for an instant, and then places her +handkerchief before her mouth:—her eyes roll strangely about for an +instant, and you hear a faint clattering noise: the old lady has been getting +ready her teeth, which had lain in her basket among the bonbons, pins, oranges, +pomatum, bits of cake, lozenges, prayer-books, peppermint-water, copper money, +and false hair—stowed away there during the voyage. The Jewish gentleman, +who has been so attentive to the milliner during the journey, and is a +traveller and bagman by profession, gathers together his various goods. The +sallow-faced English lad, who has been drunk ever since we left Boulogne +yesterday, and is coming to Paris to pursue the study of medicine, swears that +he rejoices to leave the cursed Diligence, is sick of the infernal journey, and +d—d glad that the d—d voyage is so nearly over. +“Enfin!” says your neighbor, yawning, and inserting an elbow into +the mouth of his right and left hand companion, “nous voilà.” +</p> + +<p> +NOUS VOILÀ!—We are at Paris! This must account for the removal of the +milliner’s curl-papers, and the fixing of the old lady’s +teeth.—Since the last relais, the Diligence has been travelling with +extraordinary speed. The postilion cracks his terrible whip, and screams +shrilly. The conductor blows incessantly on his horn, the bells of the harness, +the bumping and ringing of the wheels and chains, and the clatter of the great +hoofs of the heavy snorting Norman stallions, have wondrously increased within +this, the last ten minutes; and the Diligence, which has been proceeding +hitherto at the rate of a league in an hour, now dashes gallantly forward, as +if it would traverse at least six miles in the same space of time. Thus it is, +when Sir Robert maketh a speech at Saint Stephen’s—he useth his +strength at the beginning, only, and the end. He gallopeth at the commencement; +in the middle he lingers; at the close, again, he rouses the House, which has +fallen asleep; he cracketh the whip of his satire; he shouts the shout of his +patriotism; and, urging his eloquence to its roughest canter, awakens the +sleepers, and inspires the weary, until men say, What a wondrous orator! What a +capital coach! We will ride henceforth in it, and in no other! +</p> + +<p> +But, behold us at Paris! The Diligence has reached a rude-looking gate, or +grille, flanked by two lodges; the French Kings of old made their entry by this +gate; some of the hottest battles of the late revolution were fought before it. +At present, it is blocked by carts and peasants, and a busy crowd of men, in +green, examining the packages before they enter, probing the straw with long +needles. It is the Barrier of St. Denis, and the green men are the +customs’-men of the city of Paris. If you are a countryman, who would +introduce a cow into the metropolis, the city demands twenty-four francs for +such a privilege: if you have a hundredweight of tallow-candles, you must, +previously, disburse three francs: if a drove of hogs, nine francs per whole +hog: but upon these subjects Mr. Bulwer, Mrs. Trollope, and other writers, have +already enlightened the public. In the present instance, after a momentary +pause, one of the men in green mounts by the side of the conductor, and the +ponderous vehicle pursues its journey. +</p> + +<p> +The street which we enter, that of the Faubourg St. Denis, presents a strange +contrast to the dark uniformity of a London street, where everything, in the +dingy and smoky atmosphere, looks as though it were painted in +India-ink—black houses, black passengers, and black sky. Here, on the +contrary, is a thousand times more life and color. Before you, shining in the +sun, is a long glistening line of GUTTER,—not a very pleasing object in a +city, but in a picture invaluable. On each side are houses of all dimensions +and hues; some but of one story; some as high as the tower of Babel. From these +the haberdashers (and this is their favorite street) flaunt long strips of +gaudy calicoes, which give a strange air of rude gayety to the street. +Milk-women, with a little crowd of gossips round each, are, at this early hour +of morning, selling the chief material of the Parisian café-au-lait. Gay +wine-shops, painted red, and smartly decorated with vines and gilded railings, +are filled with workmen taking their morning’s draught. That +gloomy-looking prison on your right is a prison for women; once it was a +convent for Lazarists: a thousand unfortunate individuals of the softer sex now +occupy that mansion: they bake, as we find in the guide-books, the bread of all +the other prisons; they mend and wash the shirts and stockings of all the other +prisoners; they make hooks-and-eyes and phosphorus-boxes, and they attend +chapel every Sunday:—if occupation can help them, sure they have enough +of it. Was it not a great stroke of the legislature to superintend the morals +and linen at once, and thus keep these poor creatures continually +mending?—But we have passed the prison long ago, and are at the Porte St. +Denis itself. +</p> + +<p> +There is only time to take a hasty glance as we pass: it commemorates some of +the wonderful feats of arms of Ludovicus Magnus, and abounds in ponderous +allegories—nymphs, and river-gods, and pyramids crowned with +fleurs-de-lis; Louis passing over the Rhine in triumph, and the Dutch Lion +giving up the ghost, in the year of our Lord 1672. The Dutch Lion revived, and +overcame the man some years afterwards; but of this fact, singularly enough, +the inscriptions make no mention. Passing, then, round the gate, and not under +it (after the general custom, in respect of triumphal arches), you cross the +boulevard, which gives a glimpse of trees and sunshine, and gleaming white +buildings; then, dashing down the Rue de Bourbon Villeneuve, a dirty street, +which seems interminable, and the Rue St. Eustache, the conductor gives a last +blast on his horn, and the great vehicle clatters into the court-yard, where +the journey is destined to conclude. +</p> + +<p> +If there was a noise before of screaming postilions and cracked horns, it was +nothing to the Babel-like clatter which greets us now. We are in a great court, +which Hajji Baba would call the father of Diligences. Half a dozen other +coaches arrive at the same minute—no light affairs, like your English +vehicles, but ponderous machines, containing fifteen passengers inside, more in +the cabriolet, and vast towers of luggage on the roof: others are loading: the +yard is filled with passengers coming or departing;—bustling porters and +screaming commissionaires. These latter seize you as you descend from your +place,—twenty cards are thrust into your hand, and as many voices, +jabbering with inconceivable swiftness, shriek into your ear, “Dis way, +sare; are you for ze’ ’Otel of Rhin?’ ‘Hôtel de +l’Amirauté!’—‘Hotel Bristol,’ +sare!—Monsieur, ‘l’Hôtel de Lille?’ Sacr-rrré +‘nom de Dieu, laissez passer ce petit, monsieur! Ow mosh loggish ave you, +sare?” +</p> + +<p> +And now, if you are a stranger in Paris, listen to the words of +Titmarsh.—If you cannot speak a syllable of French, and love English +comfort, clean rooms, breakfasts, and waiters; if you would have plentiful +dinners, and are not particular (as how should you be?) concerning wine; if, in +this foreign country, you WILL have your English companions, your porter, your +friend, and your brandy-and-water—do not listen to any of these +commissioner fellows, but with your best English accent, shout out boldly, +“MEURICE!” and straightway a man will step forward to conduct you +to the Rue de Rivoli. +</p> + +<p> +Here you will find apartments at any price: a very neat room, for instance, for +three francs daily; an English breakfast of eternal boiled eggs, or grilled +ham; a nondescript dinner, profuse but cold; and a society which will rejoice +your heart. Here are young gentlemen from the universities; young merchants on +a lark; large families of nine daughters, with fat father and mother; officers +of dragoons, and lawyers’ clerks. The last time we dined at +“Meurice’s” we hobbed and nobbed with no less a person than +Mr. Moses, the celebrated bailiff of Chancery Lane; Lord Brougham was on his +right, and a clergyman’s lady, with a train of white-haired girls, sat on +his left, wonderfully taken with the diamond rings of the fascinating stranger! +</p> + +<p> +It is, as you will perceive, an admirable way to see Paris, especially if you +spend your days reading the English papers at Galignani’s, as many of our +foreign tourists do. +</p> + +<p> +But all this is promiscuous, and not to the purpose. If,—to continue on +the subject of hotel choosing,—if you love quiet, heavy bills, and the +best table-d’hôte in the city, go, O stranger! to the “Hôtel des +Princes;” it is close to the Boulevard, and convenient for +Frascati’s. The “Hôtel Mirabeau” possesses scarcely less +attraction; but of this you will find, in Mr. Bulwer’s +“Autobiography of Pelham,” a faithful and complete account. +“Lawson’s Hotel” has likewise its merits, as also the +“Hôtel de Lille,” which may be described as a “second +chop” Meurice. +</p> + +<p> +If you are a poor student come to study the humanities, or the pleasant art of +amputation, cross the water forthwith, and proceed to the “Hôtel +Corneille,” near the Odéon, or others of its species; there are many +where you can live royally (until you economize by going into lodgings) on four +francs a day; and where, if by any strange chance you are desirous for a while +to get rid of your countrymen, you will find that they scarcely ever penetrate. +</p> + +<p> +But above all, O my countrymen! shun boarding-houses, especially if you have +ladies in your train; or ponder well, and examine the characters of the keepers +thereof, before you lead your innocent daughters, and their mamma, into places +so dangerous. In the first place, you have bad dinners; and, secondly, bad +company. If you play cards, you are very likely playing with a swindler; if you +dance, you dance with a —— person with whom you had better have +nothing to do. +</p> + +<p> +Note (which ladies are requested not to read).—In one of these +establishments, daily advertised as most eligible for English, a friend of the +writer lived. A lady, who had passed for some time as the wife of one of the +inmates, suddenly changed her husband and name, her original husband remaining +in the house, and saluting her by her new title. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"></a> A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. +</h2> + +<p> +A million dangers and snares await the traveller, as soon as he issues out of +that vast messagerie which we have just quitted: and as each man cannot do +better than relate such events as have happened in the course of his own +experience, and may keep the unwary from the path of danger, let us take this, +the very earliest opportunity, of imparting to the public a little of the +wisdom which we painfully have acquired. +</p> + +<p> +And first, then, with regard to the city of Paris, it is to be remarked, that +in that metropolis flourish a greater number of native and exotic swindlers +than are to be found in any other European nursery. What young Englishman that +visits it, but has not determined, in his heart, to have a little share of the +gayeties that go on—just for once, just to see what they are like? How +many, when the horrible gambling dens were open, did resist a sight of +them?—nay, was not a young fellow rather flattered by a dinner invitation +from the Salon, whither he went, fondly pretending that he should see +“French society,” in the persons of certain Dukes and Counts who +used to frequent the place? +</p> + +<p> +My friend Pogson is a young fellow, not much worse, although perhaps a little +weaker and simpler than his neighbors; and coming to Paris with exactly the +same notions that bring many others of the British youth to that capital, +events befell him there, last winter, which are strictly true, and shall here +be narrated, by way of warning to all. +</p> + +<p> +Pog, it must be premised, is a city man, who travels in drugs for a couple of +the best London houses, blows the flute, has an album, drives his own gig, and +is considered, both on the road and in the metropolis, a remarkably nice, +intelligent, thriving young man. Pogson’s only fault is too great an +attachment to the fair:—“the sex,” as he says often +“will be his ruin:” the fact is, that Pog never travels without a +“Don Juan” under his driving-cushion, and is a pretty-looking young +fellow enough. +</p> + +<p> +Sam Pogson had occasion to visit Paris, last October; and it was in that city +that his love of the sex had liked to have cost him dear. He worked his way +down to Dover; placing, right and left, at the towns on his route, rhubarb, +sodas, and other such delectable wares as his masters dealt in (“the +sweetest sample of castor oil, smelt like a nosegay—went off like +wildfire—hogshead and a half at Rochester, eight-and twenty gallons at +Canterbury,” and so on), and crossed to Calais, and thence voyaged to +Paris in the coupé of the Diligence. He paid for two places, too, although a +single man, and the reason shall now be made known. +</p> + +<p> +Dining at the table-d’hôte at “Quillacq’s”—it is +the best inn on the Continent of Europe—our little traveller had the +happiness to be placed next to a lady, who was, he saw at a glance, one of the +extreme pink of the nobility. A large lady, in black satin, with eyes and hair +as black as sloes, with gold chains, scent-bottles, sable tippet, worked +pocket-handkerchief, and four twinkling rings on each of her plump white +fingers. Her cheeks were as pink as the finest Chinese rouge could make them. +Pog knew the article: he travelled in it. Her lips were as red as the ruby lip +salve: she used the very best, that was clear. +</p> + +<p> +She was a fine-looking woman, certainly (holding down her eyes, and talking +perpetually of “mes trente-deux ans”); and Pogson, the wicked young +dog, who professed not to care for young misses, saying they smelt so of +bread-and-butter, declared, at once, that the lady was one of HIS beauties; in +fact, when he spoke to us about her, he said, “She’s a slap-up +thing, I tell you; a reg’lar good one; ONE OF MY SORT!” And such +was Pogson’s credit in all commercial rooms, that one of HIS sort was +considered to surpass all other sorts. +</p> + +<p> +During dinner-time, Mr. Pogson was profoundly polite and attentive to the lady +at his side, and kindly communicated to her, as is the way with the best-bred +English on their first arrival “on the Continent,” all his +impressions regarding the sights and persons he had seen. Such remarks having +been made during half an hour’s ramble about the ramparts and town, and +in the course of a walk down to the custom-house, and a confidential +communication with the commissionaire, must be, doubtless, very valuable to +Frenchmen in their own country; and the lady listened to Pogson’s +opinions: not only with benevolent attention, but actually, she said, with +pleasure and delight. Mr. Pogson said that there was no such thing as good meat +in France, and that’s why they cooked their victuals in this queer way; +he had seen many soldiers parading about the place, and expressed a true +Englishman’s abhorrence of an armed force; not that he feared such +fellows as these—little whipper-snappers—our men would eat them. +Hereupon the lady admitted that our Guards were angels, but that Monsieur must +not be too hard upon the French; “her father was a General of the +Emperor.” +</p> + +<p> +Pogson felt a tremendous respect for himself at the notion that he was dining +with a General’s daughter, and instantly ordered a bottle of champagne to +keep up his consequence. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Bironn, ma’am,” said he, for he had heard the waiter +call her by some such name, “if you WILL accept a glass of champagne, +ma’am, you’ll do me, I’m sure, great honor: they say +it’s very good, and a precious sight cheaper than it is on our side of +the way, too—not that I care for money. Mrs. Bironn, ma’am, your +health, ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +The lady smiled very graciously, and drank the wine. +</p> + +<p> +“Har you any relation, ma’am, if I may make so bold; har you +anyways connected with the family of our immortal bard?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir, I beg your pardon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t mention it, ma’am: but BiRONN and BYron are hevidently +the same names, only you pronounce in the French way; and I thought you might +be related to his lordship: his horigin, ma’am, was of French +extraction:” and here Pogson began to repeat,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Hare thy heyes like thy mother’s, my fair child,<br/> +Hada! sole daughter of my ’ouse and ’art?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said the lady, laughing, “you speak of LOR Byron? +</p> + +<p> +“Hauthor of ‘Don Juan,’ ‘Child ’Arold,’ and +‘Cain, a Mystery,’” said Pogson:—“I do; and +hearing the waiter calling you Madam la Bironn, took the liberty of hasking +whether you were connected with his lordship; that’s hall:” and my +friend here grew dreadfully red, and began twiddling his long ringlets in his +fingers, and examining very eagerly the contents of his plate. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no: Madame la Baronne means Mistress Baroness; my husband was Baron, +and I am Baroness.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! ’ave I the honor—I beg your pardon, +ma’am—is your ladyship a Baroness, and I not know it? pray excuse +me for calling you ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +The Baroness smiled most graciously—with such a look as Juno cast upon +unfortunate Jupiter when she wished to gain her wicked ends upon him—the +Baroness smiled; and, stealing her hand into a black velvet bag, drew from it +an ivory card-case, and from the ivory card-case extracted a glazed card, +printed in gold; on it was engraved a coronet, and under the coronet the words +</p> + +<p class="center"> +BARONNE DE FLORVAL-DELVAL,<br/> +NÉE DE MELVAL-NORVAL.<br/> +<i>Rue Taitbout</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The grand Pitt diamond—the Queen’s own star of the garter—a +sample of otto-of-roses at a guinea a drop, would not be handled more +curiously, or more respectfully, than this porcelain card of the Baroness. +Trembling he put it into his little Russia-leather pocket-book: and when he +ventured to look up, and saw the eyes of the Baroness de Florval-Delval, née de +Melval-Norval, gazing upon him with friendly and serene glances, a thrill of +pride tingled through Pogson’s blood: he felt himself to be the very +happiest fellow “on the Continent.” +</p> + +<p> +But Pogson did not, for some time, venture to resume that sprightly and elegant +familiarity which generally forms the great charm of his conversation: he was +too much frightened at the presence he was in, and contented himself by +graceful and solemn bows, deep attention, and ejaculations of “Yes, my +lady,” and “No, your ladyship,” for some minutes after the +discovery had been made. Pogson piqued himself on his breeding: “I hate +the aristocracy,” he said, “but that’s no reason why I +shouldn’t behave like a gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +A surly, silent little gentleman, who had been the third at the ordinary, and +would take no part either in the conversation or in Pogson’s champagne, +now took up his hat, and, grunting, left the room, when the happy bagman had +the delight of a tête-à-tête. The Baroness did not appear inclined to move: it +was cold; a fire was comfortable, and she had ordered none in her apartment. +Might Pogson give her one more glass of champagne, or would her ladyship prefer +“something hot.” Her ladyship gravely said, she never took ANYTHING +hot. “Some champagne, then; a leetle drop?” She would! she would! O +gods! how Pogson’s hand shook as he filled and offered her the glass! +</p> + +<p> +What took place during the rest of the evening had better be described by Mr. +Pogson himself, who has given us permission to publish his letter. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“QUILLACQ’S HOTEL (pronounced KILLYAX), CALAIS. +</p> + +<p> +“DEAR TIT,—I arrived at Cally, as they call it, this day, or, +rather, yesterday; for it is past midnight, as I sit thinking of a wonderful +adventure that has just befallen me. A woman in course; that’s always the +case with ME, you know: but oh, Tit! if you COULD but see her! Of the first +family in France, the Florval-Delvals, beautiful as an angel, and no more +caring for money than I do for split peas. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you how it occurred. Everybody in France, you know, +dines at the ordinary—it’s quite distangy to do so. There was only +three of us to-day, however,—the Baroness, me, and a gent, who never +spoke a word; and we didn’t want him to, neither: do you mark that? +</p> + +<p> +“You know my way with the women: champagne’s the thing; make +’em drink, make ’em talk;—make ’em talk, make ’em +do anything. So I orders a bottle, as if for myself; and, +‘Ma’am,’ says I, ‘will you take a glass of +Sham—just one?’ Take it she did—for you know it’s quite +distangy here: everybody dines at the table de hôte, and everybody accepts +everybody’s wine. Bob Irons, who travels in linen on our circuit, told me +that he had made some slap-up acquaintances among the genteelest people at +Paris, nothing but by offering them Sham. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my Baroness takes one glass, two glasses, three glasses—the +old fellow goes—we have a deal of chat (she took me for a military man, +she said: is it not singular that so many people should?), and by ten +o’clock we had grown so intimate, that I had from her her whole history, +knew where she came from, and where she was going. Leave me alone with +’em: I can find out any woman’s history in half an hour. +</p> + +<p> +“And where do you think she IS going? to Paris to be sure: she has her +seat in what they call the coopy (though you’re not near so cooped in it +as in our coaches. I’ve been to the office and seen one of ’em). +She has her place in the coopy, and the coopy holds THREE; so what does Sam +Pogson do?—he goes and takes the other two. Ain’t I up to a thing +or two? Oh, no, not the least; but I shall have her to myself the whole of the +way. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall be in the French metropolis the day after this reaches you: +please look out for a handsome lodging for me, and never mind the expense. And +I say, if you could, in her hearing, when you came down to the coach, call me +Captain Pogson, I wish you would—it sounds well travelling, you know; and +when she asked me if I was not an officer, I couldn’t say no. Adieu, +then, my dear fellow, till Monday, and vive le joy, as they say. The Baroness +says I speak French charmingly, she talks English as well as you or I. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Your affectionate friend,<br/> +“S. Pogson.” +</p> + +<p> +This letter reached us duly, in our garrets, and we engaged such an apartment +for Mr. Pogson, as beseemed a gentleman of his rank in the world and the army. +At the appointed hour, too, we repaired to the Diligence office, and there +beheld the arrival of the machine which contained him and his lovely Baroness. +</p> + +<p> +Those who have much frequented the society of gentlemen of his profession (and +what more delightful?) must be aware, that, when all the rest of mankind look +hideous, dirty, peevish, wretched, after a forty hours’ coach-journey, a +bagman appears as gay and spruce as when he started; having within himself a +thousand little conveniences for the voyage, which common travellers neglect. +Pogson had a little portable toilet, of which he had not failed to take +advantage, and with his long, curling, flaxen hair, flowing under a seal-skin +cap, with a gold tassel, with a blue and gold satin handkerchief, a crimson +velvet waistcoat, a light green cut-away coat, a pair of barred +brickdust-colored pantaloons, and a neat mackintosh, presented, altogether, as +elegant and distingué an appearance as any one could desire. He had put on a +clean collar at breakfast, and a pair of white kids as he entered the barrier, +and looked, as he rushed into my arms, more like a man stepping out of a +band-box, than one descending from a vehicle that has just performed one of the +laziest, dullest, flattest, stalest, dirtiest journeys in Europe. +</p> + +<p> +To my surprise, there were TWO ladies in the coach with my friend, and not ONE, +as I had expected. One of these, a stout female, carrying sundry baskets, bags, +umbrellas, and woman’s wraps, was evidently a maid-servant: the other, in +black, was Pogson’s fair one, evidently. I could see a gleam of +curl-papers over a sallow face,—of a dusky nightcap flapping over the +curl-papers,—but these were hidden by a lace veil and a huge velvet +bonnet, of which the crowning birds-of-paradise were evidently in a moulting +state. She was encased in many shawls and wrappers; she put, hesitatingly, a +pretty little foot out of the carriage—Pogson was by her side in an +instant, and, gallantly putting one of his white kids round her waist, aided +this interesting creature to descend. I saw, by her walk, that she was +five-and-forty, and that my little Pogson was a lost man. +</p> + +<p> +After some brief parley between them—in which it was charming to hear how +my friend Samuel WOULD speak, what he called French, to a lady who could not +understand one syllable of his jargon—the mutual hackney-coaches drew up; +Madame la Baronne waved to the Captain a graceful French curtsy. +“Adyou!” said Samuel, and waved his lily hand. +“Adyou-addimang.” +</p> + +<p> +A brisk little gentleman, who had made the journey in the same coach with +Pogson, but had more modestly taken a seat in the Imperial, here passed us, and +greeted me with a “How d’ye do?” He had shouldered his own +little valise, and was trudging off, scattering a cloud of commissionaires, who +would fain have spared him the trouble. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that chap?” says Pogson; “surly fellow, +ain’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +“The kindest man in existence,” answered I; “all the world +knows little Major British.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a Major, is he?—why, that’s the fellow that dined +with us at Killyax’s; it’s lucky I did not call myself Captain +before him, he mightn’t have liked it, you know:” and then Sam fell +into a reverie;—what was the subject of his thoughts soon appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever SEE such a foot and ankle?” said Sam, after sitting +for some time, regardless of the novelty of the scene, his hands in his +pockets, plunged in the deepest thought. +</p> + +<p> +“ISN’T she a slap-up woman, eh, now?” pursued he; and began +enumerating her attractions, as a horse-jockey would the points of a favorite +animal. +</p> + +<p> +“You seem to have gone a pretty length already,” said I, “by +promising to visit her to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“A good length?—I believe you. Leave ME alone for that.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I thought you were only to be two in the coupé, you wicked +rogue.” +</p> + +<p> +“Two in the coopy? Oh! ah! yes, you know—why, that is, I +didn’t know she had her maid with her (what an ass I was to think of a +noblewoman travelling without one!) and couldn’t, in course, refuse, when +she asked me to let the maid in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Couldn’t, you know, as a man of honor; but I made up for all +that,” said Pogson, winking slyly, and putting his hand to his little +bunch of a nose, in a very knowing way. +</p> + +<p> +“You did, and how?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you dog, I sat next to her; sat in the middle the whole way, and my +back’s half broke, I can tell you:” and thus, having depicted his +happiness, we soon reached the inn where this back-broken young man was to +lodge during his stay in Paris. +</p> + +<p> +The next day at five we met; Mr. Pogson had seen his Baroness, and described +her lodgings, in his own expressive way, as “slap-up.” She had +received him quite like an old friend; treated him to eau sucrée, of which +beverage he expressed himself a great admirer; and actually asked him to dine +the next day. But there was a cloud over the ingenuous youth’s brow, and +I inquired still farther. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” said he, with a sigh, “I thought she was a widow; and, +hang it! who should come in but her husband the Baron: a big fellow, sir, with +a blue coat, a red ribbing, and SUCH a pair of mustachios!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said I, “he didn’t turn you out, I +suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no! on the contrary, as kind as possible; his lordship said that he +respected the English army; asked me what corps I was in,—said he had +fought in Spain against us,—and made me welcome.” +</p> + +<p> +“What could you want more?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pogson at this only whistled; and if some very profound observer of human +nature had been there to read into this little bagman’s heart, it would, +perhaps, have been manifest, that the appearance of a whiskered soldier of a +husband had counteracted some plans that the young scoundrel was concocting. +</p> + +<p> +I live up a hundred and thirty-seven steps in the remote quarter of the +Luxembourg, and it is not to be expected that such a fashionable fellow as Sam +Pogson, with his pockets full of money, and a new city to see, should be always +wandering to my dull quarters; so that, although he did not make his appearance +for some time, he must not be accused of any luke-warmness of friendship on +that score. +</p> + +<p> +He was out, too, when I called at his hotel; but once, I had the good fortune +to see him, with his hat curiously on one side, looking as pleased as Punch, +and being driven, in an open cab, in the Champs Elysées. “That’s +ANOTHER tip-top chap,” said he, when we met, at length. “What do +you think of an Earl’s son, my boy? Honorable Tom Ringwood, son of the +Earl of Cinqbars: what do you think of that, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +I thought he was getting into very good society. Sam was a dashing fellow, and +was always above his own line of life; he had met Mr. Ringwood at the +Baron’s, and they’d been to the play together; and the honorable +gent, as Sam called him, had joked with him about being well to do IN A CERTAIN +QUARTER; and he had had a game of billiards with the Baron, at the Estaminy, +“a very distangy place, where you smoke,” said Sam; “quite +select, and frequented by the tip-top nobility;” and they were as thick +as peas in a shell; and they were to dine that day at Ringwood’s, and +sup, the next night, with the Baroness. +</p> + +<p> +“I think the chaps down the road will stare,” said Sam, “when +they hear how I’ve been coming it.” And stare, no doubt, they +would; for it is certain that very few commercial gentlemen have had Mr. +Pogson’s advantages. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning we had made an arrangement to go out shopping together, and to +purchase some articles of female gear, that Sam intended to bestow on his +relations when he returned. Seven needle-books, for his sisters; a gilt buckle, +for his mamma; a handsome French cashmere shawl and bonnet, for his aunt (the +old lady keeps an inn in the Borough, and has plenty of money, and no heirs); +and a toothpick case, for his father. Sam is a good fellow to all his +relations, and as for his aunt, he adores her. Well, we were to go and make +these purchases, and I arrived punctually at my time; but Sam was stretched on +a sofa, very pale and dismal. +</p> + +<p> +I saw how it had been.—“A little too much of Mr. Ringwood’s +claret, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +He only gave a sickly stare. +</p> + +<p> +“Where does the Honorable Tom live?” says I. +</p> + +<p> +“HONORABLE!” says Sam, with a hollow, horrid laugh; “I tell +you, Tit, he’s no more Honorable than you are.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, an impostor?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; not that. He is a real Honorable, only—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, ho! I smell a rat—a little jealous, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Jealousy be hanged! I tell you he’s a thief; and the Baron’s +a thief; and, hang me, if I think his wife is any better. Eight-and-thirty +pounds he won of me before supper; and made me drunk, and sent me +home:—is THAT honorable? How can I afford to lose forty pounds? +It’s took me two years to save it up—if my old aunt gets wind of +it, she’ll cut me off with a shilling: hang me!”—and here +Sam, in an agony, tore his fair hair. +</p> + +<p> +While bewailing his lot in this lamentable strain, his bell was rung, which +signal being answered by a surly “Come in,” a tall, very +fashionable gentleman, with a fur coat, and a fierce tuft to his chin, entered +the room. “Pogson my buck, how goes it?” said he, familiarly, and +gave a stare at me: I was making for my hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t go,” said Sam, rather eagerly; and I sat down again. +</p> + +<p> +The Honorable Mr. Ringwood hummed and ha’d: and, at last, said he wished +to speak to Mr. Pogson on business, in private, if possible. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no secrets betwixt me and my friend,” cried Sam. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Ringwood paused a little:—“An awkward business that of last +night,” at length exclaimed he. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe it WAS an awkward business,” said Sam, dryly. +</p> + +<p> +“I really am very sorry for your losses.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you: and so am I, I can tell you,” said Sam. +</p> + +<p> +“You must mind, my good fellow, and not drink; for, when you drink, you +WILL play high: by Gad, you led US in, and not we you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dare say,” answered Sam, with something of peevishness; +“losses is losses: there’s no use talking about ’em when +they’re over and paid.” +</p> + +<p> +“And paid?” here wonderingly spoke Mr. Ringwood; “why, my +dear fel—what the deuce—has Florval been with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“D—— Florval!” growled Sam, “I’ve never set +eyes on his face since last night; and never wish to see him again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, enough of this talk; how do you intend to settle the bills +which you gave him last night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bills I what do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean, sir, these bills,” said the Honorable Tom, producing two +out of his pocket-book, and looking as stern as a lion. “‘I promise +to pay, on demand, to the Baron de Florval, the sum of four hundred pounds. +October 20, 1838.’ ‘Ten days after date I promise to pay the Baron +de et caetera et caetera, one hundred and ninety-eight pounds. Samuel +Pogson.’ You didn’t say what regiment you were in.” +</p> + +<p> +“WHAT!” shouted poor Sam, as from a dream, starting up and looking +preternaturally pale and hideous. +</p> + +<p> +“D—— it, sir, you don’t affect ignorance: you +don’t pretend not to remember that you signed these bills, for money lost +in my rooms: money LENT to you, by Madame de Florval, at your own request, and +lost to her husband? You don’t suppose, sir, that I shall be such an +infernal idiot as to believe you, or such a coward as to put up with a mean +subterfuge of this sort. Will you, or will you not, pay the money, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not,” said Sam, stoutly; “it’s a +d——d swin—” +</p> + +<p> +Here Mr. Ringwood sprung up, clenching his riding-whip, and looking so fierce +that Sam and I bounded back to the other end of the room. “Utter that +word again, and, by heaven, I’ll murder you!” shouted Mr. Ringwood, +and looked as if he would, too: “once more, will you, or will you not, +pay this money?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t,” said Sam faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll call again, Captain Pogson,” said Mr. Ringwood, +“I’ll call again in one hour; and, unless you come to some +arrangement, you must meet my friend, the Baron de Florval, or I’ll post +you for a swindler and a coward.” With this he went out: the door +thundered to after him, and when the clink of his steps departing had subsided, +I was enabled to look round at Pog. The poor little man had his elbows on the +marble table, his head between his hands, and looked, as one has seen gentlemen +look over a steam-vessel off Ramsgate, the wind blowing remarkably fresh: at +last he fairly burst out crying. +</p> + +<p> +“If Mrs. Pogson heard of this,” said I, “what would become of +the ‘Three Tuns?’” (for I wished to give him a lesson). +“If your Ma, who took you every Sunday to meeting, should know that her +boy was paying attention to married women;—if Drench, Glauber and Co., +your employers, were to know that their confidential agent was a gambler, and +unfit to be trusted with their money, how long do you think your connection +would last with them, and who would afterwards employ you?” +</p> + +<p> +To this poor Pog had not a word of answer; but sat on his sofa whimpering so +bitterly, that the sternest of moralists would have relented towards him, and +would have been touched by the little wretch’s tears. Everything, too, +must be pleaded in excuse for this unfortunate bagman: who, if he wished to +pass for a captain, had only done so because he had an intense respect and +longing for rank: if he had made love to the Baroness, had only done so because +he was given to understand by Lord Byron’s “Don Juan” that +making love was a very correct, natty thing: and if he had gambled, had only +been induced to do so by the bright eyes and example of the Baron and the +Baroness. O ye Barons and Baronesses of England! if ye knew what a number of +small commoners are daily occupied in studying your lives, and imitating your +aristocratic ways, how careful would ye be of your morals, manners, and +conversation! +</p> + +<p> +My soul was filled, then, with a gentle yearning pity for Pogson, and revolved +many plans for his rescue: none of these seeming to be practicable, at last we +hit on the very wisest of all, and determined to apply for counsel to no less a +person than Major British. +</p> + +<p> +A blessing it is to be acquainted with my worthy friend, little Major British; +and heaven, sure, it was that put the Major into my head, when I heard of this +awkward scrape of poor Fog’s. The Major is on half-pay, and occupies a +modest apartment au quatrième, in the very hotel which Pogson had patronized at +my suggestion; indeed, I had chosen it from Major British’s own peculiar +recommendation. +</p> + +<p> +There is no better guide to follow than such a character as the honest Major, +of whom there are many likenesses now scattered over the Continent of Europe: +men who love to live well, and are forced to live cheaply, and who find the +English abroad a thousand times easier, merrier, and more hospitable than the +same persons at home. I, for my part, never landed on Calais pier without +feeling that a load of sorrows was left on the other side of the water; and +have always fancied that black care stepped on board the steamer, along with +the custom-house officers at Gravesend, and accompanied one to yonder black +louring towers of London—so busy, so dismal, and so vast. +</p> + +<p> +British would have cut any foreigner’s throat who ventured to say so +much, but entertained, no doubt, private sentiments of this nature; for he +passed eight months of the year, regularly, abroad, with headquarters at Paris +(the garrets before alluded to), and only went to England for the month’s +shooting, on the grounds of his old colonel, now an old lord, of whose +acquaintance the Major was passably inclined to boast. +</p> + +<p> +He loved and respected, like a good staunch Tory as he is, every one of the +English nobility; gave himself certain little airs of a man of fashion, that +were by no means disagreeable; and was, indeed, kindly regarded by such English +aristocracy as he met, in his little annual tours among the German courts, in +Italy or in Paris, where he never missed an ambassador’s night: he +retailed to us, who didn’t go, but were delighted to know all that had +taken place, accurate accounts of the dishes, the dresses, and the scandal +which had there fallen under his observation. +</p> + +<p> +He is, moreover, one of the most useful persons in society that can possibly +be; for besides being incorrigibly duelsome on his own account, he is, for +others, the most acute and peaceable counsellor in the world, and has carried +more friends through scrapes and prevented more deaths than any member of the +Humane Society. British never bought a single step in the army, as is well +known. In ’14 he killed a celebrated French fire-eater, who had slain a +young friend of his, and living, as he does, a great deal with young men of +pleasure, and good old sober family people, he is loved by them both and has as +welcome a place made for him at a roaring bachelor’s supper at the +“Café Anglais,” as at a staid dowager’s dinner-table in the +Faubourg St. Honoré. Such pleasant old boys are very profitable acquaintances, +let me tell you; and lucky is the young man who has one or two such friends in +his list. +</p> + +<p> +Hurrying on Fogson in his dress, I conducted him, panting, up to the +Major’s quatrième, where we were cheerfully bidden to come in. The little +gentleman was in his travelling jacket, and occupied in painting, elegantly, +one of those natty pairs of boots in which he daily promenaded the Boulevards. +A couple of pairs of tough buff gloves had been undergoing some pipe-claying +operation under his hands; no man stepped out so spick and span, with a hat so +nicely brushed, with a stiff cravat tied so neatly under a fat little red face, +with a blue frock-coat so scrupulously fitted to a punchy little person, as +Major British, about whom we have written these two pages. He stared rather +hardly at my companion, but gave me a kind shake of the hand, and we proceeded +at once to business. “Major British,” said I, “we want your +advice in regard to an unpleasant affair which has just occurred to my friend +Pogson.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pogson, take a chair.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must know, sir, that Mr. Pogson, coming from Calais the other day, +encountered, in the diligence, a very handsome woman.” +</p> + +<p> +British winked at Pogson, who, wretched as he was, could not help feeling +pleased. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Pogson was not more pleased with this lovely creature than was she +with him; for, it appears, she gave him her card, invited him to her house, +where he has been constantly, and has been received with much kindness.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” says British. +</p> + +<p> +“Her husband the Baron—” +</p> + +<p> +“NOW it’s coming,” said the Major, with a grin: “her +husband is jealous, I suppose, and there is a talk of the Bois de Boulogne: my +dear sir, you can’t refuse—can’t refuse.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not that,” said Pogson, wagging his head passionately. +</p> + +<p> +“Her husband the Baron seemed quite as much taken with Pogson as his lady +was, and has introduced him to some very distingué friends of his own set. Last +night one of the Baron’s friends gave a party in honor of my friend +Pogson, who lost forty-eight pounds at cards BEFORE he was made drunk, and +heaven knows how much after.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a shilling, by sacred heaven!—not a shilling!” yelled +out Pogson. “After the supper I ’ad such an ’eadach’, I +couldn’t do anything but fall asleep on the sofa.” +</p> + +<p> +“You ’ad such an ’eadach’, sir,” says British, +sternly, who piques himself on his grammar and pronunciation, and scorns a +cockney. +</p> + +<p> +“Such a H-eadache, sir,” replied Pogson, with much meekness. +</p> + +<p> +“The unfortunate man is brought home at two o’clock, as tipsy as +possible, dragged up stairs, senseless, to bed, and, on waking, receives a +visit from his entertainer of the night before—a lord’s son, Major, +a tip-top fellow,—who brings a couple of bills that my friend Pogson is +said to have signed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my dear fellow, the thing’s quite simple,—he must pay +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t pay them.” +</p> + +<p> +“He can’t pay them,” said we both in a breath: “Pogson +is a commercial traveller, with thirty shillings a week, and how the deuce is +he to pay five hundred pounds?” +</p> + +<p> +“A bagman, sir! and what right has a bagman to gamble? Gentlemen gamble, +sir; tradesmen, sir, have no business with the amusements of the gentry. What +business had you with barons and lords’ sons, sir?—serve you right, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” says Pogson, with some dignity, “merit, and not birth, +is the criterion of a man: I despise an hereditary aristocracy, and admire only +Nature’s gentlemen. For my part, I think that a British +merch—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue, sir,” bounced out the Major, “and +don’t lecture me; don’t come to me, sir, with your slang about +Nature’s gentlemen—Nature’s tomfools, sir! Did Nature open a +cash account for you at a banker’s, sir? Did Nature give you an +education, sir? What do you mean by competing with people to whom Nature has +given all these things? Stick to your bags, Mr. Pogson, and your bagmen, and +leave barons and their like to their own ways.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but, Major,” here cried that faithful friend, who has always +stood by Pogson; “they won’t leave him alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“The honorable gent says I must fight if I don’t pay,” +whimpered Sam. +</p> + +<p> +“What! fight YOU? Do you mean that the honorable gent, as you call him, +will go out with a bagman?” +</p> + +<p> +“He doesn’t know I’m a—I’m a commercial +man,” blushingly said Sam: “he fancies I’m a military +gent.” +</p> + +<p> +The Major’s gravity was quite upset at this absurd notion; and he laughed +outrageously. “Why, the fact is, sir,” said I, “that my +friend Pogson, knowing the value of the title of Captain, and being +complimented by the Baroness on his warlike appearance, said, boldly, he was in +the army. He only assumed the rank in order to dazzle her weak imagination, +never fancying that there was a husband, and a circle of friends, with whom he +was afterwards to make an acquaintance; and then, you know, it was too late to +withdraw.” +</p> + +<p> +“A pretty pickle you have put yourself in, Mr. Pogson, by making love to +other men’s wives, and calling yourself names,” said the Major, who +was restored to good humor. “And pray, who is the honorable gent?” +</p> + +<p> +“The Earl of Cinqbars’ son,” says Pogson, “the +Honorable Tom Ringwood.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought it was some such character; and the Baron is the Baron de +Florval-Delval?” +</p> + +<p> +“The very same.” +</p> + +<p> +“And his wife a black-haired woman, with a pretty foot and ankle; calls +herself Athenais; and is always talking about her trente-deux ans? Why, sir, +that woman was an actress on the Boulevard, when we were here in ’15. +She’s no more his wife than I am. Delval’s name is Chicot. The +woman is always travelling between London and Paris: I saw she was hooking you +at Calais; she has hooked ten men, in the course of the last two years, in this +very way. She lent you money, didn’t she?” “Yes.” +“And she leans on your shoulder, and whispers, ‘Play half for +me,’ and somebody wins it, and the poor thing is as sorry as you are, and +her husband storms and rages, and insists on double stakes; and she leans over +your shoulder again, and tells every card in your hand to your adversary, and +that’s the way it’s done, Mr. Pogson.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been ’AD, I see I ’ave,” said Pogson, very +humbly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” said the Major, “in consideration, not of you, +sir—for, give me leave to tell you, Mr. Pogson, that you are a pitiful +little scoundrel—in consideration for my Lord Cinqbars, sir, with whom, I +am proud to say, I am intimate,” (the Major dearly loved a lord, and was, +by his own showing, acquainted with half the peerage,) “I will aid you in +this affair. Your cursed vanity, sir, and want of principle, has set you, in +the first place, intriguing with other men’s wives; and if you had been +shot for your pains, a bullet would have only served you right, sir. You must +go about as an impostor, sir, in society; and you pay richly for your +swindling, sir, by being swindled yourself: but, as I think your punishment has +been already pretty severe, I shall do my best, out of regard for my friend, +Lord Cinqbars, to prevent the matter going any farther; and I recommend you to +leave Paris without delay. Now let me wish you a good +morning.”—Wherewith British made a majestic bow, and began giving +the last touch to his varnished boots. +</p> + +<p> +We departed: poor Sam perfectly silent and chapfallen; and I meditating on the +wisdom of the half-pay philosopher, and wondering what means he would employ to +rescue Pogson from his fate. +</p> + +<p> +What these means were I know not; but Mr. Ringwood did NOT make his appearance +at six; and, at eight, a letter arrived for “Mr. Pogson, commercial +traveller,” &c. &c. It was blank inside, but contained his two +bills. Mr. Ringwood left town, almost immediately, for Vienna; nor did the +Major explain the circumstances which caused his departure; but he muttered +something about “knew some of his old tricks,” “threatened +police, and made him disgorge directly.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Ringwood is, as yet, young at his trade; and I have often thought it was +very green of him to give up the bills to the Major, who, certainly, would +never have pressed the matter before the police, out of respect for his friend, +Lord Cinqbars. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"></a> THE FÊTES OF JULY.</h2> + +<p class="center"> +IN A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE “BUNGAY BEACON.” +</p> + +<p class="right"> +PARIS, July 30th, 1839. +</p> + +<p> +We have arrived here just in time for the fêtes of July.—You have read, +no doubt, of that glorious revolution which took place here nine years ago, and +which is now commemorated annually, in a pretty facetious manner, by +gun-firing, student-processions, pole-climbing-for-silver-spoons, gold-watches +and legs-of-mutton, monarchical orations, and what not, and sanctioned, +moreover, by Chamber-of-Deputies, with a grant of a couple of hundred thousand +francs to defray the expenses of all the crackers, gun-firings, and +legs-of-mutton aforesaid. There is a new fountain in the Place Louis Quinze, +otherwise called the Place Louis Seize, or else the Place de la Révolution, or +else the Place de la Concorde (who can say why?)—which, I am told, is to +run bad wine during certain hours to-morrow, and there WOULD have been a review +of the National Guards and the Line—only, since the Fieschi business, +reviews are no joke, and so this latter part of the festivity has been +discontinued. +</p> + +<p> +Do you not laugh, O Pharos of Bungay, at the continuance of a humbug such as +this?—at the humbugging anniversary of a humbug? The King of the +Barricades is, next to the Emperor Nicholas, the most absolute Sovereign in +Europe; yet there is not in the whole of this fair kingdom of France a single +man who cares sixpence about him, or his dynasty: except, mayhap, a few +hangers-on at the Château, who eat his dinners, and put their hands in his +purse. The feeling of loyalty is as dead as old Charles the Tenth; the Chambers +have been laughed at, the country has been laughed at, all the successive +ministries have been laughed at (and you know who is the wag that has amused +himself with them all); and, behold, here come three days at the end of July, +and cannons think it necessary to fire off, squibs and crackers to blaze and +fizz, fountains to run wine, kings to make speeches, and subjects to crawl up +greasy mâts-de-cocagne in token of gratitude and réjouissance +publique!—My dear sir, in their aptitude to swallow, to utter, to enact +humbugs, these French people, from Majesty downwards, beat all the other +nations of this earth. In looking at these men, their manners, dresses, +opinions, politics, actions, history, it is impossible to preserve a grave +countenance; instead of having Carlyle to write a History of the French +Revolution, I often think it should be handed over to Dickens or Theodore Hook: +and oh! where is the Rabelais to be the faithful historian of the last phase of +the Revolution—the last glorious nine years of which we are now +commemorating the last glorious three days? +</p> + +<p> +I had made a vow not to say a syllable on the subject, although I have seen, +with my neighbors, all the gingerbread stalls down the Champs Elysées, and some +of the “catafalques” erected to the memory of the heroes of July, +where the students and others, not connected personally with the victims, and +not having in the least profited by their deaths, come and weep; but the grief +shown on the first day is quite as absurd and fictitious as the joy exhibited +on the last. The subject is one which admits of much wholesome reflection and +food for mirth; and, besides, is so richly treated by the French themselves, +that it would be a sin and a shame to pass it over. Allow me to have the honor +of translating, for your edification, an account of the first day’s +proceedings—it is mighty amusing, to my thinking. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“CELEBRATION OF THE DAYS OF JULY. +</p> + +<p> +“To-day (Saturday), funeral ceremonies, in honor of the victims of July, +were held in the various edifices consecrated to public worship. +</p> + +<p> +“These edifices, with the exception of some churches (especially that of +the Petits-Pères), were uniformly hung with black on the outside; the hangings +bore only this inscription: 27, 28, 29 July, 1830—surrounded by a wreath +of oak-leaves. +</p> + +<p> +“In the interior of the Catholic churches, it had only been thought +proper to dress LITTLE CATAFALQUES, as for burials of the third and fourth +class. Very few clergy attended; but a considerable number of the National +Guard. +</p> + +<p> +“The Synagogue of the Israelites was entirely hung with black; and a +great concourse of people attended. The service was performed with the greatest +pomp. +</p> + +<p> +“In the Protestant temples there was likewise a very full attendance: +APOLOGETICAL DISCOURSES on the Revolution of July were pronounced by the +pastors. +</p> + +<p> +“The absence of M. de Quélen (Archbishop of Paris), and of many members +of the superior clergy, was remarked at Notre Dame. +</p> + +<p> +“The civil authorities attended service in their several districts. +</p> + +<p> +“The poles, ornamented with tri-colored flags, which formerly were placed +on Notre Dame, were, it was remarked, suppressed. The flags on the Pont Neuf +were, during the ceremony, only half-mast high, and covered with crape.” +</p> + +<p> +Et caetera, et caetera, et caetera. +</p> + +<p> +“The tombs of the Louvre were covered with black hangings, and adorned +with tri-colored flags. In front and in the middle was erected an expiatory +monument of a pyramidical shape, and surmounted by a funeral vase. +</p> + +<p> +“These tombs were guarded by the MUNICIPAL GUARD, THE TROOPS OF THE LINE, +THE SERGENS DE VILLE (town patrol), AND A BRIGADE OF AGENTS OF POLICE IN PLAIN +CLOTHES, under the orders of peace-officer Vassal. +</p> + +<p> +“Between eleven and twelve o’clock, some young men, to the number +of 400 or 500, assembled on the Place de la Bourse, one of them bearing a +tri-colored banner with an inscription, ‘TO THE MANES OF JULY:’ +ranging themselves in order, they marched five abreast to the Marché des +Innocens. On their arrival, the Municipal Guards of the Halle aux Draps, where +the post had been doubled, issued out without arms, and the town-sergeants +placed themselves before the market to prevent the entry of the procession. The +young men passed in perfect order, and without saying a word—only lifting +their hats as they defiled before the tombs. When they arrived at the Louvre +they found the gates shut, and the garden evacuated. The troops were under +arms, and formed in battalion. +</p> + +<p> +“After the passage of the procession, the Garden was again open to the +public.” +</p> + +<p> +And the evening and the morning were the first day. +</p> + +<p> +There’s nothing serious in mortality: is there, from the beginning of +this account to the end thereof, aught but sheer, open, monstrous, undisguised +humbug? I said, before, that you should have a history of these people by +Dickens or Theodore Hook, but there is little need of professed wags;—do +not the men write their own tale with an admirable Sancho-like gravity and +naïveté, which one could not desire improved? How good is that touch of sly +indignation about the LITTLE CATAFALQUES! how rich the contrast presented by +the economy of the Catholics to the splendid disregard of expense exhibited by +the devout Jews! and how touching the “APOLOGETICAL DISCOURSES on the +Revolution,” delivered by the Protestant pastors! Fancy the profound +affliction of the Gardes Municipaux, the Sergens de Ville, the police agents in +plain clothes, and the troops with fixed bayonets, sobbing round the +“expiatory monuments of a pyramidical shape, surmounted by funeral +vases,” and compelled, by sad duty, to fire into the public who might +wish to indulge in the same woe! O “manes of July!” (the phrase is +pretty and grammatical) why did you with sharp bullets break those Louvre +windows? Why did you bayonet red-coated Swiss behind that fair white façade, +and, braving cannon, musket, sabre, perspective guillotine, burst yonder bronze +gates, rush through that peaceful picture-gallery, and hurl royalty, loyalty, +and a thousand years of Kings, head-over-heels out of yonder Tuileries’ +windows? +</p> + +<p> +It is, you will allow, a little difficult to say:—there is, however, ONE +benefit that the country has gained (as for liberty of press, or person, +diminished taxation, a juster representation, who ever thinks of +them?)—ONE benefit they have gained, or nearly—abolition de la +peine-de-mort pour délit politique: no more wicked guillotining for +revolutions. A Frenchman must have his revolution—it is his nature to +knock down omnibuses in the street, and across them to fire at troops of the +line—it is a sin to balk it. Did not the King send off Revolutionary +Prince Napoleon in a coach-and-four? Did not the jury, before the face of God +and Justice, proclaim Revolutionary Colonel Vaudrey not guilty?—One may +hope, soon, that if a man shows decent courage and energy in half a dozen +émeutes, he will get promotion and a premium. +</p> + +<p> +I do not (although, perhaps, partial to the subject,) want to talk more +nonsense than the occasion warrants, and will pray you to cast your eyes over +the following anecdote, that is now going the round of the papers, and respects +the commutation of the punishment of that wretched, fool-hardy Barbés, who, on +his trial, seemed to invite the penalty which has just been remitted to him. +You recollect the braggart’s speech: “When the Indian falls into +the power of the enemy, he knows the fate that awaits him, and submits his head +to the knife:—I am the Indian!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—” +</p> + +<p> +“M. Hugo was at the Opera on the night the sentence of the Court of +Peers, condemning Barbés to death, was published. The great poet composed the +following verses:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘Par votre ange envolée, ainsi qu’une colombe,<br/> +Par le royal enfant, doux et frêle roseau,<br/> +Grace encore une fois! Grace au nom de la tombe!<br/> + Grace au nom du berçeau!’ * +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +* Translated for the benefit of country gentlemen:—<br/> +<br/> +“By your angel flown away just like a dove,<br/> +By the royal infant, that frail and tender reed,<br/> +Pardon yet once more! Pardon in the name of the tomb!<br/> +Pardon in the name of the cradle!” +</p> + +<p> +“M. Victor Hugo wrote the lines out instantly on a sheet of paper, which +he folded, and simply despatched them to the King of the French by the +penny-post. +</p> + +<p> +“That truly is a noble voice, which can at all hours thus speak to the +throne. Poetry, in old days, was called the language of the Gods—it is +better named now—it is the language of the Kings. +</p> + +<p> +“But the clemency of the King had anticipated the letter of the Poet. His +Majesty had signed the commutation of Barbés, while the poet was still writing. +</p> + +<p> +“Louis Philippe replied to the author of ‘Ruy Blas’ most +graciously, that he had already subscribed to a wish so noble, and that the +verses had only confirmed his previous disposition to mercy.” +</p> + +<p> +Now in countries where fools most abound, did one ever read of more monstrous, +palpable folly? In any country, save this, would a poet who chose to write four +crack-brained verses, comparing an angel to a dove, and a little boy to a reed, +and calling upon the chief magistrate, in the name of the angel, or dove (the +Princess Mary), in her tomb, and the little infant in his cradle, to spare a +criminal, have received a “gracious answer” to his nonsense? Would +he have ever despatched the nonsense? and would any journalist have been silly +enough to talk of “the noble voice that could thus speak to the +throne,” and the noble throne that could return such a noble answer to +the noble voice? You get nothing done here gravely and decently. Tawdry stage +tricks are played, and braggadocio claptraps uttered, on every occasion, +however sacred or solemn: in the face of death, as by Barbés with his hideous +Indian metaphor; in the teeth of reason, as by M. Victor Hugo with his +twopenny-post poetry; and of justice, as by the King’s absurd reply to +this absurd demand! Suppose the Count of Paris to be twenty times a reed, and +the Princess Mary a host of angels, is that any reason why the law should not +have its course? Justice is the God of our lower world, our great omnipresent +guardian: as such it moves, or should move on majestic, awful, irresistible, +having no passions—like a God: but, in the very midst of the path across +which it is to pass, lo! M. Victor Hugo trips forward, smirking, and says, O +divine Justice! I will trouble you to listen to the following trifling effusion +of mine:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Par votre ange envolée, ainsi qu’une,” &c. +</p> + +<p> +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, délicieux, and, coming from such a célébrité +littéraire as yourself, shall meet with every possible attention—in fact, +had I required anything to confirm my own previous opinions, this charming poem +would have done so. Bon jour, mon cher Monsieur Hugo, au +revoir!”—and they part:—Justice taking off his hat and +bowing, and the author of “Ruy Blas” quite convinced that he has +been treating with him d’égal en égal. I can hardly bring my mind to +fancy that anything is serious in France—it seems to be all rant, tinsel, +and stage-play. Sham liberty, sham monarchy, sham glory, sham justice,—où +diable donc la vérité va-t-elle se nicher? +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +The last rocket of the fête of July has just mounted, exploded, made a +portentous bang, and emitted a gorgeous show of blue lights, and then (like +many reputations) disappeared totally: the hundredth gun on the Invalid terrace +has uttered its last roar—and a great comfort it is for eyes and ears +that the festival is over. We shall be able to go about our everyday business +again, and not be hustled by the gendarmes or the crowd. +</p> + +<p> +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 greatest noise that I heard +was that of a company of jolly villagers from a place in the neighborhood of +Paris, who, as soon as the fireworks were over, formed themselves into a line, +three or four abreast, and so marched singing home. As for the fireworks, +squibs and crackers are very hard to describe, and very little was to be seen +of them: to me, the prettiest sight was the vast, orderly, happy crowd, the +number of children, and the extraordinary care and kindness of the parents +towards these little creatures. It does one good to see honest, heavy épiciers, +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. +</p> + +<p> +The fête, then, is over; the pompous black pyramid at the Louvre is only a +skeleton now; all the flags have been miraculously whisked away during the +night, and the fine chandeliers which glittered down the Champs Elysées 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 had seized, and was seizing daily, numbers of +persons merely suspected of being disaffected (and you may fancy how liberty is +understood, when some of these prisoners, the other day, on coming to trial, +were found guilty and sentenced to ONE day’s imprisonment, after +THIRTY-SIX DAYS’ DETENTION ON SUSPICION). I think the Government which +follows such a system, cannot be very anxious about any farther revolutionary +fêtes, 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 conquering party have been justified in +annually rejoicing over the conquered? Would we have thought Charles X. +justified in causing fireworks to be blazed, and concerts to be sung, and +speeches to be spouted, in commemoration of his victory over his slaughtered +countrymen?—I wish for my part they would allow the people to go about +their business as on the other 362 days of the year, and leave the Champs +Elysées free for the omnibuses to run, and the Tuileries’ in quiet, so +that the nurse-maids might come as usual, and the newspapers be read for a +halfpenny apiece. +</p> + +<p> +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 +fêtes 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 Débats how the +King was received with shouts and loyal vivats—in the Nation, how not a +tongue was wagged in his praise, but, on the instant of his departure, how the +people called for the “Marseillaise” and applauded THAT.—But +best say no more about the fête. The Legitimists were always indignant at it. +The high Philippist party sneers at and despises it; the Republicans hate it: +it seems a joke against THEM. Why continue it?—If there be anything +sacred in the name and idea of loyalty, why renew this fête? It only shows how +a rightful monarch was hurled from his throne, and a dexterous usurper stole +his precious diadem. If there be anything noble in the memory of a day, when +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 accomplished Cromwell Grandison! you have to answer for more +than any mortal man who has played a part in history: two republics and one +monarchy does the world owe to you; and especially grateful should your country +be to you. Did you not, in ’90, make clear the path for honest +Robespierre, and in ’30, prepare the way for— +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +[The Editor of the Bungay Beacon would insert no more of this letter, which is, +therefore, for ever lost to the public.] +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"></a> ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF +PAINTING:</h2> + +<p> +WITH APPROPRIATE ANECDOTES, ILLUSTRATIONS, AND PHILOSOPHICAL DISQUISITIONS. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +IN A LETTER TO MR. MACGILP, OF LONDON. +</p> + +<p> +The three collections of pictures at the Louvre, the Luxembourg, and the Ecole +des Beaux Arts, contain a number of specimens of French art, since its +commencement almost, and give the stranger a pretty fair opportunity to study +and appreciate 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 decent manner. +</p> + +<p> +To account for a superiority over England which, I think, as regards art, is +incontestable—it must be remembered that the painter’s trade, in +France, is a very good one; better appreciated, better understood, and, +generally, far better paid than with us. There are a dozen excellent schools +which a lad may enter here, and, under the eye of a practised master, learn the +apprenticeship of his art at an expense of about ten pounds a year. In England +there is no school except the Academy, unless the student can afford to pay a +very large sum, and place himself under the tuition of some particular artist. +Here, a young man, for his ten pounds, has all sorts of accessory instruction, +models, &c.; and has further, and for nothing, numberless incitements to +study his profession which are not to be found in England:—the streets +are filled with picture-shops, the people themselves are pictures walking +about; the churches, theatres, eating-houses, concert-rooms are covered with +pictures: Nature itself is inclined more kindly to him, for the sky is a +thousand times more bright and 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; 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 companions as merry and poor +as himself. Each gentleman has his favorite tobacco-pipe; and the pictures are +painted in the midst of a cloud of smoke, and a din of puns and choice French +slang, and a roar of choruses, of which no one can form an idea who has not +been present at such an assembly. +</p> + +<p> +You see here every variety of coiffure that has ever been known. Some young men +of genius have ringlets hanging over their shoulders—you may smell the +tobacco with which they are scented across the street; some have straight +locks, black, oily, and redundant; some have toupets in the famous +Louis-Philippe fashion; some are cropped close; some have adopted the present +mode—which he who would follow must, in order to do so, part his hair in +the middle, grease it with grease, and gum it with gum, and iron it flat down +over his ears; when arrived at the ears, you take the tongs and make a couple +of ranges of curls close round the whole head,—such curls as you may see +under a gilt three-cornered hat, and in her Britannic Majesty’s +coachman’s state wig. +</p> + +<p> +This is the last fashion. As for the beards, there is no end of 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 costumes of these +indescribable Frenchmen. +</p> + +<p> +In this company and costume the French student of art passes his days and +acquires knowledge; how he passes his evenings, at what theatres, at what +guinguettes, in company with what seducing little milliner, there is no need to +say; but I knew one who pawned his coat to go to a carnival ball, and walked +abroad very cheerfully in his blouse for six weeks, until he could redeem the +absent garment. +</p> + +<p> +These young men (together with the students of sciences) comport themselves +towards the sober citizen pretty much as the German bursch towards the +philister, or as the military man, during the empire, did to the +pékin:—from the height of their poverty they look down upon him with the +greatest imaginable scorn—a scorn, I think, by which the citizen seems +dazzled, for his respect for the arts is intense. The case is very different in +England, where a grocer’s daughter would think she made a misalliance by +marrying a painter, and where a literary man (in spite of all we can say +against it) ranks below that class of gentry composed of the apothecary, the +attorney, the wine-merchant, whose positions, in country towns at least, are so +equivocal. As, for instance, my friend the Rev. James Asterisk, who has an +undeniable pedigree, a paternal estate, and a living to boot, once dined in +Warwickshire, in company with several squires and parsons of that enlightened +county. Asterisk, as usual, made himself extraordinarily agreeable at dinner, +and delighted all present with his learning and wit. “Who is that +monstrous pleasant fellow?” said one of the squires. “Don’t +you know?” replied another. “It’s Asterisk, the author of +so-and-so, and a famous contributor to such and such a magazine.” +“Good heavens!” said the squire, quite horrified! “a literary +man! I thought he had been a gentleman!” +</p> + +<p> +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 monde, as +Brantôme says, and entertained them in a proper ministerial magnificence. The +splendid and beautiful Duchess of Dash was at one of his ministerial parties; +and went, a fortnight afterwards, as in duty bound, to pay her respects to M. +Guizot. But it happened, in this fortnight, that M. Guizot was Minister no +longer; having given up his portfolio, and his grand hotel, to retire into +private life, and to occupy his humble apartments in the house which he +possesses, and of which he lets the greater portion. A friend of mine was +present at one of the ex-Minister’s soirées, 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, with ordinary furniture, and a Minister en 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 magnificence, and leading such a life as Rubens or +Titian did of old; when one sees M. Thiers’s grand villa in the Rue St. +George (a dozen years ago he was not even a penny-a-liner: no such luck); when +one contemplates, in imagination, M. Gudin, the marine painter, too lame to +walk through the picture-gallery of the Louvre, 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, Napoleon, and Anacharsis Clootz? Noble people! they made Tom +Paine a deputy; and as for Tom Macaulay, they would make a DYNASTY of him. +</p> + +<p> +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 prize 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 hundreds of French samples are, I think, not very +satisfactory. The subjects are almost all what are called classical: Orestes +pursued by every variety of Furies; numbers of little wolf-sucking Romuluses; +Hectors and Andromaches in a complication of parting embraces, and so forth; +for it was the absurd maxim of our forefathers, that because these subjects had +been the fashion twenty centuries ago, they must remain so in saecula +saeculorum; because to these lofty heights giants had scaled, behold the race +of pigmies must get upon stilts and jump at them likewise! and on the canvas, +and in the theatre, the French frogs (excuse the pleasantry) were instructed to +swell out and roar as much as possible like bulls. +</p> + +<p> +What was the consequence, my dear friend? In trying to make themselves into +bulls, the frogs make themselves into jackasses, as might be expected. For a +hundred and ten years the classical humbug oppressed the nation; and you may +see, in this gallery of the Beaux Arts, seventy years’ specimens of the +dulness which it engendered. +</p> + +<p> +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 dustman up to Æschylus, 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 whipster of a French poet chalk you out plays, +“Henriades,” and such-like, and vow that here was the real thing, +the undeniable Kalon? +</p> + +<p> +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 participate in it; they are mostly of a misty, stony +green, dismal hue, as if they had been painted in a world where no color was. +In every picture, there are, of course, white mantles, white urns, white +columns, white statues—those obligé accomplishments of the sublime. There +are the endless straight noses, long eyes, round chins, short upper lips, just +as they are ruled down for you in the drawing-books, as if the latter were the +revelations of beauty, issued by supreme 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 the +fashions, and remain [Greek text omitted] to eternity: and there is a classical +quotation, which you may have occasionally heard, beginning Vixere fortes, +&c., which, as it avers that there were a great number of stout fellows +before Agamemnon, may not unreasonably induce us to conclude that similar +heroes were to succeed him. Shakspeare made a better man when his imagination +moulded the mighty figure of 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 surpass Æschylus’s—surpass him +by “many a rood?” +</p> + +<p> +In the same school of the Beaux Arts, where are to be found such a number of +pale imitations of the antique, Monsieur Thiers (and he ought to be thanked for +it) has caused to be placed a full-sized copy of “The Last +Judgment” of Michel Angelo, and a number of casts from statues by the +same splendid hand. There IS the sublime, if you please—a new +sublime—an original sublime—quite as sublime as the Greek sublime. +See yonder, in the midst of his angels, the Judge of the world descending in +glory; and near him, beautiful and gentle, and yet indescribably august and +pure, the Virgin by his side. There is the “Moses,” the grandest +figure that ever was carved in stone. It has about it something frightfully +majestic, if one may so speak. In examining this, and the astonishing picture +of “The Judgment,” or even a single figure of it, the +spectator’s sense amounts almost to pain. I would not like to be left in +a room alone with the “Moses.” How did the artist live amongst +them, and create them? How did he suffer the painful labor of invention? One +fancies that he would have been scorched up, like Semele, by sights too +tremendous for his vision to bear. One cannot imagine him, with our small +physical endowments and weaknesses, a man like ourselves. +</p> + +<p> +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 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 rambling after +artificial grace, without the proper means of judging or attaining it. +</p> + +<p> +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 riant and pleasing. +</p> + +<p> +Passing from thence up the picturesque Rue de Seine, let us walk to the +Luxembourg, where bonnes, students, grisettes, and old gentlemen with pigtails, +love to wander in the melancholy, quaint old gardens; where the peers have a +new and comfortable court of justice, to judge all the émeutes which are to +take place; and where, as everybody knows, is the picture-gallery of modern +French artists, whom government thinks worthy of patronage. +</p> + +<p> +A very great proportion of the pictures, as we see by the catalogue, are by the +students whose works we have just been to visit at the Beaux Arts, and who, +having performed their pilgrimage to Rome, have taken rank among the 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 anticlassicists 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 Æneas carrying off old Anchises; there are Paris and +Venus, as naked as two Hottentots, and many more such choice subjects from +Lemprière. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +7. Beaume, Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur. “The Grand Dauphiness +Dying.” +</p> + +<p> +18. Blondel, Chevalier de la, &c. “Zenobia found Dead.” +</p> + +<p> +36. Debay, Chevalier. “The Death of Lucretia.” +</p> + +<p> +38. Dejuinne. “The Death of Hector.” +</p> + +<p> +34. Court, Chevalier de la, &c. “The Death of Cæsar.” +</p> + +<p> +39, 40, 41. Delacroix, Chevalier. “Dante and Virgil in the Infernal +Lake,” “The Massacre of Scio,” and “Medea going to +Murder her Children.” +</p> + +<p> +43. Delaroche, Chevalier. “Joas taken from among the Dead.” +</p> + +<p> +44. “The Death of Queen Elizabeth.” +</p> + +<p> +45. “Edward V. and his Brother” (preparing for death). +</p> + +<p> +50. “Hecuba going to be Sacrificed.” Drolling, Chevalier. +</p> + +<p> +51. Dubois. “Young Clovis found Dead.” +</p> + +<p> +56. Henry, Chevalier. “The Massacre of St. Bartholomew.” +</p> + +<p> +75. Guérin, Chevalier. “Cain, after the Death of Abel.” +</p> + +<p> +83. Jacquand. “Death of Adelaide de Comminges.” +</p> + +<p> +88. “The Death of Eudamidas.” +</p> + +<p> +93. “The Death of Hymetto.” +</p> + +<p> +103. “The Death of Philip of Austria.”—And so on. +</p> + +<p> +You see what woful subjects they take, and how profusely they are decorated +with knighthood. They are like the Black Brunswickers, these painters, and +ought to be called Chevaliers de la Mort. I don’t know why the merriest +people in the world should please themselves with such grim representations and +varieties of murder, or why murder itself should be considered so eminently +sublime and poetical. It is good at the end of a tragedy; but, then, it is good +because it is the end, and 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 antihumbuggists should heartily, according +to the strength that is in them, endeavor to pull down. What, for instance, +could Monsieur Lafond care about the death of Eudamidas? What was Hecuba to +Chevalier Drolling, or Chevalier Drolling to Hecuba? I would lay a wager that +neither of them ever conjugated [Greek text omitted], 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 Lemprière, and +copied, half from ancient statues, and half from a naked guardsman at one +shilling and sixpence the hour! +</p> + +<p> +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 [Greek text omitted]. M. Delacroix has produced a number of +rude, barbarous pictures; but there is the stamp of genius on all of +them,—the great poetical INTENTION, which is worth all your execution. +Delaroche is another man of high merit; with not such a great HEART, perhaps, +as the other, but a fine and careful draughtsman, and an excellent arranger of +his subject. “The Death of Elizabeth” is a raw young performance +seemingly—not, at least, to my taste. The “Enfans +d’Edouard” is renowned over Europe, and has appeared in a hundred +different ways in print. It is properly pathetic and gloomy, and merits fully +its high reputation. This painter rejoices in such subjects—in what Lord +Portsmouth used to call “black jobs.” He has killed Charles I. and +Lady Jane Grey, and the Dukes of Guise, and I don’t know whom besides. He +is, at present, occupied with a vast work at the Beaux Arts, where the writer +of this had the honor of seeing him,—a little, keen-looking man, some +five feet in height. He wore, on this important occasion, a bandanna round his +head, and was in the act of smoking a cigar. +</p> + +<p> +Horace Vernet, whose beautiful daughter Delaroche married, 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 +Français 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. +</p> + +<p> +The picture, by Court, of “The Death of Cæsar,” is remarkable 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 +Comminges” is neither more nor less than beautiful. Adelaide had, it +appears, a lover, who betook himself to a convent of Trappists. She followed +him thither, disguised as a man, took the vows, and was not discovered by him +till on her death-bed. The painter has told this story in a most pleasing and +affecting manner: the picture is full of onction and melancholy grace. The +objects, too, are capitally represented; and the tone and color very good. +Decaisne’s “Guardian Angel” is not so good in color, but is +equally beautiful in expression and grace. A little child and a nurse are +asleep: an angel watches the infant. You see women look very wistfully at this +sweet picture; and what triumph would a painter have more? +</p> + +<p> +We must not quit the Luxembourg without noticing the dashing sea-pieces of +Gudin, and one or two landscapes by Giroux (the plain of Grasivaudan), and +“The Prometheus” of Aligny. This is an imitation, perhaps; as is a +noble picture of “Jesus Christ and the Children,” by Flandrin: but +the artists are imitating better models, at any rate; and one begins to +perceive that the odious classical dynasty is no more. Poussin’s +magnificent “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. +</p> + +<p> +Of this revolution, Monsieur Ingres has been one of the chief instruments. He +was, before Horace Vernet, president of the French Academy at Rome, and is +famous as a chief of a school. When he broke up his atelier here, to set out +for his presidency, many of his pupils attended him faithfully some way on his +journey; and some, with scarcely a penny in their pouches, walked through +France and across the Alps, in a pious pilgrimage to Rome, being determined not +to forsake their old master. Such an action was worthy of them, and of the high +rank which their profession holds in France, where the honors to be acquired by +art are only inferior to those which are gained in war. One reads of such +peregrinations in old days, when the scholars of some great Italian painter +followed him from Venice to Rome, or from Florence to Ferrara. In regard of +Ingres’s individual merit as a painter, the writer of this is not a fair +judge, having seen but three pictures by him; one being a plafond in the +Louvre, which his disciples much admire. +</p> + +<p> +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 Dürer, and which is making progress here. +</p> + +<p> +For everything here finds imitation: the French have the genius of imitation +and caricature. This absurd humbug, called the Christian or Catholic art, is +sure to tickle our neighbors, and will be a favorite with them, when better +known. My dear MacGilp, I do believe this to be a greater humbug than the +humbug of David and Girodet, inasmuch as the latter was founded on Nature at +least; whereas the former is made up of silly affectations, and improvements +upon Nature. Here, for instance, is Chevalier Ziegler’s picture of +“St. Luke painting the Virgin.” St. Luke has a monk’s dress +on, embroidered, however, smartly round the sleeves. The Virgin sits in an +immense yellow-ochre halo, with her son in her arms. She looks preternaturally +solemn; as does St. Luke, who is eying his paint-brush with an intense ominous +mystical look. They call this Catholic art. There is nothing, my dear friend, +more easy in life. First take your colors, and rub them down +clean,—bright carmine, bright yellow, bright sienna, bright ultramarine, +bright green. Make the costumes of your figures as much as possible like the +costumes of the early part of the fifteenth century. Paint them in with the +above colors; and if on a gold ground, the more “Catholic” your art +is. Dress your apostles like priests before the altar; and remember to have a +good commodity of crosiers, censers, and other such gimcracks, as you may see +in the Catholic chapels, in Sutton Street and elsewhere. Deal in Virgins, and +dress them like a burgomaster’s wife by Cranach or Van Eyck. Give them +all long twisted tails to their gowns, 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 craché, 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 costumes and attitudes +are precisely similar to those which figure in the catholicities of the school +of Overbeck and Cornelius. +</p> + +<p> +Before you take your cane at the door, look for one instant at the statue-room. +Yonder is Jouffley’s “Jeune Fille confiant son premier secret à +Vénus.” Charming, charming! It is from the exhibition of this year only; +and I think the best sculpture in the gallery—pretty, fanciful, naïve; +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 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. +</p> + +<p> +While we have been indulging in this discussion, the omnibus has gayly +conducted us across the water; and le garde qui veille a la porte du Louvre ne +défend pas our entry. +</p> + +<p> +What a paradise this gallery is for French students, or foreigners who sojourn +in the capital! It is hardly necessary to say that the brethren of the brush +are not usually supplied by Fortune with any extraordinary wealth, or means of +enjoying the luxuries with which Paris, more than any other city, abounds. But +here they have a luxury which surpasses all others, and spend their days in a +palace which all the money of all the Rothschilds could not buy. They sleep, +perhaps, in a garret, and dine in a cellar; but no grandee in Europe has such a +drawing-room. Kings’ houses have, at best, but damask hangings, and gilt +cornices. What are these to a wall covered with canvas by Paul Veronese, or a +hundred yards of Rubens? Artists from England, who have a national gallery that +resembles a moderate-sized gin-shop, who may not copy pictures, except under +particular restrictions, and on rare and particular days, may revel here to +their hearts’ content. Here is a room half a mile long, with as many +windows as Aladdin’s palace, open from sunrise till evening, and free to +all manners and all varieties of study: the only puzzle to the student is to +select the one he shall begin upon, and keep his eyes away from the rest. +</p> + +<p> +Fontaine’s grand staircase, with its arches, and painted ceilings and +shining Doric columns, leads directly to the gallery; 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. +</p> + +<p> +Hither have lately been transported a number of the works of French artists, +which formerly covered the walls of the Luxembourg (death only entitles the +French painter to a place in the Louvre); and let us confine ourselves to the +Frenchmen only, for the space of this letter. +</p> + +<p> +I have seen, in a fine private collection at St. Germain, one or two admirable +single figures of David, full of life, truth, and gayety. The color is not +good, but all the rest excellent; and one of these so much-lauded pictures is +the portrait of a washer-woman. “Pope Pius,” at the Louvre, is as +bad in color as remarkable for its vigor and look of life. The man had a genius +for painting portraits and common life, but must attempt the +heroic;—failed signally; and what is worse, carried a whole nation +blundering after him. Had you told a Frenchman so, twenty years ago, he would +have thrown the démenti 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 Théâtre +Français, and believe that Ducis improved upon Shakspeare, have the above +opinion. Still, it is curious to remark, in this place, how art and literature +become party matters, and political sects have their favorite painters and +authors. +</p> + +<p> +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. +Notre Dame à la rescousse! Sir Brian de Bois Guilbert has borne Hector of Troy +clear out of his saddle. Andromache may weep: but her spouse is beyond the +reach of physic. See! 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 Leonidas and Romulus begging their lives of Rob Roy Macgregor. +Classicism is dead. Sir John Froissart has taken Dr. Lemprière by the nose, and +reigns sovereign. +</p> + +<p> +Of the great pictures of David the defunct, we need not, then, say much. +Romulus is a mighty fine young fellow, no doubt; and if he has come out to +battle stark naked (except a very handsome helmet), it is because the costume +became him, and shows off his figure to advantage. But was there ever anything +so absurd as this passion for the nude, which was followed by all the painters +of the Davidian epoch? And how are we to suppose yonder straddle to be the true +characteristic of the heroic and the sublime? 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 forward their arms, thus,— +</p> + +<p> +[Drawing omitted] +</p> + +<p> +Romulus’s is in the exact action of a telegraph; and the Horatii are all +in the position of the lunge. Is this the sublime? Mr. Angelo, of Bond Street, +might admire the attitude; his namesake, Michel, I don’t think would. +</p> + +<p> +The little picture of “Paris and Helen,” one of the master’s +earliest, I believe, is likewise one of his best: the details are exquisitely +painted. Helen looks needlessly sheepish, and Paris has a most odious ogle; but +the limbs of the male figure are beautifully designed, and have not the green +tone which you see in the later pictures of the master. What is the meaning of +this green? Was it the fashion, or the varnish? Girodet’s pictures are +green; Gros’s emperors and grenadiers have universally the jaundice. +Gerard’s “Psyche” has a most decided green-sickness; and I am +at a loss, I confess, to account for the enthusiasm which this performance +inspired on its first appearance before the public. +</p> + +<p> +In the same room with it is Girodet’s ghastly “Deluge,” and +Gericault’s dismal “Medusa.” Gericault died, they say, for +want of fame. He was a man who possessed a considerable fortune of his own; but +pined because no one in his day would purchase his pictures, and so acknowledge +his talent. At present, a scrawl from his pencil brings an enormous price. All +his works have a grand cachet: he never did anything mean. When he painted the +“Raft of the Medusa,” it is said he lived for a long time among the +corpses which he painted, and that his studio was a second Morgue. If you have +not seen the picture, you are familiar probably, with Reynolds’s +admirable engraving of it. A huge black sea; a raft beating upon it; a horrid +company of men dead, half dead, writhing and frantic with hideous hunger or +hideous hope; and, far away, black, against a stormy sunset, a sail. The story +is powerfully told, and has a legitimate tragic interest, so to +speak,—deeper, because more natural, than Girodet’s green +“Deluge,” for instance: or his livid “Orestes,” or +red-hot “Clytemnestra.” +</p> + +<p> +Seen from a distance the latter’s “Deluge” has a certain +awe-inspiring air with it. A slimy green man stands on a green rock, and +clutches hold of a tree. On the green man’s shoulders is his old father, +in a green old age; to him hangs his wife, with a babe on her breast, and +dangling at her hair, another child. In the water floats a corpse (a beautiful +head) and a green sea and atmosphere envelops all this dismal group. The old +father is represented with a bag of money in his hand; and the tree, which the +man catches, is cracking, and just on the point of giving way. These two points +were considered very fine by the critics: they are two such ghastly epigrams as +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. +</p> + +<p> +The gallery contains a vast number of Poussin’s pictures; they put me in +mind of the color of objects in dreams,—a strange, hazy, lurid hue. How +noble are some of his landscapes! What a depth of solemn shadow is in yonder +wood, near which, by the side of a black water, halts Diogenes. The air is +thunder-laden, and breathes heavily. You hear ominous whispers in the vast +forest gloom. +</p> + +<p> +Near it is a landscape, by Carel Dujardin, I believe, conceived 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 auraeque salubres! +in what a wonderful way has the artist managed to create you out of a few +bladders of paint and pots of varnish. You can see the matutinal dews twinkling +in the grass, and feel the fresh, salubrious 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 certain pleasing, dreamy feeling of awe and musing; the +other landscape inspires the spectator infallibly with the most delightful +briskness and cheerfulness of spirit. Herein lies the vast 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 landscapes +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 perpetually in your face! +</p> + +<p> +There is a little Watteau here, and a rare piece of fantastical brightness and +gayety it is. What a delightful affectation about yonder ladies flirting their +fans, and trailing about in their long brocades! What splendid dandies are +those, ever-smirking, turning out their toes, with broad blue ribbons to tie up +their crooks and their pigtails, and wonderful gorgeous crimson satin breeches! +Yonder, in the midst of a golden atmosphere, rises a bevy of little round +Cupids, bubbling up in clusters as out of a champagne-bottle, and melting away +in air. There is, to be sure, a hidden analogy between liquors and pictures: +the eye is deliciously tickled by these frisky Watteaus, and yields itself up +to a light, smiling, gentlemanlike intoxication. Thus, were we inclined to +pursue further this mighty subject, yonder landscape of Claude,—calm, +fresh, delicate, yet full of flavor,—should be likened to a bottle of +Château Margaux. And what is the Poussin before spoken of but Romanée +Gelée?—heavy, sluggish,—the luscious odor almost sickens you; a +sultry sort of drink; your limbs sink under it; you feel as if you had been +drinking hot blood. +</p> + +<p> +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 Béranger, 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; +Richmond Hill for them. Milton they never grow tired of; and are as familiar +with Raphael as Bottom with exquisite Titania. Let us thank heaven, my dear +sir, for according to us the power to taste and appreciate the pleasures of +mediocrity. I have never heard that we were great geniuses. Earthy are we, and +of the earth; glimpses of the sublime are but rare to us; leave we them to +great geniuses, and to the donkeys; and if it nothing profit us aërias tentâsse +domos along with them, let us thankfully remain below, being merry and humble. +</p> + +<p> +I have now only to mention the charming “Cruche Cassée” of Greuze, +which all the young ladies delight to copy; and of which the color (a thought +too blue, perhaps) is marvellously graceful and delicate. There are three more +pictures by the artist, containing exquisite female heads and color; but they +have charms for French critics which are difficult to be discovered by English +eyes; and the pictures seem weak to me. A very fine picture by Bon Bollongue, +“Saint Benedict resuscitating a Child,” deserves particular +attention, and is superb in vigor and richness of color. You must look, too, at +the large, noble, melancholy landscapes of Philippe de Champagne; and the two +magnificent Italian pictures of Léopold Robert: they are, perhaps, the very +finest pictures that the French school has produced,—as deep as Poussin, +of a better color, and of a wonderful minuteness and veracity in the +representation of objects. +</p> + +<p> +Every one of Lesueur’s church-pictures is worth examining and admiring; +they are full of “unction” and pious mystical grace. “Saint +Scholastica” is divine; and the “Taking down from the Cross” +as noble a composition as ever was seen; I care not by whom the other may be. +There is more beauty, and less affectation, about this picture than you will +find in the performances of many Italian masters, with high-sounding names (out +with it, and say RAPHAEL at once). I hate those simpering Madonnas. I declare +that the “Jardinière” is a puking, smirking miss, with nothing +heavenly about her. I vow that the “Saint Elizabeth” is a bad +picture,—a bad composition, badly drawn, badly colored, in a bad +imitation of Titian,—a piece of vile affectation. I say, that when +Raphael painted this picture two years before his death, the spirit of painting +had gone from out of him; he was no longer inspired; IT WAS TIME THAT HE SHOULD +DIE!! +</p> + +<p> +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, holy. But such things are +most difficult to translate into words;—one lays down the pen, and thinks +and thinks. The figures appear, and take their places one by one: ranging +themselves according to order, in light or in gloom, the colors are reflected +duly in the little camera 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. +</p> + +<p> +Your faithful +</p> + +<p> +M. A. T. +</p> + +<p> +To Mr. ROBERT MACGILP, +</p> + +<p> +NEWMAN STREET, LONDON. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"></a> THE PAINTER’S +BARGAIN.</h2> + +<p> +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 painted portraits to admiration, only nobody came to sit to him. +</p> + +<p> +As he was not gaining five pounds a year by his profession, and had arrived at +the age of twenty, at least, Simon determined to better himself by taking a +wife,—a plan which a number of other wise men adopt, in similar years and +circumstances. So Simon prevailed upon a butcher’s daughter (to whom he +owed 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 speedily to attack their little household; bakers’ bills +were unpaid; rent was due, and the reckless landlord gave no quarter; and, to +crown the whole, her father, unnatural butcher! suddenly stopped the supplies +of mutton-chops; and swore that his daughter, and the dauber; her husband, +should have no more of his wares. At first they embraced tenderly, and, kissing +and crying over their little infant, vowed to heaven that they would do +without: but in the course of the evening Griskinissa grew peckish, and poor +Simon pawned his best coat. +</p> + +<p> +When this habit of pawning is discovered, it appears to the poor a kind of +Eldorado. Gambouge and his wife were so delighted, that they, in the course of +a month, made away with her gold chain, her great warming-pan, his best crimson +plush inexpressibles, two wigs, a washhand basin and ewer, 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. +</p> + +<p> +I am sorry to say that she had taken to drinking; she swallowed the warming-pan +in the course of three days, and fuddled herself one whole evening with the +crimson plush breeches. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 desperate, and cursed and swore in the most pathetic +manner. “O miserable fate of genius!” cried he, “was I, a man +of such commanding talents, born for this? to be bullied by a fiend of a wife; +to have my masterpieces neglected by the world, or sold only for a few pieces? +Cursed be the love which has misled me; cursed, be the art which is unworthy of +me! Let me dig or steal, let me sell myself as a soldier, or sell myself to the +Devil, I should not be more wretched than I am now!” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite the contrary,” cried a small, cheery voice. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” exclaimed Gambouge, trembling and surprised. +“Who’s there?—where are you?—who are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“You were just speaking of me,” said the voice. +</p> + +<p> +Gambouge held, in his left hand, his palette; in his right, a bladder of +crimson lake, which he was about to squeeze out upon the mahogany. “Where +are you?” cried he again. +</p> + +<p> +“S-q-u-e-e-z-e!” exclaimed the little voice. +</p> + +<p> +Gambouge picked out the nail from the bladder, and gave a squeeze; when, as +sure as I am living, a little imp spurted out from the hole upon the palette, +and began laughing in the most singular and oily manner. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” exclaimed Simon, “is it the—” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly so; talk of me, you know, and I am always at hand: besides, I am +not half so black as I am painted, as you will see when you know me a little +better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word,” said the painter, “it is a very singular +surprise which you have given me. To tell truth, I did not even believe in your +existence.” +</p> + +<p> +The little imp put on a theatrical air, and, with one of Mr. Macready’s +best looks, said,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“There are more things in heaven and earth, Gambogio,<br/> +Than are dreamed of in your philosophy.” +</p> + +<p> +Gambouge, being a Frenchman, did not understand the quotation, but felt somehow +strangely and singularly interested in the conversation of his new friend. +</p> + +<p> +Diabolus continued: “You are a man of merit, and want money; you will +starve on your merit; you can only get money from me. Come, my friend, how much +is it? I ask the easiest interest in the world: old Mordecai, the usurer, has +made you pay twice as heavily before now: nothing but the signature of a bond, +which is a mere ceremony, and the transfer of an article which, in itself, is a +supposition—a valueless, windy, uncertain property of yours, called, by +some poet of your own, I think, an animula, vagula, blandula—bah! there +is no use beating about the bush—I mean A SOUL. Come, let me have it; you +know you will sell it some other way, and not get such good pay for your +bargain!”—and, having made this speech, the Devil pulled out from +his fob a sheet as big as a double Times, only there was a different STAMP in +the corner. +</p> + +<p> +It is useless and tedious to describe law documents: lawyers only love to read +them; and they have as good in Chitty as any that are to be found in the +Devil’s own; so nobly have the apprentices emulated the skill of the +master. Suffice it to say, that poor Gambouge read over the paper, and signed +it. He was to have all he wished for seven years, and at the end of that time +was to become the property of the ——-; PROVIDED 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 gentlemanlike, and avoids anything like scandal. But if you set +me about anything which is extraordinary, and out of the course of nature, as +it were, come I must, you know; and of this you are the best judge.” So +saying, Diabolus disappeared; but whether up the chimney, through the keyhole, +or by any other aperture or contrivance, nobody knows. Simon Gambouge was left +in a fever of delight, as, heaven forgive me! I believe many a worthy man would +be, if he were allowed an opportunity to make a similar bargain. +</p> + +<p> +“Heigho!” said Simon. “I wonder whether this be a reality or +a dream.—I am sober, I know; for who will give me credit for the means to +be drunk? and as for sleeping, I’m too hungry for that. I wish I could +see a capon and a bottle of white wine.” +</p> + +<p> +“MONSIEUR SIMON!” cried a voice on the landing-place. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Go, my boy,” he said; “it is good: call in a couple of +hours, and remove the plates and glasses.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ye gods!” said he, as he scraped away at the backbone, “what +a dinner! what wine!—and how gayly served up too!” There were +silver forks and spoons, and the remnants of the fowl were upon a silver dish. +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Oh, the horrid progress of the Devil! “Here they are,” thought +Simon to himself; “why should not I TAKE THEM?” And take them he +did. “Detection,” said he, “is not so bad as starvation; and +I would as soon live at the galleys as live with Madame Gambouge.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He immediately made for the house of his old friend the pawnbroker—that +establishment which is called in France the Mont de Piété. “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.” +</p> + +<p> +The pawnbroker smiled as he examined the goods. “I can give you nothing +upon them,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” cried Simon; “not even the worth of the +silver?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; I could buy them at that price at the ‘Café 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. +</p> + +<p> +The effects of conscience are dreadful indeed. Oh! how fearful is retribution, +how deep is despair, how bitter is remorse for crime—WHEN CRIME IS FOUND +OUT!—otherwise, conscience takes matters much more easily. Gambouge +cursed his fate, and swore henceforth to be virtuous. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Simon’s resolves about virtue were dissipated instantaneously. +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +When he had marched forwards for a street or two, Gambouge counted the money +which he had received, and found that he was in possession of no less than a +hundred francs. It was night, as he reckoned out his equivocal 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.” +</p> + +<p> +He mounted, as many a rogue has done before him, and found half a hundred +persons busy at a table of rouge et noir. Gambouge’s five napoleons +looked insignificant by the side of the heaps which were around him; but the +effects of the wine, of the theft, and of the detection by the pawnbroker, were +upon him, and he threw down his capital stoutly upon the 0 0. +</p> + +<p> +It is a dangerous spot that 0 0, or double zero; but to Simon it was more lucky +than to the rest of the world. The ball went spinning round—in “its +predestined circle rolled,” as Shelley has it, after Goethe—and +plumped down at last in the double zero. One hundred and thirty-five gold +napoleons (louis they were then) were counted out to the delighted painter. +“Oh, Diabolus!” cried he, “now it is that I begin to believe +in thee! Don’t talk about merit,” he cried; “talk about +fortune. Tell me not about heroes for the future—tell me of +ZEROES.” And down went twenty napoleons more upon the 0. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +Gambouge, as soon as he felt that he was a capitalist, and that he had a stake +in the country, discovered that he was an altered man. He repented of his foul +deed, and his base purloining of the restaurateur’s plate. “O +honesty!” he cried, “how unworthy is an action like this of a man +who has a property like mine!” So he went back to the pawnbroker with the +gloomiest face imaginable. “My friend,” said he, “I have +sinned against all that I hold most sacred: I have forgotten my family and my +religion. Here is thy money. In the name of heaven, restore me the plate which +I have wrongfully sold thee!” +</p> + +<p> +But the pawnbroker grinned, and said, “Nay, Mr. Gambouge, I will sell +that plate for a thousand francs to you, or I never will sell it at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“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’ lodging. To raise it, I +have toiled for many months; and, failing, I have been a criminal. O heaven! I +STOLE that plate that I might pay my debt, and keep my dear wife from wandering +houseless. But I cannot bear this load of ignominy—I cannot suffer the +thought of this crime. I will go to the person to whom I did wrong, I will +starve, I will confess; but I will, I WILL do right!” +</p> + +<p> +The broker was alarmed. “Give me thy note,” he cried; “here +is the plate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give me an acquittal first,” cried Simon, almost broken-hearted; +“sign me a paper, and the money is yours.” So Troisboules wrote +according to Gambouge’s dictation; “Received, for thirteen ounces +of plate, twenty pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“Monster of iniquity!” cried the painter, “fiend of +wickedness! thou art caught in thine own snares. Hast thou not sold me five +pounds’ worth of plate for twenty? Have I it not in my pocket? Art thou +not a convicted dealer in stolen goods? Yield, scoundrel, yield thy money, or I +will bring thee to justice!” +</p> + +<p> +The frightened pawnbroker bullied and battled for a while; but he gave up his +money at last, and the dispute ended. Thus it will be seen that Diabolus had +rather a hard bargain in the wily Gambouge. He had taken a victim prisoner, but +he had assuredly caught a Tartar. Simon now returned home, and, to do him +justice, paid the bill for his dinner, and restored the plate. +</p> + +<p> +And now I may add (and the reader should ponder upon this, as a profound +picture of human life), that Gambouge, since he had grown rich, grew likewise +abundantly moral. He was a most exemplary father. He fed the poor, and was +loved by them. He scorned a base action. And I have no doubt that Mr. Thurtell, +or the late lamented Mr. Greenacre, in similar circumstances, would have acted +like the worthy Simon Gambouge. +</p> + +<p> +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 versâ: 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 winecup, where thou liest like truth in a well, where +shall we find thee? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am inclined to think, holy sir,” said Gambouge, after he had +concluded his history, and shown how, in some miraculous way, all his desires +were accomplished, “that, after all, this demon was no other than the +creation of my own brain, heated by the effects of that bottle of wine, the +cause of my crime and my prosperity.” +</p> + +<p> +The confessor agreed with him, and they walked out of church comfortably +together, and entered afterwards a café, where they sat down to refresh +themselves after the fatigues of their devotion. +</p> + +<p> +A respectable old gentleman, with a number of orders at his buttonhole, +presently entered the room, and sauntered up to the marble table, before which +reposed Simon and his clerical friend. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he +said, as he took a place opposite them, and began reading the papers of the +day. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” said he, at last,—“sont-ils grands ces journaux +Anglais? Look, sir,” he said, handing over an immense sheet of The Times +to Mr. Gambouge, “was ever anything so monstrous?” +</p> + +<p> +Gambouge smiled politely, and examined the proffered page. “It is +enormous” he said; “but I do not read English.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” said the man with the orders, “look closer at it, +Signor Gambouge; it is astonishing how easy the language is.” +</p> + +<p> +Wondering, Simon took a sheet of paper. He turned pale as he looked at it, and +began to curse the ices and the waiter. “Come, M. l’Abbé,” he +said; “the heat and glare of this place are intolerable.” +</p> + +<p> +The stranger rose with them. “Au plaisir de vous revoir, mon cher +monsieur,” said he; “I do not mind speaking before the Abbé here, +who will be my very good friend one of these days: but I thought it necessary +to refresh your memory, concerning our little business transaction six years +since; and could not exactly talk of it AT CHURCH, as you may fancy.” +</p> + +<p> +Simon Gambouge had seen, in the double-sheeted Times, the paper signed by +himself, which the little Devil had pulled out of his fob. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Then he grew outrageous in his demands upon the Devil, and put him to all sorts +of absurd and ridiculous tasks; but they were all punctually performed, until +Simon could invent no new ones, and the Devil sat all day with his hands in his +pockets doing nothing. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +Gambouge caught at the notion, and hurried off a courier to Rome ventre à +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” said he, “foul fiend, I defy you! arise, Diabolus! +your contract is not worth a jot: the Pope has absolved me, and I am safe on +the road to salvation.” In a fervor of gratitude he clasped the hand of +his confessor, and embraced him: tears of joy ran down the cheeks of these good +men. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” said he, “what nonsense is this! do you suppose I care +about THAT?” and he tossed the Pope’s missive into a corner. +“M. l’Abbé knows,” he said, bowing and grinning, “that +though the Pope’s paper may pass current HERE, it is not worth twopence +in our country. What do I care about the Pope’s absolution? You might +just as well be absolved by your under butler.” +</p> + +<p> +“Egad,” said the Abbé, “the rogue is right—I quite +forgot the fact, which he points out clearly enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Gambouge,” continued Diabolus, with horrid familiarity, +“go thy ways, old fellow, that COCK WON’T FIGHT.” And he +retired up the chimney, chuckling at his wit and his triumph. Gambouge heard +his tail scuttling all the way up, as if he had been a sweeper by profession. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +To add to his woes, Mrs. Gambouge, who was now first made acquainted with his +compact, and its probable consequences, raised such a storm about his ears, as +made him wish almost that his seven years were expired. She screamed, she +scolded, she swore, she wept, she went into such fits of hysterics, that poor +Gambouge, who had 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. +</p> + +<p> +It wanted six months of the time. +</p> + +<p> +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 presided at one end of his table, while Mrs. Gam., splendidly arrayed, +gave herself airs at the other extremity. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. Gambouge; pray +tell me what is your will.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know,” said that gentleman, in a stately and determined voice, +“that you are bound to me, according to our agreement, for six months to +come.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am,” replied the new comer. +</p> + +<p> +“You are to do all that I ask, whatsoever it may be, or you forfeit the +bond which I gave you?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true.” +</p> + +<p> +“You declare this before the present company?” +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my honor, as a gentleman,” said Diabolus, bowing, and laying +his hand upon his waistcoat. +</p> + +<p> +A whisper of applause ran round the room: all were charmed with the bland +manners of the fascinating stranger. +</p> + +<p> +“My love,” continued Gambouge, mildly addressing his lady, +“will you be so polite as to step this way? You know I must go soon, and +I am anxious, before this noble company, to make a provision for one who, in +sickness as in health, in poverty as in riches, has been my truest and fondest +companion.” +</p> + +<p> +Gambouge mopped his eyes with his handkerchief—all the company did +likewise. Diabolus sobbed audibly, and Mrs. Gambouge sidled up to her +husband’s side, and took him tenderly by the hand. “Simon!” +said she, “is it true? and do you really love your Griskinissa?” +</p> + +<p> +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 Gambouge, live alone with her for half a year, never leave +her from morning till night, obey all her caprices, follow all her whims, and +listen to all the abuse which falls from her infernal tongue. Do this, and I +ask no more of you; I will deliver myself up at the appointed time.” +</p> + +<p> +Not Lord G—-, when flogged by lord B—-, in the House,—not Mr. +Cartlitch, of Astley’s Amphitheatre, in his most pathetic passages, could +look more crestfallen, and howl more hideously, than Diabolus did now. +“Take another year, Gambouge,” screamed he; “two +more—ten more—a century; roast me on Lawrence’s gridiron, +boil me in holy water, but don’t ask that: don’t, don’t bid +me live with Mrs. Gambouge!” +</p> + +<p> +Simon smiled sternly. “I have said it,” he cried; “do this, +or our contract is at an end.” +</p> + +<p> +The Devil, at this, grinned so horribly that every drop of beer in the house +turned sour: he gnashed his teeth so frightfully that every person in the +company wellnigh fainted with the cholic. He slapped down the great parchment +upon the floor, trampled upon it madly, and lashed it with his hoofs and his +tail: at last, spreading out a mighty pair of wings as wide as from here to +Regent Street, he slapped Gambouge with his tail over one eye, and vanished, +abruptly, through the keyhole. +</p> + +<p> +Gambouge screamed with pain and started up. “You drunken, lazy +scoundrel!” cried a shrill and well-known voice, “you have been +asleep these two hours:” and here he received another terrific box on the +ear. +</p> + +<p> +It was too true, he had fallen asleep at his work; and the beautiful vision had +been dispelled by the thumps of the tipsy Griskinissa. Nothing remained to +corroborate his story, except the bladder of lake, and this was spirted all +over his waistcoat and breeches. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish,” said the poor fellow, rubbing his tingling cheeks, +“that dreams were true;” and he went to work again at his portrait. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +CARTOUCHE. +</p> + +<p> +I have been much interested with an account of the exploits of Monsieur Louis +Dominic Cartouche, and as Newgate and the highways are so much the fashion with +us in England, we may be allowed to look abroad for histories of a similar +tendency. It is pleasant to find that virtue is cosmopolite, and may exist +among wooden-shoed Papists as well as honest Church-of-England men. +</p> + +<p> +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, Molière, Racine, Jack Sheppard, and +Louis Cartouche,—all famous within the same twenty years, and fighting, +writing, robbing à l’envi! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Dominic’s parents sent him to school at the college of Clermont (now +Louis le Grand); and although it has 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 youth, is yet highly creditable to him. He made +a general swoop of a hundred and twenty nightcaps belonging to his companions, +and disposed of them to his satisfaction; but as it was discovered that of all +the youths in the college of Clermont, he only was the possessor of a cap to +sleep in, suspicion (which, alas! was confirmed) immediately fell upon him: and +by this little piece of youthful naïveté, a scheme, prettily conceived and +smartly performed, was rendered naught. +</p> + +<p> +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 +schoolfellows’ knives, books, rulers, or playthings, which he used fairly +to exchange for tarts and gingerbread. +</p> + +<p> +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 Narbonne honey, which came under the eyes of +Cartouche, and in which that young gentleman, as soon as ever he saw them, +determined to put his fingers. The president of the college put aside his +honey-pots in an apartment within his own; to which, except by the one door +which led into the room which his reverence usually occupied, there was no +outlet. There was no chimney in the room; and the windows looked into the +court, where there was a porter at night, and where crowds passed by day. What +was Cartouche to do?—have the honey he must. +</p> + +<p> +Over this chamber, which contained what his soul longed after, and over the +president’s rooms, there ran a set of unoccupied garrets, into which the +dexterous Cartouche penetrated. These were divided from the rooms below, +according to the fashion of those days, by a set of large beams, which reached +across the whole building, and across which rude planks were laid, which formed +the ceiling of the lower story and the floor of the upper. Some of these planks +did young Cartouche remove; and having descended by means of a rope, tied a +couple of others to the neck of the honey-pots, climbed back again, and drew up +his prey in safety. He then cunningly fixed the planks again in their old +places, and retired to gorge himself upon his booty. And, now, see the +punishment of avarice! 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 schoolfellows had taken a violent fancy to him, and made him a present +of a couple of his suits. Cartouche the elder, good man, went to thank the +young nobleman; but none such could be found, and young Cartouche disdained to +give any explanation of his manner of gaining the money. +</p> + +<p> +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. Cartouche, 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. +</p> + +<p> +This, you may fancy, was not very long in coming; and though history has not +made us acquainted with the exact crime which Louis Dominic next committed, it +must have been a serious one; for Cartouche, who had borne philosophically all +the whippings and punishments which were administered to him at college, did +not dare to face that one which his indignant father had in pickle for him. As +he was coming home from school, on the first day after his crime, when he +received permission to go abroad, one of his brothers, who was on the look-out +for him, met him at a short distance from home, and told him what was in +preparation; which so frightened this young thief, that he declined returning +home altogether, and set out upon the wide world to shift for himself as he +could. +</p> + +<p> +Undoubted as his genius was, he had not arrived at the full exercise of it, and +his gains were by no means equal to his appetite. In whatever professions he +tried,—whether he joined the gipsies, which he did,—whether he +picked pockets on the Pont Neuf, which occupation history attributes to +him,—poor Cartouche was always hungry. Hungry and ragged, he wandered +from one place and profession to another, and regretted the honey-pots at +Clermont, and the comfortable soup and bouilli at home. +</p> + +<p> +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, starving lad, who had just made a pounce upon some bones and +turnip-peelings, that had been flung out on the quay, and was eating them as +greedily as if they had been turkeys and truffles. The worthy man examined the +lad a little closer. O heavens! it was their runaway prodigal—it was +little Louis Dominic! The merchant was touched by his case; and forgetting the +nightcaps, the honey-pots, and the rags and dirt of little Louis, took him to +his arms, and kissed and hugged him with the tenderest affection. Louis kissed +and hugged too, and blubbered a great deal: he was very repentant, as a man +often is when he is hungry; and he went home with his uncle, and his peace was +made; and his mother got him new clothes, and filled his belly, and for a while +Louis was as good a son as might be. +</p> + +<p> +But why attempt to balk the progress of genius? Louis’s was not to be +kept down. He was sixteen years of age by this time—a smart, lively young +fellow, and, what is more, desperately enamored of a lovely washerwoman. To be +successful in your love, as Louis knew, you must have something more than mere +flames and sentiment;—a washer, or any other woman, cannot live upon +sighs only; but must have new gowns and caps, and a necklace every now and +then, and a few handkerchiefs and silk stockings, and a treat into the country +or to the play. Now, how are all these things to be had without money? +Cartouche saw at once that it was 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 associated together for the +purpose of making war on the public and the law. +</p> + +<p> +Cartouche had a lovely young sister, who was to be married to a rich young +gentleman from the provinces. As is the fashion in France, the parents had +arranged the match among themselves; and the young people had never met until +just before the time appointed for the marriage, when the bridegroom came up to +Paris with his title-deeds, and settlements, and money. Now there can hardly be +found in history a finer instance of devotion than Cartouche now exhibited. He +went to his captain, 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. Informations were taken, the house +of the bridegroom was reconnoitred, and, one night, Cartouche, in company with +some chosen friends, made his first visit to the house of his brother-in-law. +All the people were gone to bed; and, doubtless, for fear of disturbing the +porter, Cartouche and his companions spared him the trouble of opening the +door, by ascending quietly at the window. They arrived at the room where the +bridegroom kept his great chest, and set industriously to work, filing and +picking the locks which defended the treasure. +</p> + +<p> +The bridegroom slept in the next room; but however tenderly Cartouche and his +workmen handled their tools, from fear of disturbing his slumbers, their +benevolent design was disappointed, for awaken him they did; and quietly +slipping out of bed, he came to a place where he had a complete view of all +that was going on. He did not cry out, or frighten himself sillily; but, on the +contrary, contented himself with watching the countenances of the robbers, so +that he might recognize them on another 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. +</p> + +<p> +As soon, however, as they had broken all the locks, and found the nothing which +lay at the bottom of the chest, he shouted with such a loud voice, “Here, +Thomas!—John!—officer!—keep the gate, fire at the +rascals!” that they, incontinently taking fright, skipped nimbly out of +window, and left the house free. +</p> + +<p> +Cartouche, after this, did not care to meet his brother-in-law, but eschewed +all those occasions on which the latter was to be present at his father’s +house. The evening before the marriage came; and then his father insisted upon +his appearance among the other relatives of the bride’s and +bridegroom’s families, who were all to assemble and make merry. Cartouche +was obliged to yield; and brought with him one or two of his companions, who +had been, by the way, present in the affair of the empty money-boxes; and +though he never fancied that there was any danger in meeting his +brother-in-law, for he had no idea that he had been seen on the night of the +attack, with a natural modesty, which did him really credit, he kept out of the +young bridegroom’s sight as much as he could, and showed no desire to be +presented to him. At supper, 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 +declining any connection with his family. +</p> + +<p> +Cartouche the elder, of course, angrily asked the reason of such an abrupt +dissolution of the engagement; and then, much to his horror, heard of his +eldest son’s doings. “You would not have me marry into such a +family?” said the ex-bridegroom. And old Cartouche, an honest old +citizen, confessed, with a heavy heart, that he would not. What was he to do +with the lad? He did not like to ask for a lettre de cachet, and shut him up in +the Bastile. He determined to give him a year’s discipline at the +monastery of St. Lazare. +</p> + +<p> +But how to catch the young gentleman? Old Cartouche knew that, were he to tell +his son of the scheme, the latter would never obey, and, therefore, he +determined to be very cunning. He told Dominic that he was about to make a +heavy bargain with the fathers, and should require a witness; so they 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 lie left behind him in the carriage; and +when he stepped out from it (which he did without asking the coachman to let +down the steps), he bore exactly the appearance of a cook’s boy carrying +a dish; and with this he slipped through the 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 professionally and +openly a robber, redounds highly to his credit, and shows that he knew how to +take advantage of the occasion, and how much he had improved in the course of a +very few years’ experience. His courage and ingenuity were vastly admired +by his friends; so much so, that, one day, the captain of the band thought fit +to compliment him, and vowed that when he (the captain) died, Cartouche should +infallibly be called to the command-in-chief. This conversation, so flattering +to Cartouche, was carried on between the two gentlemen, as they were walking, +one night, on the quays by the side of the Seine. Cartouche, when the captain +made the last remark, blushingly protested against it, and pleaded his extreme +youth as a reason why his comrades could never put entire trust in him. +“Psha, man!” said the captain, “thy youth is in thy favor; +thou wilt live only the longer to lead thy troops to victory. As for strength, +bravery, and cunning, wert thou as old as Methuselah, thou couldst not be +better provided than thou art now, at eighteen.” What was the reply of +Monsieur Cartouche? He answered, not by words, but by actions. Drawing his +knife from his girdle, he instantly dug it into the captain’s left side, +as near his heart as possible; and then, seizing that imprudent commander, +precipitated him violently into the waters of the Seine, to keep company with +the gudgeons and river-gods. When he returned to the band, and recounted how +the captain had basely attempted to assassinate him, and how he, on the +contrary, had, by exertion of superior skill, overcome the captain, not one of +the society believed a word of his history; but they elected him captain +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. +</p> + +<p> +Being arrived at this exalted position, there is no end of the feats which +Cartouche performed; and his band reached to such a pitch of glory, that if +there had been a hundred thousand, instead of a hundred of them, who knows but +that a new and popular dynasty might not have been founded, and “Louis +Dominic, premier Empereur des Français,” might have performed 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 neighborhood 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 discharged both his pistols, +than Cartouche himself, seized with a furious indignation, drew his: +“Learn, monster,” cried he, “not to be so greedy of gold, and +perish, the victim of thy disloyalty and avarice!” So Cartouche slew the +second robber; and there is no man in Europe who can say that the latter did +not merit well his punishment. +</p> + +<p> +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 +of a hundred pistoles to any man who would bring Cartouche before him, a noble +Marquess, in a coach and six, drove up to the hotel of the police; and the +noble Marquess, desiring to see Monsieur de la Reynie, on matters of the +highest moment, alone, the latter introduced him into his private cabinet; and +how, when there, the Marquess drew from his pocket a long, curiously shaped +dagger: “Look at this, Monsieur de la Reynie,” said he; “this +dagger is poisoned!” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it possible?” said M. de la Reynie. +</p> + +<p> +“A prick of it would do for any man,” said the Marquess. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t say so!” said M. de la Reynie. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +At the sound of this dreadful name, M. de la Reynie sunk incontinently down on +his stomach, and submitted to be carefully 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. +</p> + +<p> +There is a story that Cartouche once took the diligence to Lille, and found in +it a certain Abbé 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 information, +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. +</p> + +<p> +A letter came to the lieutenant of police, to state that Cartouche had +travelled to Lille, in company with the Abbé de Potter, of that town; that, on +the reverend gentleman’s return towards Paris, Cartouche had waylaid him, +murdered him, taken his papers, and would come to Paris himself, bearing the +name and clothes of the unfortunate Abbé, 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 Abbé’s guise. He was seized, bound, flung +into prison, brought out to be examined, and, on examination, found to be no +other than the Abbé Potter himself! It is pleasant to read thus of the +relaxations of great men, and find them condescending to joke like the meanest +of us. +</p> + +<p> +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 Commandeur de la +Trémoille, 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. +</p> + +<p> +Day and night the insinuating Count followed her; and when, at the end of a +fortnight, and in the midst of a tête-à-tête, he plunged, one morning, suddenly +on his knees, and said, “Leonora, do you love me?” the poor thing +heaved the gentlest, tenderest, sweetest sigh in the world; and sinking her +blushing head on his shoulder, whispered, “Oh, Dominic, je t’aime! +Ah!” said she, “how noble is it of my Dominic to take me with the +little I have, and he so rich a nobleman!” 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 sur +l’état—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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +the contract was to be signed. The day arrived; and, according 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 +the 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 +Montmorencies, Créquis, De la Tours, and Guises at his back. His homme +d’affaires 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 pawned a gold watch to him, +which I stole from Cadogan, when I was with Malbrook’s army in +Flanders.” +</p> + +<p> +Here the Duc 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 Duc de la Roche +Guyon’s voice fell. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Count!” gasped the poor widow. +</p> + +<p> +“Count be hanged!” answered the bridegroom, sternly “my name +is CARTOUCHE!” +</p> + +<p> +ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. WITH A PLEA FOR ROMANCES IN GENERAL. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I have often thought that, in respect of sham and real histories, a similar +fact may be noticed; the sham story appearing a great deal more agreeable, +life-like, and natural than the true one: and all who, from laziness as well as +principle, are inclined to follow the easy and comfortable 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. +</p> + +<p> +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; 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 is the custom of all barbarous +tribes;—witness, the learned Chinese: Tippoo Sultaun declared that there +were not in all Europe ten thousand men: the Sklavonic hordes, it is said, so +entitled themselves from a word in their jargon, which signifies “to +speak;” the ruffians imagining that they had a monopoly of this agreeable +faculty, and that all other nations were dumb. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +As thus:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Julius Cæsar beat Pompey, at Pharsalia.<br/> +The Duke of Marlborough beat Marshal Tallard at Blenheim.<br/> +The Constable of Bourbon beat Francis the First, at Pavia. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +And what have we here?—so many names, simply. Suppose Pharsalia had been, +at that mysterious period when names were given, called Pavia; and that Julius +Cæsar’s family name had been John Churchill;—the fact would have +stood in history, thus:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Pompey ran away from the Duke of Marlborough at Pavia.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +And why not?—we should have been just as wise. Or it might be stated +that— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The tenth legion charged the French infantry at Blenheim; and Cæsar, +writing home to his mamma, said, ‘Madame, tout est perdu fors +l’honneur.’” +</p> + +<p> +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 +“Gazetteer,” or getting by heart a fifty-years-old edition of the +“Court Guide.” +</p> + +<p> +Having thus disposed of the historians, let us come to the point in +question—the novelists. +</p> + +<p> +On the title-page of these volumes the reader has, doubtless, remarked, that +among the pieces introduced, some are announced as “copies” and +“compositions.” Many of the histories have, accordingly, been +neatly stolen from the collections of French authors (and mutilated, according +to the old saying, so that their owners should not know them) and, for +compositions, we intend to favor the public with some studies of French modern +works, that have not as yet, we believe, attracted the notice of the English +public. +</p> + +<p> +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, metaphysical, 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— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +At the English Ambassador’s, so many soirées.<br/> +At houses to which he has brought letters, so many tea-parties.<br/> +At Cafés, so many dinners.<br/> +At French private houses, say three dinners, and very lucky too. +</p> + +<p> +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 écarté with Monsieur de Trêfle +every night; but what know we of the heart of the man—of the inward ways, +thoughts, and customs of Trêfle? If we have good legs, and love the amusement, +we dance with Countess Flicflac, Tuesday’s and Thursdays, ever since the +Peace; and how far are we advanced in acquaintance 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 voiture, a pumpkin; and her +gens, 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, 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 +bêtise 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 écarté with Trêfle 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 Trêfle, “is that man mad? He won’t play at cards +on a Sunday; he goes to church on a Sunday: he has fourteen children!” +</p> + +<p> +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 frequented a certain +number of tea-parties in the French capital, begin to prattle about French +manners and men,—with all respect for the talents of those ladies, we do +believe their information not to be worth a sixpence; 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. +</p> + +<p> +There is, however, a cheap and delightful way of travelling, that a man may +perform in his easy-chair, without expense of passports or post-boys. On the +wings of a novel, from the next circulating library, he sends his imagination +a-gadding, and gains acquaintance with 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 the heights of fashion with the charming +enchanters 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 character +under false names; and, like “Roderick Random,” an inferior work, +and “Tom Jones” (one that is immeasurably superior), gives us a +better idea of the state and ways of the people than one could gather from any +more pompous or authentic histories. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +To a person inclined to study these, in that light and amusing 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 descriptions 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 +provided for us. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +A FRENCH FASHIONABLE LETTER. +</p> + +<p> +“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 not to +write to you now, when should I find the possibility of doing so? Time flies +here with such a frightful rapidity, my pleasures and my affairs whirl onwards +together in such a torrentuous 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +n’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 Ambassador’s gala. On my honor, my dear fellow, everybody +was of a caprice prestigieux and a comfortable 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 loveliest 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 Frédéric has broken a cup, true Japan, upon my honor—the +rogue does nothing else. Yesterday, 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 +our return from the Park (du Bois), a company of pleasant rakes are invited. +After quitting Borel’s, we propose to adjourn to the Barrière 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 a pas-de-trois, and our box +patronizes her. After the Opera, I must show my face to two or three salons in +the Faubourg St. Honoré; 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 Théâtre Ventadour: lions and +tigers—the whole of our menagerie will be present. Evoé! off we go! +roaring and bounding Bacchanal and Saturnal; ’tis agreed that we shall be +everything that is low. To conclude, we sup with Castijars, the most +‘furiously dishevelled’ orgy that ever was known.” +</p> + +<p> +The rest of the letter is on matters of finance, equally curious and +instructive. But pause we for the present, to consider the fashionable part: +and caricature as it is, we have an accurate picture of the actual French +dandy. Bets, breakfasts, riding, dinners at the “Café de Paris,” +and delirious Carnival balls: the animal goes through all such frantic +pleasures at the season that precedes Lent. He has a wondrous respect for +English “gentlemen-sportsmen;” he imitates their clubs—their +love of horse-flesh: he calls his palefrenier a groom, wears blue +birds’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 Bernard, 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 verisimilitude of the title. +</p> + +<p> +For the “rugissements et bondissements, bacchanale et saturnale, galop +infernal, ronde du sabbat tout le tremblement,” 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 ball-room in the Rue St. +Honoré, and tore down to the column in the Place Vendôme, 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 +more of the merriment of demons than of men: bang, bang, drums, trumpets, +chairs, pistol-shots, pour out of the orchestra, which seems as mad as the +dancers; whiz, a whirlwind of paint and patches, all the costumes under the +sun, all the ranks in the empire, all the he and she scoundrels of the capital, +writhed and twisted together, rush by you; if a man falls, woe be to him: two +thousand screaming menads go trampling over his carcass: they have neither +power nor will to stop. +</p> + +<p> +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 “Café 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 for ever on the alert. The following is M. de +Bernard’s description of him:— +</p> + +<p> +“I became acquainted with Dambergeac when we were students at the Ecole +de Droit; we lived in the same Hotel on the Place du Panthéon. 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, Dambergeac, 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 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 acquaintance. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +himself—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 pitilessly, however, and +adopted a Brutus, as being more revolutionary: 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 examinations, 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 congregate the ‘reading men’ of our schools. But, in +revenge, there was not a milliner’s shop, or a lingère’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 occasionally come to us of fabulous +adventures by him accomplished in the far regions of the Rue de la Paix and the +Boulevard Poissonnière. 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 Harmodius was acknowledged by us all, and we +never thought of a rivalry with him. No man ever cantered a hack through the +Champs Elysées 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 Béranger with such a roaring melodious +bass. He was the monarch of the Prado in winter: in summer of the Chaumière and +Mont Parnasse. Not a frequenter of those fashionable places of entertainment +showed a more amiable laisser-aller 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, Harmodius was the prince of mauvais sujets, a youth +with all the accomplishments of Göttingen and Jena, and all the eminent graces +of his own country. +</p> + +<p> +“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 Patrie 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 à 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 celebrated 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 Constitutionnel (Liberals, in those days, +swore by the Constitutionnel), harangued peers and deputies who had deserved +well of their country; and if death happened to fall on such, and the +Constitutionnel declared their merit, Harmodius was the very first to attend +their obsequies, or to set his shoulder to their coffins. +</p> + +<p> +“Such were his tastes and passions: his antipathies were not less lively. +He detested three things: a Jesuit, a gendarme, 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 preachings in the churches. ‘Infâmes +jesuites!’ would Harmodius exclaim, who, in the excess of his toleration, +tolerated nothing; and, at the head of a band of philosophers like himself, +would attend with scrupulous exactitude the meetings of the reverend gentlemen. +But, instead of a contrite heart, Harmodius only brought the abomination of +desolation into their sanctuary. A perpetual fire of fulminating balls would +bang from under the feet of the faithful; odors of impure assafoetida would +mingle with the fumes of the incense; and wicked drinking choruses would rise +up along with the holy canticles, in hideous dissonance, reminding one of the +old orgies under the reign of the Abbot of Unreason. +</p> + +<p> +“His hatred of the gendarmes was equally ferocious: and as for the +claqueurs, woe be to them when Harmodius was in the pit! They knew him, and +trembled before him, like the earth before Alexander; and his famous war-cry, +‘La Carte au chapeau!’ was so much dreaded, that the +‘entrepreneurs de succès dramatiques’ demanded twice as much to do +the Odeon Theatre (which we students and Harmodius frequented), as to applaud +at any other place of amusement: and, indeed, their double pay was hardly +gained; Harmodius taking care that they should earn the most of it under the +benches.” +</p> + +<p> +This passage, with which we have taken some liberties, will give the reader a +more lively idea of the reckless, jovial, turbulent Paris student, than any +with which a foreigner could furnish him: the grisette is his heroine; and dear +old Béranger, 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 countrymen 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 +</p> + +<p class="center"> +THE SOUS-PRÉFET. +</p> + +<p> +“Saying that I would wait for Dambergeac in his own study, I was +introduced into that apartment, and saw around me the usual furniture of a man +in his station. There was, in the middle of the room, a large bureau, +surrounded by orthodox arm-chairs; and there were many shelves with boxes duly +ticketed; there were a number of maps, and among them a great one of the +department over which Dambergeac ruled; and facing the windows, on a wooden +pedestal, stood a plaster-cast of the ‘Roi des Français.’ +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 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 +gentleman, with a cocked-hat and feathers, wearing a blue and silver uniform +coat, descended from the vehicle; and having, with much grave condescension, +saluted his escort, mounted the stair. A moment afterwards the door of the +study was opened, and I embraced my friend. +</p> + +<p> +“After the first warmth and salutations, we began to examine each other +with an equal curiosity, for eight years had elapsed since we had last met. +</p> + +<p> +“‘You are grown very thin and pale,’ said Harmodius, after a +moment. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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 appearance a pompous well-fed look that by +no means pleased. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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 arrondissement.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘What!’ said I, ‘you have gendarmes for guards, and +dance attendance on bishops? There are no more janissaries and Jesuits, I +suppose?’ The sub-prefect smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I assure you that my gendarmes are very worthy fellows; and that +among the gentlemen who compose our clergy there are some of the very best rank +and talent: besides, my wife is niece to one of the vicars-general.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘What have you done with that great Tasso beard that poor +Armandine used to love so?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘My wife does not like a beard; and you know that what is +permitted to a student is not very becoming to a magistrate.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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 snuff at a sitting.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ah! apropos 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Impossible, my dear; I don’t smoke; my wife cannot bear a +cigar.’ +</p> + +<p> +“His wife! thought I; always his wife: and I remember Juliette, who +really grew sick at the smell of a pipe, and Harmodius 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 self-same head that I +had before remarked in plaster, but this time surrounded with a ring of pretty +princes and princesses, 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 sentimental and personal devotion, +such as the old Royalists were only supposed to be guilty of. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What! you are turned decided juste milieu?’ said I. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I am a sous-préfet,’ answered Harmodius. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Madame is waiting for Monsieur,’ said he: ‘the last +bell has gone, and mass beginning.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mass!’ said I, bounding up from my chair. ‘You at +mass like a decent serious Christian, without crackers in your pocket, and +bored keys to whistle through?’—The sous-préfet 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.’” +</p> + +<p> +There is a great deal of curious matter for speculation in the accounts here so +wittily given by M. de Bernard: but, perhaps, 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 all together convey. In the first place, our author describes a swindler +imitating the manners of a dandy; and many swindlers and dandies be there, +doubtless, in London as well as in Paris. But there is about the present +swindler, and about Monsieur Dambergeac the student, and Monsieur Dambergeac +the sous-préfet, 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 Gustan, and +his smirking whispers, about the Duchess of San Severino, who pour son bonheur +particulier, &c. &c. Listen to Monsieur Dambergeac’s +friend’s remonstrances concerning pauvre Juliette who grew sick at the +smell of a pipe; to his naïve admiration at the fact that the sous-préfet 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 professing irreligion 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 gentleman: there is +ease, grace and ton, in his style, which, if we judge aright, cannot be +discovered in Balzac, or Soulié, 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-creature meets the fascinating Gerfaut at Paris; instantly the +latter makes love to her; a duel takes place: baron killed; wife throws herself +out of window; Gerfaut plunges into dissipation; and so the tale ends. +</p> + +<p> +Next: “La Femme de Quarante Ans,” a capital tale, full of exquisite +fun and sparkling satire: La femme de quarante ans has a husband and THREE +lovers; all of whom find out their mutual connection one 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;” “Isadore, when that bright planet +sparkles in the sky, remember your Caroline,” &c. +</p> + +<p> +“Un Acte de Vertu,” from which we have taken Dambergeac’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! +</p> + +<p> +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. Honoré, and +has a noble Duchess for a mistress: he introduces her Grace to the Countess his +wife. The Countess his wife, in order to ramener 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, death, +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, AND TAKING A SECOND LOVER, to the utter +despair, confusion, and annihilation of the first. +</p> + +<p> +Why, ye gods, do Frenchmen marry at all? Had Père 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 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 propound his scheme for the regeneration +of France? +</p> + +<p> +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 convenance 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 inveighing 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 remarkable naïf 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 crême +de la crême de la haute volée 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 influence, the whole of his future life.” +</p> + +<p> +Is it not remarkable, that a young nobleman, with these ideas, should not pitch +upon a demoiselle, or a widow, at least? but no, the rogue must have a married +woman, bad luck to him; and what his fate is to be, is thus recounted by our +author, in the shape of +</p> + +<p> +A FRENCH FASHIONABLE CONVERSATION. +</p> + +<p> +“A lady, with a great deal of esprit, to whom forty years’ +experience of the great world had given a prodigious perspicacity 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 prevent him for ever from bending +to the exigencies of either profession; but, unless I very much deceive myself, +he will, one day, be the hero of a veritable romance.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘He, madame?’ answered a young man, of fair complexion and +fair hair, one of the most devoted slaves of the fashion:—‘He, +Madame la Duchesse? why, the man is, at best, but an original, fished out of +the Rhine: a dull, heavy creature, as much capable of understanding a +woman’s heart as I am of speaking bas-Breton.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well, Monsieur de Belport, you will speak bas-Breton. Monsieur de +Stolberg has not your admirable ease of manner, nor your facility of telling +pretty nothings, nor your—in a word, that particular something which +makes you the most recherché 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“All this was said by the Duchess, with a certain air of raillery and +such a mixture of earnest and malice, that Monsieur 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?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘O mon Dieu, oui,’ said the Duchess, always in the same +tone; ‘because a lover like you would never think of carrying his +attachment to the height of passion; and these passions, do you know, have +frightened me all my life. One cannot retreat at will from the grasp of a +passionate lover; one leaves behind one some fragment of one’s moral +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 Belport—you +who are reputed to be the leader of the fashion.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Perfectly,’ murmured the gentleman, piqued more and more. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Gerard de Stolberg WILL 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 fancy that a hero of romance should be found among your +number. Gerard de Stolberg—but, look, here he comes!’ +</p> + +<p> +“M. de Belport rose, and quitted the Duchess, without believing in her +prophecy; but he could not avoid smiling as he passed near the HERO OF ROMANCE. +</p> + +<p> +“It was because M. de Stolberg had never, in all his life, been a hero of +romance, or even an apprentice-hero of romance. +</p> + +<p> +“Gerard de Stolberg was not, as yet, initiated into the thousand 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 information which he could acquire from the indiscreet conversations 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 confidential chatter of a company of idle women. No man present at a ball, +whether listener or speaker, thinks he has a right to affect any indulgence for +his companions, and the most learned in malice will always pass for the most +witty. +</p> + +<p> +“‘How!’ said the Viscount de Mondragé: ‘the Duchess of +Rivesalte arrives alone to-night, without her inevitable +Dormilly!’—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 salute, and replied to the looks of +the men BY BRILLIANT VEILED GLANCES FULL OF COQUETRY AND ATTACK. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Parbleu!’ said an elegant personage standing near the +Viscount de Mondragé, ‘don’t you see Dormilly ranged behind the +Duchess, in quality of train-bearer, and hiding, under his long locks and his +great screen of moustaches, the blushing consciousness of his good +luck?—They call him THE FOURTH CHAPTER of the Duchess’s memoirs. +The little Marquise d’Alberas is ready to die out of spite; but the best +of the joke is, that she has only taken poor de Vendre for a lover in order to +vent her spleen on him. Look at him against the chimney yonder; if the +Marchioness do not break at once with him by quitting him for somebody else, +the poor fellow will turn an idiot.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Jealous! the very incarnation of jealousy; the second edition, +revised, corrected, and considerably enlarged; as jealous as poor Gressigny, +who is dying of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘What! Gressigny too? why, ’tis growing quite into fashion: +egad! I must try and be jealous,’ said Monsieur de Beauval. ‘But +see! here comes the delicious Duchess of Bellefiore,’” &c. +&c. &c. +</p> + +<p> +Enough, enough: this kind of fashionable Parisian conversation, which is, says +our author, “a prodigious labor of improvising,” a +“chef-d’oeuvre,” a “strange and singular thing, in +which monotony is unknown,” seems to be, if correctly reported, a +“strange and singular thing” indeed; but somewhat monotonous at +least to an English reader, and “prodigious” only, if we may take +leave to say so, for the wonderful rascality which all the conversationists +betray. Miss Neverout and the Colonel, in Swift’s famous dialogue, are a +thousand times more entertaining and moral; and, besides, we can laugh AT those +worthies as well as with them; whereas the “prodigious” French wits +are to us quite incomprehensible. Fancy a duchess 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!—Parbleu, 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"></a> A GAMBLER’S DEATH. +</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Or as you used to do, Attwood, when Swishtail hauled you up,” +piped out little Hicks, the foundation-boy. +</p> + +<p> +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 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. +</p> + +<p> +When we came to think more coolly over our quondam schoolfellow’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: 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 magnificent rumor would reach us +of his proceedings. Once I heard that he had been called to a court-martial for +unbecoming conduct; another time, that he kept twenty horses, and won the gold +plate at the Calcutta races. Presently, however, as the recollections of the +fifth form wore away, Jack’s image disappeared likewise, and I ceased to +ask or think about my college chum. +</p> + +<p> +A year since, as I was smoking my cigar in the “Estaminet du Grand +Balcon,” an excellent smoking-shop, where the tobacco 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?” +</p> + +<p> +I confess my recognition of him was not so joyful as on the day ten years +earlier, when he had come, bedizened with lace and gold rings, to see us at +C—— school: a man in the tenth part of a century learns a deal of +worldly wisdom, and his hand, which goes naturally forward to seize the gloved +finger of a millionnaire, 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 +OFF poor Blank, when he came to borrow five pounds of you. +</p> + +<p> +However, the genial influence of the Hollands speedily dissipated 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 Swishtail. 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 conversation 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:— +</p> + +<p> +IOU Five Pounds. JOHN ATTWOOD, Late of the N—th Dragoons. +</p> + +<p> +I suppose Attwood borrowed the money, from this remarkable and ceremonious +acknowledgment on his part: had I been sober I would just as soon have lent him +the nose on my face; for, in my then circumstances, the note was of much more +consequence to me. +</p> + +<p> +As I lay, cursing my ill fortune, and thinking how on earth I should manage to +subsist for the next two months, Attwood 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 Mr. +Attwood produced a handful of gold, or a glittering heap of five-franc pieces, +or a bundle of greasy, dusky bank-notes, more beautiful 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. +</p> + +<p> +However, a grand breakfast at the Café 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 restaurateurs’ and boarding-houses of the +capital. Madame de Saint Laurent, and Madame la Baronne de Vaudrey, and Madame +la Comtesse de Jonville, ladies of the highest rank, who keep a société choisie +and condescend to give dinners at five-francs a head, vied with each other in +their attentions to Jack. His was the wing of the fowl, and the largest portion +of the Charlotte-Russe; his was the place at the écarté 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, daredevil, Macheath kind of fellow, who might be seen daily with a +wife on each arm. +</p> + +<p> +It may be supposed that, with the life he led, his five hundred 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. +</p> + +<p> +Of course, such a humble fellow as I, could not hope for a continued +acquaintance and intimacy with Attwood. He grew overbearing and cool, I +thought; at any rate I did not admire my situation as his follower and +dependant, and left his grand dinner for a certain ordinary, where I could +partake of five capital dishes for ninepence. Occasionally, however, Attwood +favored me with a visit, or gave me a drive behind his great cab-horse. He had +formed a whole host of friends besides. There was Fips, the barrister; heaven +knows what he was doing at Paris; and Gortz, the West Indian, who was there on +the same business, and Flapper, a medical student,—all these three I met +one night at Flapper’s rooms, where Jack was invited, and a great +“spread” was laid in honor of him. +</p> + +<p> +Jack arrived rather late—he looked pale and agitated; and, though he ate +no supper, he drank raw brandy in such a manner as made Flapper’s eyes +wink: the poor fellow had but three bottles, and Jack bade fair to swallow them +all. However, the West Indian generously remedied the evil, and producing a +napoleon, we speedily got the change for it in the shape of four bottles of +champagne. +</p> + +<p> +Our supper was uproariously harmonious; Fips sung the good “Old English +Gentleman;” Jack the “British Grenadiers;” and your humble +servant, when called upon, sang that beautiful ditty, “When the Bloom is +on the Rye,” in a manner that drew tears from every eye, except +Flapper’s, who was asleep, and Jack’s, who was singing the +“Bay of Biscay O,” at the same time. Gortz and Fips were all the +time lunging at each other with a pair of single-sticks, the barrister having a +very strong notion that he was Richard the Third. At last Fips hit the West +Indian such a blow across his sconce, that the other grew furious; he seized a +champagne-bottle, which was, providentially, empty, and hurled it across the +room at Fips: had that celebrated barrister not bowed his head at the moment, +the Queen’s Bench would have lost one of its most eloquent practitioners. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Attwood, who, in spite of his potations, seemed the soberest man of the party, +had much enjoyed the scene, until this sudden demand for the weapons. +“Pshaw!” said he, eagerly, “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 Attwood, looking much +confused; “I—I took the pistols home with me to clean them!” +</p> + +<p> +I don’t know what there was in his tone, or in the words, but we were +sobered all of a sudden. Attwood was conscious of the singular effect produced +by him, for he blushed, and endeavored to speak of other things, but we could +not bring our spirits back to the mark again, and soon separated for the night. +As we issued into the street Jack took me aside, and whispered, “Have 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. +</p> + +<p> +He did not make any reply, but turned away homeward: I never heard him speak +another word. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +“DEAR T.,—I wish you would come over here to breakfast. +There’s a row about Attwood.—Yours truly, +</p> + +<p> +“SOLOMON GORTZ.” +</p> + +<p> +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 company of Mr Fips, a large plate of bifteck aux pommes. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s a pretty row!” said Gortz, quoting from his +letter;—“Attwood’s off—have a bit of beefsteak?” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” exclaimed I, adopting the familiar phraseology +of my acquaintances:—“Attwood off?—has he cut his +stick?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not bad,” said the feeling and elegant Fips—“not such +a bad guess, my boy; but he has not exactly CUT HIS STICK.” +</p> + +<p> +“What then?” +</p> + +<p> +“WHY, HIS THROAT.” The man’s mouth was full of bleeding beef +as he uttered this gentlemanly witticism. +</p> + +<p> +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 associate of the last few months, I own, with shame, that +I had not a tear or a pang. In some German tale there is an account of a +creature most beautiful and bewitching, whom all men admire and follow; but +this charming and fantastic spirit only leads them, one by one, into ruin, and +then leaves them. The novelist, who 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 friendship 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 clothing; he had pawned everything by which he could +raise a penny—desk, books, dressing-case, and clothes; and not a single +halfpenny was found in his possession.[*] +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* In order to account for these trivial details, the reader must be told that +the story is, for the chief part, a fact; and that the little sketch in this +page was TAKEN FROM NATURE. The latter was likewise a copy from one found in +the manner described. +</p> + +<p> +He was lying as I have drawn him,[*] one hand on his breast, the other falling +towards the ground. There was an expression of perfect 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 vigorous 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. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* This refers to an illustrated edition of the work. +</p> + +<p> +“Regardez un peu,” said the landlady, “messieurs, il +m’a gâté trois matelas, et il me doit quarante quatre francs.” +</p> + +<p> +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 curiosity, watching it with a kind of interest with which one follows 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 acquaintances of former days, and ran thus:— +</p> + +<p> +“Où es tu, cher Jack? why you not come and see me—tu me dois de +l’argent, entends tu?—un chapeau, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Adieu à demain. +</p> + +<p> +“Fifine. +</p> + +<p> +“Samedi.” +</p> + +<p> +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 recognize Attwood. “ADIEU À +DEMAIN!”—there was a dreadful meaning in the words, which the +writer of them little knew. “Adieu à 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 desperation, +was he worse than any of us, his companions, who had shared his debauches, and +marched with him up to the very brink of the grave? +</p> + +<p> +There is but one more circumstance to relate regarding poor Jack—his +burial; it was of a piece with his death. +</p> + +<p> +He was nailed into a paltry coffin and buried, at the expense of the +arrondissement, in a nook of the burial-place beyond the Barrière de +l’Etoile. They buried him at six o’clock, of a bitter +winter’s morning, and it was with difficulty that an English clergyman +could be found to read a service over his grave. The three men who have figured +in this 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 +ALMOST DRUNK as they followed his coffin to its resting-place. +</p> + +<p> +MORAL. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"></a> NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. +</h2> + +<h3>ON PRINCE LOUIS NAPOLEON’S WORK.</h3> + +<p> +Any person who recollects the history of the absurd outbreak 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. Simoninnism was +followed by a respectable body of admirers; 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, grasping, disappointed one. +</p> + +<p> +In the first place, and don’t let us 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, permanent 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 +denunciations 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 late, have had the uppermost, they perpetuate the +shame and mortification of the losing party, the bitterness of past defeats, +and the eager desire to avenge them. A party which knows how to exploiter this +hatred will always be popular to a certain extent; and the imperial scheme has +this, at least, among its conditions. +</p> + +<p> +Then there is the favorite claptrap of the “natural frontier.” The +Frenchman yearns to be bounded by the Rhine and the Alps; and next follows the +cry, “Let France take her place among nations, and direct, as she ought +to do, the affairs of Europe.” These are the two chief articles contained +in the new imperial programme, if we may credit the journal which has been +established to advocate the cause. A natural boundary—stand among the +nations—popular development—Russian alliance, and a reduction of la +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 Napoleon’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 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 Vendemiaire, +when General Bonaparte believed in the excellence of a Directory, it may be +remembered that he aided his opinions by forty pieces of artillery, and by +Colonel Murat at the head of his dragoons. There was no resisting such a +philosopher; the Directory was established forthwith, and the sacred cause of +the minority triumphed, in like manner, when the General was convinced of the +weakness of the 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 appeared to guide the destinies of France! How much more expeditious, +reasonable, and clinching was this argument of the 18th Brumaire, than any one +that can be found in any pamphlet! 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. +</p> + +<p> +At least this is our interpretation of the manner in which were always +propagated the Idées Napoléoniennes. 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 “testamentary +executor 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 Revolution’s natural heirs, and +made her, as it were, ALTER HER WILL; on the 18th 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. +</p> + +<p> +In the Prince’s eyes, then, his uncle is a god; of all monarchs, the most +wise, upright, and merciful. Thirty years ago the opinion had millions of +supporters; while millions again 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 and horror, twenty-five years ago, for the man +whom we used to call the “bloody Corsican upstart and assassin?” +What stories did we not believe of him?—what murders, rapes, robberies, +not lay to his charge?—we who were living within a few miles of his +territory, and might, by books and newspapers, be made as well acquainted with +his merits or demerits as any of his own countrymen. +</p> + +<p> +Then was the age when the Idées Napoléoniennes might have passed through many +editions; for while we were thus outrageously bitter, our neighbors were as +extravagantly attached to him by a strange infatuation—adored him like a +god, whom we chose to consider as a fiend; and vowed that, under his +government, their nation had attained its highest pitch of grandeur and glory. +In revenge there existed in England (as is proved by a thousand authentic +documents) a monster so hideous, a tyrant so ruthless and bloody, that the +world’s history cannot show his parallel. This ruffian’s name was, +during the early part of the French revolution, Pittetcobourg. +Pittetcobourg’s emissaries were in every corner of France; +Pittetcobourg’s gold chinked in the pockets of every traitor in Europe; +it menaced the life of the godlike Robespierre; it drove into cellars and fits +of delirium even the gentle philanthropist Marat; it fourteen times caused the +dagger to be lifted against the bosom of the First Consul, Emperor, and +King,—that first, great, glorious, irresistible, cowardly, contemptible, +bloody hero and fiend, Bonaparte, before mentioned. +</p> + +<p> +On our side of the Channel we have had leisure, long since, to re-consider our +verdict against Napoleon; though, to be sure, we have not changed our opinion +about Pittetcobourg. After five-and-thirty years all parties bear witness to +his honesty, and speak with affectionate reverence of his patriotism, his +genius, and his private virtue. In France, however, or, at least among certain +parties in France, there has been no such modification of opinion. With the +Republicans, Pittetcobourg is Pittetcobourg still,—crafty, bloody, +seeking whom he may devour; and perfide Albion more perfidious than ever. This +hatred is the point of union between the Republic and the Empire; it has been +fostered ever since, and must be continued by Prince Louis, if he would hope to +conciliate both parties. +</p> + +<p> +With regard to the Emperor, then, Prince Louis erects to his memory as fine a +monument as his wits can raise. One need not say that the imperial +apologist’s opinion should be received with the utmost caution; for a man +who has such a hero for an uncle may naturally be proud of and partial to him; +and when this nephew of the great man would be his heir likewise, and, hearing +his name, step also into his imperial shoes, one may reasonably look for much +affectionate panegyric. “The empire was the best of empires,” cries +the Prince; and possibly it was; undoubtedly, the Prince thinks it was; but he +is the very last person who would convince a man with the proper suspicious +impartiality. One remembers a certain consultation of politicians which is +recorded in the Spelling-book; and the opinion of that patriotic sage who +avowed that, for a real blameless constitution, an impenetrable shield for +liberty, and cheap defence of nations, there was nothing like leather. +</p> + +<p> +Let us examine some of the Prince’s article. If we may be allowed humbly +to express an opinion, his leather is not only quite insufficient for those +vast public purposes for which he destines it, but is, moreover, and in itself, +very BAD LEATHER. The hides are poor, small, unsound slips of skin; or, to drop +this cobbling metaphor, the style is not particularly brilliant, the facts not +very startling, and, as for the conclusions, one may differ with almost every +one of them. Here is an extract from his first chapter, “on governments +in general:”— +</p> + +<p> +“I speak it with regret, I can see but two governments, at this day, +which fulfil the mission that Providence has confided to them; they are the two +colossi at the end of the world; one at the extremity of the old world, the +other at the extremity of the new. Whilst our old European centre is as a +volcano, consuming itself in its crater, the two nations of the East and the +West, march without hesitation, towards perfection; the one under the will of a +single individual, the other under liberty. +</p> + +<p> +“Providence has confided to the United States of North America the task +of peopling and civilizing that immense territory which stretches from the +Atlantic to the South Sea, and from the North Pole to the Equator. The +Government, which is only a simple administration, has only hitherto been +called upon to put in practice the old adage, Laissez faire, laissez passer, in +order to favor that irresistible instinct which pushes the people of America to +the west. +</p> + +<p> +“In Russia it is to the imperial dynasty that is owing all the vast +progress which, in a century and a half, has rescued that empire from +barbarism. The imperial power must contend against all the ancient prejudices +of our old Europe: it must centralize, as far as possible, all the powers of +the state in the hands of one person, in order to destroy the abuses which the +feudal and communal franchises have served to perpetuate. The last alone can +hope to receive from it the improvements which it expects. +</p> + +<p> +“But thou, France of Henry IV., of Louis XIV., of Carnot, of +Napoleon—thou, who wert always for the west of Europe the source of +progress, who possessest in thyself the two great pillars of empire, the genius +for the arts of peace and the genius of war—hast thou no further mission +to fulfil? Wilt thou never cease to waste thy force and energies in intestine +struggles? No; such cannot be thy destiny: the day will soon come, when, to +govern thee, it will be necessary to understand that thy part is to place in +all treaties thy sword of Brennus on the side of civilization.” +</p> + +<p> +These are the conclusions of the Prince’s remarks upon governments in +general; and it must be supposed that the reader is very little wiser at the +end than at the beginning. But two governments in the world fulfil their +mission: the one government, which is no government; the other, which is a +despotism. The duty of France is IN ALL TREATIES to place her sword of Brennus +in the scale of civilization. Without quarrelling with the somewhat confused +language of the latter proposition, may we ask what, in heaven’s name, is +the meaning of all the three? What is this épée de Brennus? and how is France +to use it? Where is the great source of political truth, from which, flowing +pure, we trace American republicanism in one stream, Russian despotism in +another? Vastly prosperous is the great republic, if you will: if dollars and +cents constitute happiness, there is plenty for all: but can any one, who has +read of the American doings in the late frontier troubles, and the daily +disputes on the slave question, praise the GOVERNMENT of the States?—a +Government which dares not punish homicide or arson performed before its very +eyes, and which the pirates of Texas and the pirates of Canada can brave at +their will? There is no government, but a prosperous anarchy; as the +Prince’s other favorite government is a prosperous slavery. What, then, +is to be the épée de Brennus government? Is it to be a mixture of the two? +“Society,” writes the Prince, axiomatically, “contains in +itself two principles—the one of progress and immortality, the other of +disease and disorganization.” No doubt; and as the one tends towards +liberty, so the other is only to be cured by order: and then, with a singular +felicity, Prince Louis picks us out a couple of governments, in one of which +the common regulating power is as notoriously too weak, as it is in the other +too strong, and talks in rapturous terms of the manner in which they fulfil +their “providential mission!” +</p> + +<p> +From these considerations on things in general, the Prince conducts us to +Napoleon in particular, and enters largely into a discussion of the merits of +the imperial system. Our author speaks of the Emperor’s advent in the +following grandiose way:— +</p> + +<p> +“Napoleon, on arriving at the public stage, saw that his part was to be +the TESTAMENTARY EXECUTOR of the Revolution. The destructive fire of parties +was extinct; and when the Revolution, dying, but not vanquished, delegated to +Napoleon the accomplishment of her last will, she said to him, ‘Establish +upon solid bases the principal result of my efforts. Unite divided Frenchmen. +Defeat feudal Europe that is leagued against me. Cicatrize my wounds. Enlighten +the nations. Execute that in width, which I have had to perform in depth. Be +for Europe what I have been for France. 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, wandering over the face of the earth, never +abandon the sacred cause of the French people. Insure its triumph by all the +means which genius can discover and humanity approve.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 becomes the +basis of new social order. +</p> + +<p> +“Liberty will follow the same march as the Christian religion. Armed with +death from the ancient society of Rome, 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 Charlemagne bore it +triumphant throughout Europe. Religion then laid down her arms of war. It laid +open to all the principles of peace and order which it contained; it became the +prop of Government, as it was the organizing element of society. Thus will it +be with liberty. In 1793 it frightened people and sovereigns alike; then, +having clothed itself in a milder garb, IT INSINUATED ITSELF EVERYWHERE IN THE +TRAIN OF OUR BATTALIONS. In 1815 all parties adopted its flag, and armed +themselves with its moral force—covered themselves with its colors. The +adoption was not sincere, and liberty was soon obliged to reassume its warlike +accoutrements. With the contest their fears returned. Let us hope that they +will soon cease, and that liberty will soon resume her peaceful standards, to +quit them no more. +</p> + +<p> +“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, however, was the case. Napoleon rooted the +revolution in France, and introduced, throughout Europe, the principal benefits +of the crisis of 1789. To use his own words, ‘He purified the 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, disfigured it. He ennobled the people in giving them the +consciousness of their force, and those institutions which raise men in their +own eyes. The Emperor may be considered as the Messiah of the new ideas; +for—and we must confess it—in the moments immediately succeeding a +social revolution, it is not so essential to put rigidly into practice all the +propositions resulting from the new theory, but to become master of the +regenerative genius, to identify one’s self with the sentiments of the +people, and boldly to direct them towards the desired point. To accomplish such +a task YOUR FIBRE SHOULD RESPOND TO THAT OF THE PEOPLE, as the Emperor said; +you should feel like it, your interests should be so intimately raised with its +own, that you should vanquish or fall together.” +</p> + +<p> +Let us take breath after these big phrases,—grand round figures of +speech,—which, when put together, amount like certain other combinations +of round figures to exactly 0. We shall not stop to argue the merits and +demerits of Prince Louis’s notable comparison between the Christian +religion and the Imperial-revolutionary system. There are many blunders in the +above extract as we read it; blundering metaphors, blundering arguments, and +blundering assertions; but this is surely the grandest blunder of all; and one +wonders at the blindness of the legislator and historian who can advance such a +parallel. And what are we to say of the legacy of the dying revolution to +Napoleon? Revolutions do not die, and, on their death-beds, making fine +speeches, hand over their property to young officers of artillery. We have all +read the history of his rise. The constitution of the year III. was carried. +Old men of the Montagne, disguised royalists, Paris sections, PITTETCOBOURG, +above all, with his money-bags, thought that here was a fine opportunity for a +revolt, and opposed the new constitution in arms: the new constitution had +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 +Arcola—now he flies before it over the fatal plain of Waterloo. +</p> + +<p> +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 dictatorial than might possibly be agreeable. For this +the Prince has always an answer ready—it is the same poor one that +Napoleon uttered a million of times to his companions in exile—the excuse +of necessity. He WOULD have been very liberal, but that the people were not fit +for it; or that the cursed war prevented him—or any other reason why. His +first duty, however, says his apologist, was to form a general union of +Frenchmen, and he set about his plan in this wise:— +</p> + +<p> +“Let us not forget, that all which Napoleon undertook, in order to create +a general fusion, he performed without renouncing the principles of the +revolution. He recalled the émigrés, without touching upon the law by which +their goods had been confiscated and sold as public property. He reestablished +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 Gallican church. He married a +daughter of the Emperor of Austria, without abandoning any of the rights of +France to the conquests she had made. He reestablished noble titles, without +attaching to them any privileges or prerogatives, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“The first quality of a people which aspires to liberal government, 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 extension. It +was necessary to restore the prestige with which the Government had been +formerly invested, and to make the principles 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 manners; later, it is the manners which make the law, +or preserve it from age to age intact.” +</p> + +<p> +Some of these fusions are amusing. No man in the empire was asked how he was +born, but what he had done; and, accordingly, 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, whose 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 commencement 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 mountebanks from +Astley’s, with dukes’ coronets, and grand blue velvet +marshals’ bâtons? We have repeatedly his words for it. He wanted to +create an aristocracy—another acknowledgment on his part of the +Republican dilemma—another apology for the revolutionary blunder. To keep +the 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? for what have bastiles been battered down, and king’s +heads hurled, as a gage of battle, in the face of armed Europe? To have a Duke +of Otranto instead of a Duke de la Tremouille, and Emperor Stork in place of +King Log. O lame conclusion! Is the blessed revolution which is prophesied for +us in England only to end in establishing 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 Roi trouve convenable that you take the title of,” +&c. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 marcheront avec moi, pour +moi, et comme moi.” And this is the legacy of the revolution, the +advancement 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 and +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—profligati sunt, they are away with the money-bags, and +Louis Stanislas Xavier rolls into the palace of his fathers. +</p> + +<p> +With regard to Napoleon’s excellences as an administrator, a legislator, +a constructor of public works, and a skilful financier, 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 public 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 +Government of which the strength is diffused in many conflicting parties. No +doubt, if we could create a despotical governing machine, a steam +autocrat,—passionless, untiring, and supreme,—we should advance +further, and live more at ease than under any other form of government. +Ministers might enjoy their pensions and follow their own devices; Lord John +might compose histories or 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 [Greek text omitted], his natural +Anacreontics; but alas! not so: if the despotic Government has its good side, +Prince Louis Napoleon must acknowledge that it has its bad, and it is for this +that the civilized world is compelled to substitute for it something more +orderly and less capricious. Good as the Imperial Government might have been, +it must be recollected, too, that since its first fall, both the Emperor and +his admirer and would-be successor have had their chance of re-establishing it. +“Fly from steeple to steeple” the eagles of the former did +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 Napoleon II. +“L’Empereur est mort, vive l’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. +</p> + +<p> +In like manner Napoleon III. returned from exile, and made his appearance on +the frontier. His eagle appeared at Strasburg, 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, however, how soon it may be on +the wing again, and what a flight it will take? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"></a> THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL. +</h2> + +<p> +“Go, my nephew,” said old Father Jacob to me, “and complete +thy studies at Strasburg: Heaven surely hath ordained thee for the ministry in +these times of trouble, and my excellent friend Schneider will work out the +divine intention.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman said that my progress was prodigious, and, without vanity, I +believe he was right, for I then verily considered that praying was my +vocation, and not fighting, as I have found since. +</p> + +<p> +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 patois of Alsacian French; I could utterly overthrow 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. +</p> + +<p> +Our family had long dwelt in this place, and a large farm and a pleasant house +were then in the possession of another uncle—uncle Edward. He was the +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 terrible scamp and scapegrace, quarrelled +with his family, and disappeared altogether, living and dying at Paris; so far +we knew through my mother, who came, poor woman, with me, a child of six +months, on her bosom, was refused all shelter by my grandfather, but was housed +and kindly cared for by my good uncle Jacob. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Edward was himself a widower, with one daughter, Mary, about three years older +than I, and certainly she was the dearest little treasure with which Providence +ever blessed 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 moustache, so I will +drop it, if you please. +</p> + +<p> +Amongst other favors she showed me, Mary used to be particularly 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 +discontinued 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 bestowed by uncle Edward, and sent me reeling some yards +down the garden. +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman, whose tongue was generally as close as his purse, now poured +forth a flood of eloquence which quite astonished me. I did not think that so +much was to be said on any subject as he managed to utter on one, and that was +abuse of me; he stamped, he swore, he screamed; and then, from complimenting +me, he turned to Mary, and saluted her in a manner equally forcible and +significant; she, who was very much frightened at the commencement of the +scene, grew very angry at the coarse words he used, and the wicked motives he +imputed to her. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I did not particularly admire this speech myself, but it had an effect on my +uncle, and was the cause of the words with which this history commences. The +old gentleman persuaded his brother that I must be sent to Strasburg, and there +kept until my studies for the church were concluded. I was furnished with a +letter to my uncle’s old college chum, Professor Schneider, who was to +instruct me in theology and Greek. +</p> + +<p> +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 a letter which she wrote +me a month afterwards—THEN, nobody was by, and the consequence was that +the letter was half washed away with her weeping; if she had used a +watering-pot the thing could not have been better done. +</p> + +<p> +Well, I arrived at Strasburg—a dismal, old-fashioned, rickety town in +those days—and straightway presented myself and letter at +Schneider’s door; over it was written— +</p> + +<p class="center"> +COMITÉ DE SALUT PUBLIC. +</p> + +<p> +Would you believe it? I was so ignorant a young fellow, that I had no idea of +the meaning of the words; however, I entered the citizen’s room without +fear, and sat down in his ante-chamber until I could be admitted to see him. +</p> + +<p> +Here I found very few indications of his reverence’s profession; the +walls were hung round with portraits of Robespierre, Marat, and the like; a +great bust of Mirabeau, mutilated, with the word Traître underneath; lists and +republican proclamations, tobacco-pipes and fire-arms. At a deal-table, stained +with grease and wine, sat a gentleman, with a huge pigtail dangling down to +that part of his 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, +pimpled face, which I dream of now at forty years’ distance. +</p> + +<p> +“Father who?” said he. “Do you imagine that citizen Schneider +has not thrown off the absurd mummery of priesthood? 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. +</p> + +<p> +I was in amazement. +</p> + +<p> +“What is he? Is he not a teacher of Greek, an abbé, a monk, until +monasteries were abolished, the learned editor of the songs of +‘Anacreon?’” +</p> + +<p> +“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 tumbler of beer.” +</p> + +<p> +He swallowed, himself, the frothy liquid, and then proceeded to give me the +history of the man to whom my uncle had sent me for instruction. +</p> + +<p> +Schneider was born in 1756: was a student at Würzburg, 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 +Würtemberg. The doctrines of the Illuminati began about this time to spread in +Germany, and Schneider speedily joined 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. +</p> + +<p> +[“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.”] +</p> + +<p> +By the time that my friend had concluded Schneider’s biography, we had +grown tolerably intimate, and I imparted to him (with that experience so +remarkable in youth) my whole history—my course of studies, my pleasant +country life, the names and qualities of my dear relations, and my occupations +in the vestry before religion was abolished by order of the Republic. In the +course of my speech I recurred so often to the name of my cousin Mary, that the +gentleman could not fail to perceive what a tender place she had in my heart. +</p> + +<p> +Then we reverted to “The Sorrows of Werter,” and discussed 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 correspond, in some degree, with his own situation. +</p> + +<p> +“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 forget it. Would that we could shake off our cares +as men, and be boys, as thou art, again!” +</p> + +<p> +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 +endeavoring to discover what his situation might be, when the door of the next +apartment opened, and Schneider made his appearance. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +My friend slunk muttering out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +“That fellow,” said Schneider, turning to me, “is our public +executioner: a capital hand too if he would but keep decent time; but the brute +is always drunk, and blubbering over ‘The Sorrows of +Werter!’” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 Emigrés, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 “Fête of the +Supreme Being” had been celebrated at Paris; the practice of our ancient +religion was forbidden; its professors were most of them in concealment, or in +exile, or had expiated on the scaffold their crime of Christianity. In our poor +village my uncle’s church was closed, and he, himself, an inmate in my +brother’s house, only owing his safety to his great popularity among his +former flock, and the influence of Edward Ancel. +</p> + +<p> +The latter had taken in the Revolution a somewhat prominent part; that is, he +had engaged in many contracts for the army, attended the clubs regularly, +corresponded with the authorities of his department, and was loud in his +denunciations of the aristocrats in the neighborhood. But owing, perhaps, to +the German origin of the peasantry, and their quiet and rustic lives, the +revolutionary fury which prevailed in the cities had hardly reached the 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. +</p> + +<p> +Now and then, when I could gain a week’s leave of absence, I returned to +the village, and was received with tolerable politeness by my uncle, and with a +warmer feeling by his daughter. +</p> + +<p> +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 surplice torn off +his shoulders, and he was only too lucky in keeping 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. +</p> + +<p> +(Here the Captain paused a little.) You may fancy (continued he) that it was +droll advice of a reverend gentleman like uncle Jacob to counsel me in this +manner, and to bid me make friends with such a murderous cut-throat as +Schneider; but we thought nothing of it in those days; guillotining was as +common as dancing, and a man was only thought the better patriot the more +severe he might be. I departed forthwith to Strasburg, and requested the vote +and interest of the Citizen President of the Committee of Public Safety. +</p> + +<p> +He heard me with a great deal of attention. I described 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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +The very same evening an officer waited upon me with the following note from +Saint Just:— +</p> + +<p> +“STRASBURG, Fifth year of the Republic, one and indivisible, 11 Ventose. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Salut et Fraternité.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no choice but obedience, and off I sped on my weary way to the +capital. +</p> + +<p> +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 bourreau +was reading “The Sorrows of Werter,” and looked as sentimental as +usual. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 his old friend. Old Jacob was in an ecstasy, for he +longed 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 summoned to give her best dinner, and wear her best +frock; and her father made ready to receive the new State dignitary. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 energetically about the apartment, raging +about the rights of man, the punishment of traitors, and the one and +indivisible republic. +</p> + +<p> +“Jacob,” he said, as my uncle entered the room, “I was +willing, for the sake of our old friendship, to forget the crimes of your +brother. He is a known and dangerous aristocrat; he holds communications with +the enemy on the frontier; he is a possessor of great and ill-gotten wealth, of +which he has plundered 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know,” resumed Schneider, in a voice of thunder, “for +what purpose I came hither, and by whom I am accompanied? 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you hear him?” said Schneider. “The guillotine is in the +court-yard; your name is on my list, and I have witnesses to prove your crime. +Have you a word in your defence?” +</p> + +<p> +Not a word came; the old gentleman was dumb; but his daughter, who did not give +way to his terror, spoke for him. +</p> + +<p> +“You cannot, sir,” said she, “although you say it, FEEL that +my father is guilty; you would not have entered our house thus alone if you had +thought it. You threaten him in this manner because you have something to ask +and to gain from us: what is it, citizen?—tell us how much you value our +lives, and what sum we are to pay for our ransom?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sum!” said uncle Jacob; “he does not want money of us: my +old friend, my college chum, does not come hither to drive bargains with +anybody belonging to Jacob Ancel?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, sir, no, you can’t want money of us,” shrieked +Edward; “we are the poorest people of the village: ruined, Monsieur +Schneider, ruined in the cause of the Republic.” +</p> + +<p> +“Silence, father,” said my brave Mary; “this man wants a +PRICE: he comes, with his worthy friend yonder, to frighten us, not to kill us. +If we die, he cannot touch a sou of our money; it is confiscated to the State. +Tell us, sir, what is the price of our safety?” +</p> + +<p> +Schneider smiled, and bowed with perfect politeness. +</p> + +<p> +“Mademoiselle Marie,” he said, “is perfectly correct in her +surmise. I do not want the life of this poor drivelling old man: my intentions +are much more peaceable, be assured. It rests entirely with this accomplished +young lady (whose spirit I like, and whose ready wit I admire), whether the +business between us shall be a matter of love or death. I humbly offer myself, +citizen Ancel, as a candidate for the hand of your charming daughter. Her +goodness, her beauty, and the large fortune which I know you intend to give +her, would render her a desirable match for the proudest man in the republic, +and, I am sure, would make me the happiest.” +</p> + +<p> +“This must be a jest, Monsieur Schneider,” said Mary, trembling, +and turning deadly pale: “you cannot mean this; you do not know me: you +never heard of me until to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, belle dame,” replied he; “your cousin Pierre has +often talked to me of your virtues; indeed, it was by his special suggestion +that I made the visit.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is false!—it is a base and cowardly lie!” exclaimed she +(for the young lady’s courage was up),—“Pierre never could +have forgotten himself and me so as to offer me to one like you. You come here +with a lie on your lips—a lie against my father, to swear his life away, +against my dear cousin’s honor and love. It is useless now to deny it: +father, I love Pierre Ancel; I will marry no other but him—no, though our +last penny were paid to this man as the price of our freedom.” +</p> + +<p> +Schneider’s only reply to this was a call to his friend Gregoire. +</p> + +<p> +“Send down to the village for the maire and some gendarmes; and tell your +people to make ready.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I put THE MACHINE up?” shouted he of the sentimental turn. +</p> + +<p> +“You hear him,” said Schneider; “Marie Ancel, you may decide +the fate of your father. I shall return in a few hours,” concluded he, +“and will then beg to know your decision.” +</p> + +<p> +The advocate of the rights of man then left the apartment, and left the family, +as you may imagine, in no very pleasant mood. +</p> + +<p> +Old uncle Jacob, during the few minutes which had elapsed in the enactment of +this strange scene, sat staring wildly at Schneider, and holding Mary on his +knees: the poor little thing had fled to him for protection, and not to her +father, who was kneeling almost senseless at the window, gazing at the +executioner and his hideous preparations. The instinct of the poor girl had not +failed her; she knew that Jacob was her only protector, if not of her +life—heaven bless him!—of her honor. “Indeed,” the old +man said, in a stout voice, “this must never be, my dearest +child—you must not marry this man. If it be the will of Providence that +we fall, we shall have at least the thought to console us that we die innocent. +Any man in France at a time like this, would be a coward and traitor if he +feared to meet the fate of the thousand brave and good who have preceded +us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who speaks of dying?” said Edward. “You, Brother +Jacob?—you would not lay that poor girl’s head on the scaffold, or +mine, your dear brother’s. You will not let us die, Mary; you will not, +for a small sacrifice, bring your poor old father into danger?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary made no answer. “Perhaps,” she said, “there is time for +escape: he is to be here but in two hours; in two hours we may be safe, in +concealment, or on the frontier.” And she rushed to the door of the +chamber, as if she would have instantly made the attempt: two gendarmes were at +the door. “We have orders, Mademoiselle,” they said, “to +allow no one to leave this apartment until the return of the citizen +Schneider.” +</p> + +<p> +Alas! all hope of escape was impossible. Mary became quite silent for a while; +she would not speak to uncle Jacob; and, in reply to her father’s eager +questions, she only replied, coldly, that she would answer Schneider when he +arrived. +</p> + +<p> +The two dreadful hours passed away only too quickly; and, punctual to his +appointment, the ex-monk appeared. Directly he entered, Mary advanced to him, +and said, calmly,— +</p> + +<p> +“Sir, I could not deceive you if I said that I freely accepted the offer +which you have made me. I will be your wife; but I tell you that I love +another; and that it is only to save the lives of those two old men that I +yield my person up to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Schneider bowed, and said,— +</p> + +<p> +“It is bravely spoken. I like your candor—your beauty. As for the +love, excuse me for saying that is a matter of total indifference. I have no +doubt, however, that it will come as soon as your feelings in favor of the +young gentleman, your cousin, have lost their present fervor. That engaging +young man has, at present, another mistress—Glory. He occupies, I +believe, the distinguished post of corporal in a regiment which is about to +march to—Perpignan, I believe.” +</p> + +<p> +It was, in fact, Monsieur Schneider’s polite intention to banish me as +far as possible from the place of my birth; and he had, accordingly, selected +the Spanish frontier as the spot where I was to display my future military +talents. +</p> + +<p> +Mary gave no answer to this sneer: she seemed perfectly resigned and calm: she +only said,— +</p> + +<p> +“I must make, however, some conditions regarding our proposed marriage, +which a gentleman of Monsieur Schneider’s gallantry cannot refuse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray command me,” replied the husband elect. “Fair lady, you +know I am your slave.” +</p> + +<p> +“You occupy a distinguished political rank, citizen +representative,” said she; “and we in our village are likewise +known and beloved. I should be ashamed, I confess, to wed you here; for our +people would wonder at the sudden marriage, and imply that it was only by +compulsion that I gave you my hand. Let us, then, perform this ceremony at +Strasburg, before the public authorities of the city, with the state and +solemnity which befits the marriage of one of the chief men of the +Republic.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be it so, madam,” he answered, and gallantly proceeded to embrace +his bride. +</p> + +<p> +Mary did not shrink from this ruffian’s kiss; nor did she reply when poor +old Jacob, who sat sobbing in a corner, burst out, and said,— +</p> + +<p> +“O Mary, Mary, I did not think this of thee!” +</p> + +<p> +“Silence, brother!” hastily said Edward; “my good son-in-law +will pardon your ill-humor.” +</p> + +<p> +I believe uncle Edward in his heart was pleased at the notion of the marriage; +he only cared for money and rank, and was little scrupulous as to the means of +obtaining them. +</p> + +<p> +The matter then was finally arranged; and presently, after Schneider had +transacted the affairs which brought him into that part of the country, the +happy bridal party set forward for Strasburg. Uncles Jacob and Edward occupied +the back seat of the old family carriage, and the young bride and bridegroom +(he was nearly Jacob’s age) were seated majestically in front. Mary has +often since talked to me of this dreadful journey. She said she wondered at the +scrupulous politeness of Schneider during the route; nay, that at another +period she could have listened to and admired the singular talent of this man, +his great learning, his fancy, and wit; but her mind was bent upon other +things, and the poor girl firmly thought that her last day was come. +</p> + +<p> +In the meantime, by a blessed chance, I had not ridden three leagues from +Strasburg, when the officer of a passing troop of a cavalry regiment, looking +at the beast on which I was mounted, was pleased to take a fancy to it, and +ordered me, in an authoritative tone, to descend, and to give up my steed for +the benefit of the Republic. I represented to him, in vain, that I was a +soldier, like himself, and the bearer of despatches to Paris. +“Fool!” he said; “do you think they would send despatches by +a man who can ride at best but ten leagues a day?” And the honest soldier +was so wroth at my supposed duplicity, that he not only confiscated my horse, +but my saddle, and the little portmanteau which contained the chief part of my +worldly goods and treasure. I had nothing for it but to dismount, and take my +way on foot back again to Strasburg. I arrived there in the evening, +determining the next morning to make my case known to the citizen St. Just; and +though I made my entry without a sou, I don’t know what secret exultation +I felt at again being able to return. +</p> + +<p> +The ante-chamber of such a great man as St. Just was, in those days, too +crowded for an unprotected boy to obtain an early audience; two days passed +before I could obtain a sight of the friend of Robespierre. On the third day, +as I was still waiting for the interview, I heard a great bustle in the +courtyard of the house, and looked out with many others at the spectacle. +</p> + +<p> +A number of men and women, singing epithalamiums, and dressed in some absurd +imitation of Roman costume, a troop of soldiers and gendarmerie, and an immense +crowd of the badauds of Strasburg, were surrounding a carriage which then +entered the court of the mayoralty. In this carriage, great God! I saw my dear +Mary, and Schneider by her side. The truth instantly came upon me: the reason +for Schneider’s keen inquiries and my abrupt dismissal; but I could not +believe that Mary was false to me. I had only to look in her face, white and +rigid as marble, to see that this proposed marriage was not with her consent. +</p> + +<p> +I fell back in the crowd as the procession entered the great room in which I +was, and hid my face in my hands: I could not look upon her as the wife of +another,—upon her so long loved and truly—the saint of my +childhood—the pride and hope of my youth—torn from me for ever, and +delivered over to the unholy arms of the murderer who stood before me. +</p> + +<p> +The door of St. Just’s private apartment opened, and he took his seat at +the table of mayoralty just as Schneider and his cortège arrived before it. +</p> + +<p> +Schneider then said that he came in before the authorities of the Republic to +espouse the citoyenne Marie Ancel. +</p> + +<p> +“Is she a minor?” asked St. Just. +</p> + +<p> +“She is a minor, but her father is here to give her away.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am here,” said uncle Edward, coming eagerly forward and bowing. +“Edward Ancel, so please you, citizen representative. The worthy citizen +Schneider has done me the honor of marrying into my family.” +</p> + +<p> +“But my father has not told you the terms of the marriage,” said +Mary, interrupting him, in a loud, clear voice. +</p> + +<p> +Here Schneider seized her hand, and endeavored to prevent her from speaking. +Her father turned pale, and cried, “Stop, Mary, stop! For heaven’s +sake, remember your poor old father’s danger!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir, may I speak?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let the young woman speak,” said St. Just, “if she have a +desire to talk.” He did not suspect what would be the purport of her +story. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” she said, “two days since the citizen Schneider +entered for the first time our house; and you will fancy that it must be a love +of very sudden growth which has brought either him or me before you to-day. He +had heard from a person who is now unhappily not present, of my name and of the +wealth which my family was said to possess; and hence arose this mad design +concerning me. He came into our village with supreme power, an executioner at +his heels, and the soldiery and authorities of the district entirely under his +orders. He threatened my father with death if he refused to give up his +daughter; and I, who knew that there was no chance of escape, except here +before you, consented to become his wife. My father I know to be innocent, for +all his transactions with the State have passed through my hands. Citizen +representative, I demand to be freed from this marriage; and I charge Schneider +as a traitor to the Republic, as a man who would have murdered an innocent +citizen for the sake of private gain.” +</p> + +<p> +During the delivery of this little speech, uncle Jacob had been sobbing and +panting like a broken-winded horse; and when Mary had done, he rushed up to her +and kissed her, and held her tight in his arms. “Bless thee, my +child!” he cried, “for having had the courage to speak the truth, +and shame thy old father and me, who dared not say a word.” +</p> + +<p> +“The girl amazes me,” said Schneider, with a look of astonishment. +“I never saw her, it is true, till yesterday; but I used no force: her +father gave her to me with his free consent, and she yielded as gladly. Speak, +Edward Ancel, was it not so?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was, indeed, by my free consent,” said Edward, trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“For shame, brother!” cried old Jacob. “Sir, it was by +Edward’s free consent and my niece’s; but the guillotine was in the +court-yard! Question Schneider’s famulus, the man Gregoire, him who reads +‘The Sorrows of Werter.’” +</p> + +<p> +Gregoire stepped forward, and looked hesitatingly at Schneider, as he said, +“I know not what took place within doors; but I was ordered to put up the +scaffold without; and I was told to get soldiers, and let no one leave the +house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Citizen St. Just,” cried Schneider, “you will not allow the +testimony of a ruffian like this, of a foolish girl, and a mad ex-priest, to +weigh against the word of one who has done such service to the Republic: it is +a base conspiracy to betray me; the whole family is known to favor the interest +of the émigrés.” +</p> + +<p> +“And therefore you would marry a member of the family, and allow the +others to escape; you must make a better defence, citizen Schneider,” +said St. Just, sternly. +</p> + +<p> +Here I came forward, and said that, three days since, I had received an order +to quit Strasburg for Paris immediately after a conversation with Schneider, in +which I had asked him his aid in promoting my marriage with my cousin, Mary +Ancel; that he had heard from me full accounts regarding her father’s +wealth; and that he had abruptly caused my dismissal, in order to carry on his +scheme against her. +</p> + +<p> +“You are in the uniform of a regiment of this town; who sent you from +it?” said St. Just. +</p> + +<p> +I produced the order, signed by himself, and the despatches which Schneider had +sent me. +</p> + +<p> +“The signature is mine, but the despatches did not come from my office. +Can you prove in any way your conversation with Schneider?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” said my sentimental friend Gregoire, “for the matter +of that, I can answer that the lad was always talking about this young woman: +he told me the whole story himself, and many a good laugh I had with citizen +Schneider as we talked about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“The charge against Edward Ancel must be examined into,” said St. +Just. “The marriage cannot take place. But if I had ratified it, Mary +Ancel, what then would have been your course?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary felt for a moment in her bosom, and said—“He would have died +to-night—I would have stabbed him with this dagger.”[*] +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* This reply, and, indeed, the whole of the story, is historical. An account, +by Charles Nodier, in the Revue de Paris, suggested it to the writer. +</p> + +<p> +The rain was beating down the streets, and yet they were thronged; all the +world was hastening to the market-place, where the worthy Gregoire was about to +perform some of the pleasant duties of his office. On this occasion, it was not +death that he was to inflict; he was only to expose a criminal who was to be +sent on afterwards to Paris. St. Just had ordered that Schneider should stand +for six hours in the public place of Strasburg, and then be sent on to the +capital to be dealt with as the authorities might think fit. +</p> + +<p> +The people followed with execrations the villain to his place of punishment; +and Gregoire grinned as he fixed up to the post the man whose orders he had +obeyed so often—who had delivered over to disgrace and punishment so many +who merited it not. +</p> + +<p> +Schneider was left for several hours exposed to the mockery and insults of the +mob; he was then, according to his sentence, marched on to Paris, where it is +probable that he would have escaped death, but for his own fault. He was left +for some time in prison, quite unnoticed, perhaps forgotten: day by day fresh +victims were carried to the scaffold, and yet the Alsacian tribune remained +alive; at last, by the mediation of one of his friends, a long petition was +presented to Robespierre, stating his services and his innocence, and demanding +his freedom. The reply to this was an order for his instant execution: the +wretch died in the last days of Robespierre’s reign. His comrade, St. +Just, followed him, as you know; but Edward Ancel had been released before +this, for the action of my brave Mary had created a strong feeling in his +favor. +</p> + +<p> +“And Mary?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +Here a stout and smiling old lady entered the Captain’s little room: she +was leaning on the arm of a military-looking man of some forty years, and +followed by a number of noisy, rosy children. +</p> + +<p> +“This is Mary Ancel,” said the Captain, “and I am Captain +Pierre, and yonder is the Colonel, my son; and you see us here assembled in +force, for it is the fête of little Jacob yonder, whose brothers and sisters +have all come from their schools to dance at his birthday.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"></a> BEATRICE MERGER.</h2> + +<p> +Beatrice Merger, whose name might figure at the head of one of Mr. +Colburn’s politest romances—so smooth and aristocratic does it +sound—is no heroine, except of her own simple history; she is not a +fashionable French Countess, nor even a victim of the Revolution. +</p> + +<p> +She is a stout, sturdy girl of two-and-twenty, with a face beaming with good +nature, and marked dreadfully by smallpox; and a pair of black eyes, which +might have done some execution had they been placed in a smoother face. +Beatrice’s station in society is not very exalted; she is a servant of +all-work: she will dress your wife, your dinner, your children; she does +beefsteaks and plain work; she makes beds, blacks boots, and waits at +table;—such, at least, were the offices which she performed in the +fashionable establishment of the writer of this book: perhaps her history may +not inaptly occupy a few pages of it. +</p> + +<p> +“My father died,” said Beatrice, “about six years since, and +left my poor mother with little else but a small cottage and a strip of land, +and four children too young to work. It was hard enough in my father’s +time to supply so many little mouths with food; and how was a poor widowed +woman to provide for them now, who had neither the strength nor the opportunity +for labor? +</p> + +<p> +“Besides us, to be sure, there was my old aunt; and she would have helped +us, but she could not, for the old woman is bed-ridden; so she did nothing but +occupy our best room, and grumble from morning till night: heaven knows, poor +old soul, that she had no great reason to be very happy; for you know, sir, +that it frets the temper to be sick; and that it is worse still to be sick and +hungry too. +</p> + +<p> +“At that time, in the country where we lived (in Picardy, not very far +from Boulogne), times were so bad that the best workman could hardly find +employ; and when he did, he was happy if he could earn a matter of twelve sous +a day. Mother, work as she would, could not gain more than six; and it was a +hard job, out of this, to put meat into six bellies, and clothing on six backs. +Old Aunt Bridget would scold, as she got her portion of black bread; and my +little brothers used to cry if theirs did not come in time. I, too, used to cry +when I got my share; for mother kept only a little, little piece for herself, +and said that she had dined in the fields,—God pardon her for the lie! +and bless her, as I am sure He did; for, but for Him, no working man or woman +could subsist upon such a wretched morsel as my dear mother took. +</p> + +<p> +“I was a thin, ragged, barefooted girl, then, and sickly and weak for +want of food; but I think I felt mother’s hunger more than my own: and +many and many a bitter night I lay awake, crying, and praying to God to give me +means of working for myself and aiding her. And he has, indeed, been good to +me,” said pious Beatrice, “for He has given me all this! +</p> + +<p> +“Well, time rolled on, and matters grew worse than ever: winter came, and +was colder to us than any other winter, for our clothes were thinner and more +torn; mother sometimes could find no work, for the fields in which she labored +were hidden under the snow; so that when we wanted them most we had them +least—warmth, work, or food. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew that, do what I would, mother would never let me leave her, +because I looked to my little brothers and my old cripple of an aunt; but +still, bread was better for us than all my service; and when I left them the +six would have a slice more; so I determined to bid good-by to nobody, but to +go away, and look for work elsewhere. One Sunday, when mother and the little +ones were at church, I went in to Aunt Bridget, and said, ‘Tell mother, +when she comes back, that Beatrice is gone.’ I spoke quite stoutly, as if +I did not care about it. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Gone! gone where?’ said she. ‘You ain’t going +to leave me alone, you nasty thing; you ain’t going to the village to +dance, you ragged, barefooted slut: you’re all of a piece in this +house—your mother, your brothers, and you. I know you’ve got meat +in the kitchen, and you only give me black bread;’ and here the old lady +began to scream as if her heart would break; but we did not mind it, we were so +used to it. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Aunt,’ said I, ‘I’m going, and took this very +opportunity because you WERE alone: tell mother I am too old now to eat her +bread, and do no work for it: I am going, please God, where work and bread can +be found:’ and so I kissed her: she was so astonished that she could not +move or speak; and I walked away through the old room, and the little garden, +God knows whither! +</p> + +<p> +“I heard the old woman screaming after me, but I did not stop nor turn +round. I don’t think I could, for my heart was very full; and if I had +gone back again, I should never have had the courage to go away. So I walked a +long, long way, until night fell; and I thought of poor mother coming home from +mass, and not finding me; and little Pierre shouting out, in his clear voice, +for Beatrice to bring him his supper. I think I should like to have died that +night, and I thought I should too; for when I was obliged to throw myself on +the cold, hard ground, my feet were too torn and weary to bear me any further. +</p> + +<p> +“Just then the moon got up; and do you know I felt a comfort in looking +at it, for I knew it was shining on our little cottage, and it seemed like an +old friend’s face? A little way on, as I saw by the moon, was a village: +and I saw, too, that a man was coming towards me; he must have heard me crying, +I suppose. +</p> + +<p> +“Was not God good to me? This man was a farmer, who had need of a girl in +his house; he made me tell him why I was alone, and I told him the same story I +have told you, and he believed me and took me home. I had walked six long +leagues from our village that day, asking everywhere for work in vain; and +here, at bedtime, I found a bed and a supper! +</p> + +<p> +“Here I lived very well for some months; my master was very good and kind +to me; but, unluckily, too poor to give me any wages; so that I could save +nothing to send to my poor mother. My mistress used to scold; but I was used to +that at home, from Aunt Bridget: and she beat me sometimes, but I did not mind +it; for your hardy country girl is not like your tender town lasses, who cry if +a pin pricks them, and give warning to their mistresses at the first hard word. +The only drawback to my comfort was, that I had no news of my mother; I could +not write to her, nor could she have read my letter, if I had; so there I was, +at only six leagues’ distance from home, as far off as if I had been to +Paris or to ’Merica. +</p> + +<p> +“However, in a few months I grew so listless and homesick, that my +mistress said she would keep me no longer; and though I went away as poor as I +came, I was still too glad to go back to the old village again, and see dear +mother, if it were but for a day. I knew she would share her crust with me, as +she had done for so long a time before; and hoped that, now, as I was taller +and stronger, I might find work more easily in the neighborhood. +</p> + +<p> +“You may fancy what a fête it was when I came back; though I’m sure +we cried as much as if it had been a funeral. Mother got into a fit, which +frightened us all; and as for Aunt Bridget, she SKREELED away for hours +together, and did not scold for two days at least. Little Pierre offered me the +whole of his supper; poor little man! his slice of bread was no bigger than +before I went away. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I got a little work here and a little there; but still I was a +burden at home rather than a bread-winner; and, at the closing-in of the +winter, was very glad to hear of a place at two leagues’ distance, where +work, they said, was to be had. Off I set, one morning, to find it, but missed +my way, somehow, until it was night-time before I arrived. Night-time and snow +again; it seemed as if all my journeys were to be made in this bitter weather. +</p> + +<p> +“When I came to the farmer’s door, his house was shut up, and his +people all a-bed; I knocked for a long while in vain; at last he made his +appearance at a window up stairs, and seemed so frightened, and looked so angry +that I suppose he took me for a thief. I told him how I had come for work. +‘Who comes for work at such an hour?’ said he. ‘Go home, you +impudent baggage, and do not disturb honest people out of their sleep.’ +He banged the window to; and so I was left alone to shift for myself as I +might. There was no shed, no cow-house, where I could find a bed; so I got +under a cart, on some straw; it was no very warm berth. I could not sleep for +the cold: and the hours passed so slowly, that it seemed as if I had been there +a week instead of a night; but still it was not so bad as the first night when +I left home, and when the good farmer found me. +</p> + +<p> +“In the morning, before it was light, the farmer’s people came out, +and saw me crouching under the cart: they told me to get up; but I was so cold +that I could not: at last the man himself came, and recognized me as the girl +who had disturbed him the night before. When he heard my name, and the purpose +for which I came, this good man took me into the house, and put me into one of +the beds out of which his sons had just got; and, if I was cold before, you may +be sure I was warm and comfortable now! such a bed as this I had never slept +in, nor ever did I have such good milk-soup as he gave me out of his own +breakfast. Well, he agreed to hire me; and what do you think he gave +me?—six sous a day! and let me sleep in the cow-house besides: you may +fancy how happy I was now, at the prospect of earning so much money. +</p> + +<p> +“There was an old woman among the laborers who used to sell us soup: I +got a cupful every day for a half-penny, with a bit of bread in it; and might +eat as much beet-root besides as I liked; not a very wholesome meal, to be +sure, but God took care that it should not disagree with me. +</p> + +<p> +“So, every Saturday, when work was over, I had thirty sous to carry home +to mother; and tired though I was, I walked merrily the two leagues to our +village, to see her again. On the road there was a great wood to pass through, +and this frightened me; for if a thief should come and rob me of my whole +week’s earnings, what could a poor lone girl do to help herself? But I +found a remedy for this too, and no thieves ever came near me; I used to begin +saying my prayers as I entered the forest, and never stopped until I was safe +at home; and safe I always arrived, with my thirty sons in my pocket. Ah! you +may be sure, Sunday was a merry day for us all.” +</p> + +<p> +This is the whole of Beatrice’s history which is worthy of publication; +the rest of it only relates to her arrival in Paris, and the various masters +and mistresses whom she there had the honor to serve. As soon as she enters the +capital the romance disappears, and the poor girl’s sufferings and +privations luckily vanish with it. Beatrice has got now warm gowns, and stout +shoes, and plenty of good food. She has had her little brother from Picardy; +clothed, fed, and educated him: that young gentleman is now a carpenter, and an +honor to his profession. Madame Merger is in easy circumstances, and receives, +yearly, fifty francs from her daughter. To crown all, Mademoiselle Beatrice +herself is a funded proprietor, and consulted the writer of this biography as +to the best method of laying out a capital of two hundred francs, which is the +present amount of her fortune. +</p> + +<p> +God bless her! she is richer than his Grace the Duke of Devonshire; and, I dare +say, has, in her humble walk, been more virtuous and more happy than all the +dukes in the realm. +</p> + +<p> +It is, indeed, for the benefit of dukes and such great people (who, I make no +doubt, have long since ordered copies of these Sketches), that poor little +Beatrice’s story has been indited. Certain it is, that the young woman +would never have been immortalized in this way, but for the good which her +betters may derive from her example. If your ladyship will but reflect a +little, after boasting of the sums which you spend in charity; the beef and +blankets which you dole out at Christmas; the poonah-painting which you execute +for fancy fairs; the long, long sermons which you listen to at St. +George’s, the whole year through;—your ladyship, I say, will allow +that, although perfectly meritorious in your line, as a patroness of the Church +of England, of Almack’s, and of the Lying-in Asylum, yours is but a +paltry sphere of virtue, a pitiful attempt at benevolence, and that this honest +servant-girl puts you to shame! And you, my Lord Bishop: do you, out of your +six sous a day, give away five to support your flock and family? Would you drop +a single coach-horse (I do not say, A DINNER, for such a notion is monstrous, +in one of your lordship’s degree), to feed any one of the starving +children of your lordship’s mother—the Church? +</p> + +<p> +I pause for a reply. His lordship took too much turtle and cold punch for +dinner yesterday, and cannot speak just now: but we have, by this ingenious +question, silenced him altogether: let the world wag as it will, and poor +Christians and curates starve as they may, my lord’s footmen must have +their new liveries, and his horses their four feeds a day. +</p> + +<p> +When we recollect his speech about the Catholics—when we remember his +last charity sermon,—but I say nothing. Here is a poor benighted +superstitious creature, worshipping images, without a rag to her tail, who has +as much faith, and humility, and charity as all the reverend bench. +</p> + +<p> +This angel is without a place; and for this reason (besides the pleasure of +composing the above slap at episcopacy)—I have indited her history. If +the Bishop is going to Paris, and wants a good honest maid-of-all-work, he can +have her, I have no doubt; or if he chooses to give a few pounds to her mother, +they can be sent to Mr. Titmarsh, at the publisher’s. +</p> + +<p> +Here is Miss Merger’s last letter and autograph. The note was evidently +composed by an Ecrivain public:— +</p> + +<p> +“Madame,—Ayant apris par ce Monsieur, que vous vous portiez bien, +ainsi que Monsieur, ayant su aussi que vous parliez de moi dans votre lettre +cette nouvelle m’a fait bien plaisir Je profite de l’occasion pour +vous faire passer ce petit billet où Je voudrais pouvoir m’enveloper pour +aller vous voir et pour vous dire que Je suis encore sans place Je +m’ennuye tojours de ne pas vous voir ainsi que Minette (Minette is a cat) +qui semble m’interroger tour a tour et demander où vous êtes. Je vous +envoye aussi la note du linge a blanchir—ah, Madame! Je vais cesser de +vous ecrire mais non de vous regretter.” +</p> + +<p> +Beatrice Merger. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"></a> CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY +IN PARIS.</h2> + +<p> +Fifty years ago there lived at Munich a poor fellow, by name Aloys Senefelder, +who was in so little repute as an author and artist, that printers and +engravers refused to publish his works at their own charges, and so set him +upon some plan for doing without their aid. In the first place, Aloys invented +a certain kind of ink, which would resist the action of the acid that is +usually employed by engravers, and with this he made his experiments upon +copper-plates, as long as he could afford to purchase them. He found that to +write upon the plates backwards, after the manner of engravers, required much +skill and many trials; and he thought that, were he to practise upon any other +polished surface—a smooth stone, for instance, the least costly article +imaginable—he might spare the expense of the copper until he had +sufficient skill to use it. +</p> + +<p> +One day, it is said, that Aloys was called upon to write—rather a humble +composition for an author and artist—a washing-bill. He had no paper at +hand, and so he wrote out the bill with some of his newly-invented ink upon one +of his Kelheim stones. Some time afterwards he thought he would try and take an +IMPRESSION of his washing-bill: he did, and succeeded. Such is the story, which +the reader most likely knows very well; and having alluded to the origin of the +art, we shall not follow the stream through its windings and enlargement after +it issued from the little parent rock, or fill our pages with the rest of the +pedigree. Senefelder invented Lithography. His invention has not made so much +noise and larum in the world as some others, which have an origin quite as +humble and unromantic; but it is one to which we owe no small profit, and a +great deal of pleasure; and, as such, we are bound to speak of it with all +gratitude and respect. The schoolmaster, who is now abroad, has taught us, in +our youth, how the cultivation of art “emollit mores nec sinit +esse”—(it is needless to finish the quotation); and Lithography has +been, to our thinking, the very best ally that art ever had; the best friend of +the artist, allowing him to produce rapidly multiplied and authentic copies of +his own works (without trusting to the tedious and expensive assistance of the +engraver); and the best friend to the people likewise, who have means of +purchasing these cheap and beautiful productions, and thus having their ideas +“mollified” and their manners “feros” no more. +</p> + +<p> +With ourselves, among whom money is plenty, enterprise so great, and everything +matter of commercial speculation, Lithography has not been so much practised as +wood or steel engraving; which, by the aid of great original capital and spread +of sale, are able more than to compete with the art of drawing on stone. The +two former may be called art done by MACHINERY. We confess to a prejudice in +favor of the honest work of HAND, in matters of art, and prefer the rough +workmanship of the painter to the smooth copies of his performances which are +produced, for the most part, on the wood-block or the steel-plate. +</p> + +<p> +The theory will possibly be objected to by many of our readers: the best proof +in its favor, we think, is, that the state of art amongst the people in France +and Germany, where publishers are not so wealthy or enterprising as with us,[*] +and where Lithography is more practised, is infinitely higher than in England, +and the appreciation more correct. As draughtsmen, the French and German +painters are incomparably superior to our own; and with art, as with any other +commodity, the demand will be found pretty equal to the supply: with us, the +general demand is for neatness, prettiness, and what is called EFFECT in +pictures, and these can be rendered completely, nay, improved, by the +engraver’s conventional manner of copying the artist’s +performances. But to copy fine expression and fine drawing, the engraver +himself must be a fine artist; and let anybody examine the host of +picture-books which appear every Christmas, and say whether, for the most part, +painters or engravers possess any artistic merit? We boast, nevertheless, of +some of the best engravers and painters in Europe. Here, again, the supply is +accounted for by the demand; our highest class is richer than any other +aristocracy, quite as well instructed, and can judge and pay for fine pictures +and engravings. But these costly productions are for the few, and not for the +many, who have not yet certainly arrived at properly appreciating fine art. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* These countries are, to be sure, inundated with the productions of our +market, in the shape of Byron Beauties, reprints from the +“Keepsakes,” “Books of Beauty,” and such trash; but +these are only of late years, and their original schools of art are still +flourishing. +</p> + +<p> +Take the standard “Album” for instance—that unfortunate +collection of deformed Zuleikas and Medoras (from the “Byron +Beauties”), the Flowers, Gems, Souvenirs, Caskets of Loveliness, Beauty, +as they way be called; glaring caricatures of flowers, singly, in groups, in +flower-pots, or with hideous deformed little Cupids sporting among them; of +what are called “mezzotinto,” pencil-drawings, +“poonah-paintings,” and what not. “The Album” is to be +found invariably upon the round rosewood brass-inlaid drawing-room table of the +middle classes, and with a couple of “Annuals” besides, which flank +it on the same table, represents the art of the house; perhaps there is a +portrait of the master of the house in the dining-room, grim-glancing from +above the mantel-piece; and of the mistress over the piano up stairs; add to +these some odious miniatures of the sons and daughters, on each side of the +chimney-glass; and here, commonly (we appeal to the reader if this is an +overcharged picture), the collection ends. The family goes to the Exhibition +once a year, to the National Gallery once in ten years: to the former place +they have an inducement to go; there are their own portraits, or the portraits +of their friends, or the portraits of public characters; and you will see them +infallibly wondering over No. 2645 in the catalogue, representing “The +Portrait of a Lady,” or of the “First Mayor of Little Pedlington +since the passing of the Reform Bill;” or else bustling and squeezing +among the miniatures, where lies the chief attraction of the Gallery. England +has produced, owing to the effects of this class of admirers of art, two +admirable, and five hundred very clever, portrait painters. How many ARTISTS? +Let the reader count upon his five fingers, and see if, living at the present +moment, he can name one for each. +</p> + +<p> +If, from this examination of our own worthy middle classes, we look to the same +class in France, what a difference do we find! Humble café’s in country +towns have their walls covered with pleasing picture papers, representing +“Les Gloires de l’Armée Française,” the +“Seasons,” the “Four Quarters of the World,” +“Cupid and Psyche,” or some other allegory, landscape or history, +rudely painted, as papers for walls usually are; but the figures are all +tolerably well drawn; and the common taste, which has caused a demand for such +things, is undeniable. In Paris, the manner in which the cafés and houses of +the restaurateurs are ornamented, is, of course, a thousand times richer, and +nothing can be more beautiful, or more exquisitely finished and correct, than +the designs which adorn many of them. We are not prepared to say what sums were +expended upon the painting of “Véry’s” or +“Véfour’s,” of the “Salle Musard,” or of +numberless other places of public resort in the capital. There is many a +shop-keeper whose sign is a very tolerable picture; and often have we stopped +to admire (the reader will give us credit for having remained OUTSIDE) the +excellent workmanship of the grapes and vine-leaves over the door of some very +humble, dirty, inodorous shop of a marchand de vin. +</p> + +<p> +These, however, serve only to educate the public taste, and are ornaments for +the most part much too costly for the people. But the same love of ornament +which is shown in their public places of resort, appears in their houses +likewise; and every one of our readers who has lived in Paris, in any lodging, +magnificent or humble, with any family, however poor, may bear witness how +profusely the walls of his smart salon in the English quarter, or of his little +room au sixième in the Pays Latin, has been decorated with prints of all kinds. +In the first, probably, with bad engravings on copper from the bad and tawdry +pictures of the artists of the time of the Empire; in the latter, with gay +caricatures of Granville or Monnier: military pieces, such as are dashed off by +Raffet, Charlet, Vernet (one can hardly say which of the three designers has +the greatest merit, or the most vigorous hand); or clever pictures from the +crayon of the Deverias, the admirable Roqueplan, or Decamp. We have named here, +we believe, the principal lithographic artists in Paris; and those—as +doubtless there are many—of our readers who have looked over Monsieur +Aubert’s portfolios, or gazed at that famous caricature-shop window in +the Rue de Coq, or are even acquainted with the exterior of Monsieur +Delaporte’s little emporium in the Burlington Arcade, need not be told +how excellent the productions of all these artists are in their genre. We get +in these engravings the loisirs of men of genius, not the finikin performances +of labored mediocrity, as with us: all these artists are good painters, as well +as good designers; a design from them is worth a whole gross of Books of +Beauty; and if we might raise a humble supplication to the artists in our own +country of similar merit—to such men as Leslie, Maclise, Herbert, +Cattermole, and others—it would be, that they should, after the example +of their French brethren and of the English landscape painters, take chalk in +hand, produce their own copies of their own sketches, and never more draw a +single “Forsaken One,” “Rejected One,” “Dejected +One” at the entreaty of any publisher or for the pages of any Book of +Beauty, Royalty, or Loveliness whatever. +</p> + +<p> +Can there be a more pleasing walk in the whole world than a stroll through the +Gallery of the Louvre on a fête-day; not to look so much at the pictures as at +the lookers-on? Thousands of the poorer classes are there: mechanics in their +Sunday clothes, smiling grisettes, smart dapper soldiers of the line, with +bronzed wondering faces, marching together in little companies of six or seven, +and stopping every now and then at Napoleon or Leonidas as they appear in +proper vulgar heroics in the pictures of David or Gros. The taste of these +people will hardly be approved by the connoisseur, but they have A taste for +art. Can the same be said of our lower classes, who, if they are inclined to be +sociable and amused in their holidays, have no place of resort but the tap-room +or tea-garden, and no food for conversation except such as can be built upon +the politics or the police reports of the last Sunday paper? So much has Church +and State puritanism done for us—so well has it succeeded in +materializing and binding down to the earth the imagination of men, for which +God has made another world (which certain statesmen take but too little into +account)—that fair and beautiful world of heart, in which there CAN be +nothing selfish or sordid, of which Dulness has forgotten the existence, and +which Bigotry has endeavored to shut out from sight— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“On a banni les démons et les fées,<br/> +Le raisonner tristement s’accrédite:<br/> +On court, helas! après la vérité:<br/> +Ah! croyez moi, l’erreur a son mérite!” +</p> + +<p> +We are not putting in a plea here for demons and fairies, as Voltaire does in +the above exquisite lines; nor about to expatiate on the beauties of error, for +it has none; but the clank of steam-engines, and the shouts of politicians, and +the struggle for gain or bread, and the loud denunciations of stupid bigots, +have wellnigh smothered poor Fancy among us. We boast of our science, and vaunt +our superior morality. Does the latter exist? In spite of all the forms which +our policy has invented to secure it—in spite of all the preachers, all +the meeting-houses, and all the legislative enactments—if any person will +take upon himself the painful labor of purchasing and perusing some of the +cheap periodical prints which form the people’s library of amusement, and +contain what may be presumed to be their standard in matters of imagination and +fancy, he will see how false the claim is that we bring forward of superior +morality. The aristocracy who are so eager to maintain, were, of course, not +the last to feel annoyance of the legislative restrictions on the Sabbath, and +eagerly seized upon that happy invention for dissipating the gloom and ennui +ordered by Act of Parliament to prevail on that day—the Sunday paper. It +might be read in a club-room, where the poor could not see how their betters +ordained one thing for the vulgar, and another for themselves; or in an +easy-chair, in the study, whither my lord retires every Sunday for his +devotions. It dealt in private scandal and ribaldry, only the more piquant for +its pretty flimsy veil of double-entendre. It was a fortune to the publisher, +and it became a necessary to the reader, which he could not do without, any +more than without his snuff-box, his opera-box, or his chasse after coffee. The +delightful novelty could not for any time be kept exclusively for the haut ton; +and from my lord it descended to his valet or tradesmen, and from Grosvenor +Square it spread all the town through; so that now the lower classes have their +scandal and ribaldry organs, as well as their betters (the rogues, they WILL +imitate them!) and as their tastes are somewhat coarser than my lord’s, +and their numbers a thousand to one, why of course the prints have increased, +and the profligacy has been diffused in a ratio exactly proportionable to the +demand, until the town is infested with such a number of monstrous publications +of the kind as would have put Abbé Dubois to the blush, or made Louis XV. cry +shame. Talk of English morality!—the worst licentiousness, in the worst +period of the French monarchy, scarcely equalled the wickedness of this +Sabbath-keeping country of ours. +</p> + +<p> +The reader will be glad, at last, to come to the conclusion that we would fain +draw from all these descriptions—why does this immorality exist? Because +the people MUST be amused, and have not been taught HOW; because the upper +classes, frightened by stupid cant, or absorbed in material wants, have not as +yet learned the refinement which only the cultivation of art can give; and when +their intellects are uneducated, and their tastes are coarse, the tastes and +amusements of classes still more ignorant must be coarse and vicious likewise, +in an increased proportion. +</p> + +<p> +Such discussions and violent attacks upon high and low, Sabbath Bills, +politicians, and what not, may appear, perhaps, out of place in a few pages +which purport only to give an account of some French drawings: all we would +urge is, that, in France, these prints are made because they are liked and +appreciated; with us they are not made, because they are not liked and +appreciated: and the more is the pity. Nothing merely intellectual will be +popular among us: we do not love beauty for beauty’s sake, as Germans; or +wit, for wit’s sake, as the French: for abstract art we have no +appreciation. We admire H. B.’s caricatures, because they are the +caricatures of well-known political characters, not because they are witty; and +Boz, because he writes us good palpable stories (if we may use such a word to a +story); and Madame Vestris, because she has the most beautifully shaped +legs;—the ART of the designer, the writer, the actress (each admirable in +its way,) is a very minor consideration; each might have ten times the wit, and +would be quite unsuccessful without their substantial points of popularity. +</p> + +<p> +In France such matters are far better managed, and the love of art is a +thousand times more keen; and (from this feeling, surely) how much superiority +is there in French SOCIETY over our own; how much better is social happiness +understood; how much more manly equality is there between Frenchman and +Frenchman, than between rich and poor in our own country, with all our superior +wealth, instruction, and political freedom! There is, amongst the humblest, a +gayety, cheerfulness, politeness, and sobriety, to which, in England, no class +can show a parallel: and these, be it remembered, are not only qualities for +holidays, but for working-days too, and add to the enjoyment of human life as +much as good clothes, good beef, or good wages. If, to our freedom, we could +but add a little of their happiness!—it is one, after all, of the +cheapest commodities in the world, and in the power of every man (with means of +gaining decent bread) who has the will or the skill to use it. +</p> + +<p> +We are not going to trace the history of the rise and progress of art in +France; our business, at present, is only to speak of one branch of art in that +country—lithographic designs, and those chiefly of a humorous character. +A history of French caricature was published in Paris, two or three years back, +illustrated by numerous copies of designs, from the time of Henry III. to our +own day. We can only speak of this work from memory, having been unable, in +London, to procure the sight of a copy; but our impression, at the time we saw +the collection, was as unfavorable as could possibly be: nothing could be more +meagre than the wit, or poorer than the execution, of the whole set of +drawings. Under the Empire, art, as may be imagined, was at a very low ebb; +and, aping the Government of the day, and catering to the national taste and +vanity, it was a kind of tawdry caricature of the sublime; of which the +pictures of David and Girodet, and almost the entire collection now at the +Luxembourg Palace, will give pretty fair examples. Swollen, distorted, +unnatural, the painting was something like the politics of those days; with +force in it, nevertheless, and something of grandeur, that will exist in spite +of taste, and is born of energetic will. A man, disposed to write comparisons +of characters, might, for instance, find some striking analogies between +mountebank Murat, with his irresistible bravery and horsemanship, who was a +kind of mixture of Dugueselin and Ducrow, and Mountebank David, a fierce, +powerful painter and genius, whose idea of beauty and sublimity seemed to have +been gained from the bloody melodramas on the Boulevard. Both, however, were +great in their way, and were worshipped as gods, in those heathen times of +false belief and hero-worship. +</p> + +<p> +As for poor caricature and freedom of the press, they, like the rightful +princess in a fairy tale, with the merry fantastic dwarf, her attendant, were +entirely in the power of the giant who ruled the land. The Princess Press was +so closely watched and guarded (with some little show, nevertheless, of respect +for her rank), that she dared not utter a word of her own thoughts; and, for +poor Caricature, he was gagged, and put out of the way altogether: imprisoned +as completely as ever Asmodeus was in his phial. +</p> + +<p> +How the Press and her attendant fared in succeeding reigns, is well known; +their condition was little bettered by the downfall of Napoleon: with the +accession of Charles X. they were more oppressed even than before—more +than they could bear; for so hard were they pressed, that, as one has seen when +sailors are working a capstan, back of a sudden the bars flew, knocking to the +earth the men who were endeavoring to work them. The Revolution came, and up +sprung Caricature in France; all sorts of fierce epigrams were discharged at +the flying monarch, and speedily were prepared, too, for the new one. +</p> + +<p> +About this time there lived at Paris (if our information be correct) a certain +M. Philipon, an indifferent artist (painting was his profession), a tolerable +designer, and an admirable wit. M. Philipon designed many caricatures himself, +married the sister of an eminent publisher of prints (M. Aubert), and the two, +gathering about them a body of wits and artists like themselves, set up +journals of their own:—La Caricature, first published once a week; and +the Charivari afterwards, a daily paper, in which a design also appears daily. +</p> + +<p> +At first the caricatures inserted in the Charivari were chiefly political; and +a most curious contest speedily commenced between the State and M. +Philipon’s little army in the Galérie Véro-Dodat. Half a dozen poor +artists on the one side, and his Majesty Louis Philippe, his august family, and +the numberless placemen and supporters of the monarchy, on the other; it was +something like Thersites girding at Ajax, and piercing through the folds of the +clypei septemplicis with the poisonous shafts of his scorn. Our French +Thersites was not always an honest opponent, it must be confessed; and many an +attack was made upon the gigantic enemy, which was cowardly, false, and +malignant. But to see the monster writhing under the effects of the +arrow—to see his uncouth fury in return, and the blind blows that he +dealt at his diminutive opponent!—not one of these told in a hundred; +when they DID tell, it may be imagined that they were fierce enough in all +conscience, and served almost to annihilate the adversary. +</p> + +<p> +To speak more plainly, and to drop the metaphor of giant and dwarf, the King of +the French suffered so much, his Ministers were so mercilessly ridiculed, his +family and his own remarkable figure drawn with such odious and grotesque +resemblance, in fanciful attitudes, circumstances, and disguises, so +ludicrously mean, and often so appropriate, that the King was obliged to +descend into the lists and battle his ridiculous enemy in form. Prosecutions, +seizures, fines, regiments of furious legal officials, were first brought into +play against poor M. Philipon and his little dauntless troop of malicious +artists; some few were bribed out of his ranks; and if they did not, like +Gilray in England, turn their weapons upon their old friends, at least laid +down their arms, and would fight no more. The bribes, fines, indictments, and +loud-tongued avocats du roi made no impression; Philipon repaired the defeat of +a fine by some fresh and furious attack upon his great enemy; if his epigrams +were more covert, they were no less bitter; if he was beaten a dozen times +before a jury, he had eighty or ninety victories to show in the same field of +battle, and every victory and every defeat brought him new sympathy. Every one +who was at Paris a few years since must recollect the famous +“poire” which was chalked upon all the walls of the city, and which +bore so ludicrous a resemblance to Louis Philippe. The poire became an object +of prosecution, and M. Philipon appeared before a jury to answer for the crime +of inciting to contempt against the King’s person, by giving such a +ludicrous version of his face. Philipon, for defence, produced a sheet of +paper, and drew a poire, a real large Burgundy pear: in the lower parts round +and capacious, narrower near the stalk, and crowned with two or three careless +leaves. “There was no treason in THAT,” he said to the jury; +“could any one object to such a harmless botanical representation?” +Then he drew a second pear, exactly like the former, except that one or two +lines were scrawled in the midst of it, which bore somehow a ludicrous +resemblance to the eyes, nose, and mouth of a celebrated personage; and, +lastly, he drew the exact portrait of Louis Philippe; the well-known toupet, +the ample whiskers and jowl were there, neither extenuated nor set down in +malice. “Can I help it, gentlemen of the jury, then,” said he, +“if his Majesty’s face is like a pear? Say yourselves, respectable +citizens, is it, or is it not, like a pear?” Such eloquence could not +fail of its effect; the artist was acquitted, and La poire is immortal. +</p> + +<p> +At last came the famous September laws: the freedom of the Press, which, from +August, 1830, was to be “désormais une vérité,” was calmly +strangled by the Monarch who had gained his crown for his supposed championship +of it; by his Ministers, some of whom had been stout Republicans on paper but a +few years before; and by the Chamber, which, such is the blessed constitution +of French elections, will generally vote, unvote, revote in any way the +Government wishes. With a wondrous union, and happy forgetfulness of principle, +monarch, ministers, and deputies issued the restriction laws; the Press was +sent to prison; as for the poor dear Caricature, it was fairly murdered. No +more political satires appear now, and “through the eye, correct the +heart;” no more poires ripen on the walls of the metropolis; +Philipon’s political occupation is gone. +</p> + +<p> +But there is always food for satire; and the French caricaturists, being no +longer allowed to hold up to ridicule and reprobation the King and the +deputies, have found no lack of subjects for the pencil in the ridicules and +rascalities of common life. We have said that public decency is greater amongst +the French than amongst us, which, to some of our readers, may appear +paradoxical; but we shall not attempt to argue that, in private roguery, our +neighbors are not our equals. The procès of Gisquet, which has appeared lately +in the papers, shows how deep the demoralization must be, and how a Government, +based itself on dishonesty (a tyranny, that is, under the title and fiction of +a democracy,) must practise and admit corruption in its own and in its +agents’ dealings with the nation. Accordingly, of cheating contracts, of +ministers dabbling with the funds, or extracting underhand profits for the +granting of unjust privileges and monopolies,—of grasping, envious police +restrictions, which destroy the freedom, and, with it, the integrity of +commerce,—those who like to examine such details may find plenty in +French history: the whole French finance system has been a swindle from the +days of Luvois, or Law, down to the present time. The Government swindles the +public, and the small traders swindle their customers, on the authority and +example of the superior powers. Hence the art of roguery, under such high +patronage, maintains in France a noble front of impudence, and a fine audacious +openness, which it does not wear in our country. +</p> + +<p> +Among the various characters of roguery which the French satirists have amused +themselves by depicting, there is one of which the GREATNESS (using the word in +the sense which Mr. Jonathan Wild gave to it) so far exceeds that of all +others, embracing, as it does, all in turn, that it has come to be considered +the type of roguery in general; and now, just as all the political squibs were +made to come of old from the lips of Pasquin, all the reflections on the +prevailing cant, knavery, quackery, humbug, are put into the mouth of Monsieur +Robert Macaire. +</p> + +<p> +A play was written, some twenty years since, called the “Auberge des +Adrets,” in which the characters of two robbers escaped from the galleys +were introduced—Robert Macaire, the clever rogue above mentioned, and +Bertrand, the stupid rogue, his friend, accomplice, butt, and scapegoat, on all +occasions of danger. It is needless to describe the play—a witless +performance enough, of which the joke was Macaire’s exaggerated style of +conversation, a farrago of all sorts of high-flown sentiments such as the +French love to indulge in—contrasted with his actions, which were +philosophically unscrupulous, and his appearance, which was most picturesquely +sordid. The play had been acted, we believe, and forgotten, when a very clever +actor, M. Frederick Lemaitre, took upon himself the performance of the +character of Robert Macaire, and looked, spoke, and acted it to such admirable +perfection, that the whole town rung with applauses of the performance, and the +caricaturists delighted to copy his singular figure and costume. M. Robert +Macaire appears in a most picturesque green coat, with a variety of rents and +patches, a pair of crimson pantaloons ornamented in the same way, enormous +whiskers and ringlets, an enormous stock and shirt-frill, as dirty and ragged +as stock and shirt-frill can be, the relic of a hat very gayly cocked over one +eye, and a patch to take away somewhat from the brightness of the +other—these are the principal pièces of his costume—a snuff-box +like a creaking warming-pan, a handkerchief hanging together by a miracle, and +a switch of about the thickness of a man’s thigh, formed the ornaments of +this exquisite personage. He is a compound of Fielding’s +“Blueskin” and Goldsmith’s “Beau Tibbs.” He has +the dirt and dandyism of the one, with the ferocity of the other: sometimes he +is made to swindle, but where he can get a shilling more, M. Macaire will +murder without scruple: he performs one and the other act (or any in the scale +between them) with a similar bland imperturbability, and accompanies his +actions with such philosophical remarks as may be expected from a person of his +talents, his energies, his amiable life and character. +</p> + +<p> +Bertrand is the simple recipient of Macaire’s jokes, and makes vicarious +atonement for his crimes, acting, in fact, the part which pantaloon performs in +the pantomime, who is entirely under the fatal influence of clown. He is quite +as much a rogue as that gentleman, but he has not his genius and courage. So, +in pantomimes, (it may, doubtless, have been remarked by the reader,) clown +always leaps first, pantaloon following after, more clumsily and timidly than +his bold and accomplished friend and guide. Whatever blows are destined for +clown, fall, by some means of ill-luck, upon the pate of pantaloon: whenever +the clown robs, the stolen articles are sure to be found in his +companion’s pocket; and thus exactly Robert Macaire and his companion +Bertrand are made to go through the world; both swindlers, but the one more +accomplished than the other. Both robbing all the world, and Robert robbing his +friend, and, in the event of danger, leaving him faithfully in the lurch. There +is, in the two characters, some grotesque good for the spectator—a kind +of “Beggars’ Opera” moral. +</p> + +<p> +Ever since Robert, with his dandified rags and airs, his cane and snuff-box, +and Bertrand with torn surtout and all-absorbing pocket, have appeared on the +stage, they have been popular with the Parisians; and with these two types of +clever and stupid knavery, M. Philipon and his companion Daumier have created a +world of pleasant satire upon all the prevailing abuses of the day. +</p> + +<p> +Almost the first figure that these audacious caricaturists dared to depict was +a political one: in Macaire’s red breeches and tattered coat appeared no +less a personage than the King himself—the old Poire—in a country +of humbugs and swindlers the facile princeps; fit to govern, as he is deeper +than all the rogues in his dominions. Bertrand was opposite to him, and having +listened with delight and reverence to some tale of knavery truly royal, was +exclaiming with a look and voice expressive of the most intense admiration, +“AH VIEUX BLAGEUR! va!”—the word blague is +untranslatable—it means FRENCH humbug as distinct from all other; and +only those who know the value of an epigram in France, an epigram so +wonderfully just, a little word so curiously comprehensive, can fancy the kind +of rage and rapture with which it was received. It was a blow that shook the +whole dynasty. Thersites had there given such a wound to Ajax, as Hector in +arms could scarcely have inflicted: a blow sufficient almost to create the +madness to which the fabulous hero of Homer and Ovid fell a prey. +</p> + +<p> +Not long, however, was French caricature allowed to attack personages so +illustrious: the September laws came, and henceforth no more epigrams were +launched against politics; but the caricaturists were compelled to confine +their satire to subjects and characters that had nothing to do with the State. +The Duke of Orleans was no longer to figure in lithography as the fantastic +Prince Rosolin; no longer were multitudes (in chalk) to shelter under the +enormous shadow of M. d’Argout’s nose: Marshal Loban’s squirt +was hung up in peace, and M. Thiers’s pigmy figure and round spectacled +face were no more to appear in print.[*] Robert Macaire was driven out of the +Chambers and the Palace—his remarks were a great deal too appropriate and +too severe for the ears of the great men who congregated in those places. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* Almost all the principal public men had been most ludicrously caricatured in +the Charivari: those mentioned above were usually depicted with the distinctive +attributes mentioned by us. +</p> + +<p> +The Chambers and the Palace were shut to him; but the rogue, driven out of his +rogue’s paradise, saw “that the world was all before him where to +choose,” and found no lack of opportunities for exercising his wit. There +was the Bar, with its roguish practitioners, rascally attorneys, stupid juries, +and forsworn judges; there was the Bourse, with all its gambling, swindling, +and hoaxing, its cheats and its dupes; the Medical Profession, and the quacks +who ruled it, alternately; the Stage, and the cant that was prevalent there; +the Fashion, and its thousand follies and extravagances. Robert Macaire had all +these to exploiter. Of all the empire, through all the ranks, professions, the +lies, crimes, and absurdities of men, he may make sport at will; of all except +of a certain class. Like Bluebeard’s wife, he may see everything, but is +bidden TO BEWARE OF THE BLUE CHAMBER. Robert is more wise than +Bluebeard’s wife, and knows that it would cost him his head to enter it. +Robert, therefore, keeps aloof for the moment. Would there be any use in his +martyrdom? Bluebeard cannot live for ever; perhaps, even now, those are on +their way (one sees a suspicious cloud of dust or two) that are to destroy him. +</p> + +<p> +In the meantime Robert and his friend have been furnishing the designs that we +have before us, and of which perhaps the reader will be edified by a brief +description. We are not, to be sure, to judge of the French nation by M. +Macaire, any more than we are to judge of our own national morals in the last +century by such a book as the “Beggars’ Opera;” but upon the +morals and the national manners, works of satire afford a world of light that +one would in vain look for in regular books of history. Doctor Smollett would +have blushed to devote any considerable portion of his pages to a discussion of +the acts and character of Mr. Jonathan Wild, such a figure being hardly +admissible among the dignified personages who usually push all others out from +the possession of the historical page; but a chapter of that gentleman’s +memoirs, as they are recorded in that exemplary recueil—the +“Newgate Calendar;” nay, a canto of the great comic epic (involving +many fables, and containing much exaggeration, but still having the seeds of +truth) which the satirical poet of those days wrote in celebration of +him—we mean Fielding’s “History of Jonathan Wild the +Great”—does seem to us to give a more curious picture of the +manners of those times than any recognized history of them. At the close of his +history of George II., Smollett condescends to give a short chapter on +Literature and Manners. He speaks of Glover’s “Leonidas,” +Cibber’s “Careless Husband,” the poems of Mason, Gray, the +two Whiteheads, “the nervous style, extensive erudition, and superior +sense of a Corke; the delicate taste, the polished muse, and tender feeling of +a Lyttelton.” “King,” he says, “shone unrivalled in +Roman eloquence, the female sex distinguished themselves by their taste and +ingenuity. Miss Carter rivalled the celebrated Dacier in learning and critical +knowledge; Mrs. Lennox signalized herself by many successful efforts of genius +both in poetry and prose; and Miss Reid excelled the celebrated Rosalba in +portrait-painting, both in miniature and at large, in oil as well as in +crayons. The genius of Cervantes was transferred into the novels of Fielding, +who painted the characters and ridiculed the follies of life with equal +strength, humor, and propriety. The field of history and biography was +cultivated by many writers of ability, among whom we distinguish the copious +Guthrie, the circumstantial Ralph, the laborious Carte, the learned and elegant +Robertson, and above all, the ingenious, penetrating, and comprehensive +Hume,” &c. &c. We will quote no more of the passage. Could a man +in the best humor sit down to write a graver satire? Who cares for the tender +muse of Lyttelton? Who knows the signal efforts of Mrs. Lennox’s genius? +Who has seen the admirable performances, in miniature and at large, in oil as +well as in crayons, of Miss Reid? Laborious Carte, and circumstantial Ralph, +and copious Guthrie, where are they, their works, and their reputation? Mrs. +Lennox’s name is just as clean wiped out of the list of worthies as if +she had never been born; and Miss Reid, though she was once actual flesh and +blood, “rival in miniature and at large” of the celebrated Rosalba, +she is as if she had never been at all; her little farthing rushlight of a soul +and reputation having burnt out, and left neither wick nor tallow. Death, too, +has overtaken copious Guthrie and circumstantial Ralph. Only a few know +whereabouts is the grave where lies laborious Carte; and yet, O wondrous power +of genius! Fielding’s men and women are alive, though History’s are +not. The progenitors of circumstantial Ralph sent forth, after much labor and +pains of making, educating, feeding, clothing, a real man child, a great +palpable mass of flesh, bones, and blood (we say nothing about the spirit), +which was to move through the world, ponderous, writing histories, and to die, +having achieved the title of circumstantial Ralph; and lo! without any of the +trouble that the parents of Ralph had undergone, alone perhaps in a watch or +spunging-house, fuddled most likely, in the blandest, easiest, and most +good-humored way in the world, Henry Fielding makes a number of men and women +on so many sheets of paper, not only more amusing than Ralph or Miss Reid, but +more like flesh and blood, and more alive now than they. Is not Amelia +preparing her husband’s little supper? Is not Miss Snapp chastely +preventing the crime of Mr. Firebrand? Is not Parson Adams in the midst of his +family, and Mr. Wild taking his last bowl of punch with the Newgate Ordinary? +Is not every one of them a real substantial HAVE-been personage now—more +real than Reid or Ralph? For our parts, we will not take upon ourselves to say +that they do not exist somewhere else: that the actions attributed to them have +not really taken place; certain we are that they are more worthy of credence +than Ralph, who may or may not have been circumstantial; who may or may not +even have existed, a point unworthy of disputation. As for Miss Reid, we will +take an affidavit that neither in miniature nor at large did she excel the +celebrated Rosalba; and with regard to Mrs. Lennox, we consider her to be a +mere figment, like Narcissa, Miss Tabitha Bramble, or any hero or heroine +depicted by the historian of “Peregrine Pickle.” +</p> + +<p> +In like manner, after viewing nearly ninety portraits of Robert Macaire and his +friend Bertrand, all strongly resembling each other, we are inclined to believe +in them as historical personages, and to canvass gravely the circumstances of +their lives. Why should we not? Have we not their portraits? Are not they +sufficient proofs? If not, we must discredit Napoleon (as Archbishop Whately +teaches), for about his figure and himself we have no more authentic testimony. +</p> + +<p> +Let the reality of M. Robert Macaire and his friend M. Bertrand be granted, if +but to gratify our own fondness for those exquisite characters: we find the +worthy pair in the French capital, mingling with all grades of its society, +pars magna in the intrigues, pleasures, perplexities, rogueries, speculations, +which are carried on in Paris, as in our own chief city; for it need not be +said that roguery is of no country nor clime, but finds [Greek text omitted], +is a citizen of all countries where the quarters are good; among our merry +neighbors it finds itself very much at its ease. +</p> + +<p> +Not being endowed, then, with patrimonial wealth, but compelled to exercise +their genius to obtain distinction, or even subsistence, we see Messrs. +Bertrand and Macaire, by turns, adopting all trades and professions, and +exercising each with their own peculiar ingenuity. As public men, we have +spoken already of their appearance in one or two important characters, and +stated that the Government grew fairly jealous of them, excluding them from +office, as the Whigs did Lord Brougham. As private individuals, they are made +to distinguish themselves as the founders of journals, sociétés en commandite +(companies of which the members are irresponsible beyond the amount of their +shares), and all sorts of commercial speculations, requiring intelligence and +honesty on the part of the directors, confidence and liberal disbursements from +the shareholders. +</p> + +<p> +These are, among the French, so numerous, and have been of late years (in the +shape of Newspaper Companies, Bitumen Companies, Galvanized-Iron Companies, +Railroad Companies, &c.) pursued with such a blind FUROR and lust of gain, +by that easily excited and imaginative people, that, as may be imagined, the +satirist has found plenty of occasion for remark, and M. Macaire and his friend +innumerable opportunities for exercising their talents. +</p> + +<p> +We know nothing of M. Emile de Girardin, except that, in a duel, he shot the +best man in France, Armaud Carrel; and in Girardin’s favor it must be +said, that he had no other alternative; but was right in provoking the duel, +seeing that the whole Republican party had vowed his destruction, and that he +fought and killed their champion, as it were. We know nothing of M. +Girardin’s private character: but, as far as we can judge from the French +public prints, he seems to be the most speculative of speculators, and, of +course, a fair butt for the malice of the caricaturists. His one great crime, +in the eyes of the French Republicans and Republican newspaper proprietors, +was, that Girardin set up a journal, as he called it, “franchement +monarchique,”—a journal in the pay of the monarchy, that +is,—and a journal that cost only forty francs by the year. The National +costs twice as much; the Charivari itself costs half as much again; and though +all newspapers, of all parties, concurred in “snubbing” poor M. +Girardin and his journal, the Republican prints, were by far the most bitter +against him, thundering daily accusations and personalities; whether the abuse +was well or ill founded, we know not. Hence arose the duel with Carrel; after +the termination of which, Girardin put by his pistol, and vowed, very properly, +to assist in the shedding of no more blood. Girardin had been the originator of +numerous other speculations besides the journal: the capital of these, like +that of the journal, was raised by shares, and the shareholders, by some +fatality, have found themselves wofully in the lurch; while Girardin carries on +the war gayly, is, or was, a member of the Chamber of Deputies, has money, goes +to Court, and possesses a certain kind of reputation. He invented, we believe, +the “Institution Agronome de Coetbo,”[*] the +“Physionotype,” the “Journal des Connoissances Utiles,” +the “Pantheon Littéraire,” and the system of +“Primes”—premiums, that is—to be given, by lottery, to +certain subscribers in these institutions. Could Robert Macaire see such things +going on, and have no hand in them? +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* It is not necessary to enter into descriptions of these various inventions. +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly Messrs. Macaire and Bertrand are made the heroes of many +speculations of the kind. In almost the first print of our collection, Robert +discourses to Bertrand of his projects. “Bertrand,” says the +disinterested admirer of talent and enterprise, “j’adore +l’industrie. Si tu veux nous créons une banque, mais là, une vraie +banque: capital cent millions de millions, cent milliards de milliards +d’actions. Nous enfonçons la banque de France, les banquiers, les +banquistes; nous enfonçons tout le monde.” “Oui,” says +Bertrand, very calm and stupid, “mais les gendarmes?” “Que tu +es bête, Bertrand: est-ce qu’on arrête un millionaire?” Such is the +key to M. Macaire’s philosophy; and a wise creed too, as times go. +</p> + +<p> +Acting on these principles, Robert appears soon after; he has not created a +bank, but a journal. He sits in a chair of state, and discourses to a +shareholder. Bertrand, calm and stupid as before, stands humbly behind. +“Sir,” says the editor of La Blague, journal quotidienne, +“our profits arise from a new combination. The journal costs twenty +francs; we sell it for twenty-three and a half. A million subscribers make +three millions and a half of profits; there are my figures; contradict me by +figures, or I will bring an action for libel.” The reader may fancy the +scene takes place in England, where many such a swindling prospectus has +obtained credit ere now. At Plate 33, Robert is still a journalist; he brings +to the editor of a paper an article of his composition, a violent attack on a +law. “My dear M. Macaire,” says the editor, “this must be +changed; we must PRAISE this law.” “Bon, bon!” says our +versatile Macaire. “Je vais retoucher ça, et je vous fais en faveur de la +loi UN ARTICLE MOUSSEUX.” +</p> + +<p> +Can such things be? Is it possible that French journalists can so forget +themselves? The rogues! they should come to England and learn consistency. The +honesty of the Press in England is like the air we breathe, without it we die. +No, no! in France, the satire may do very well; but for England it is too +monstrous. Call the press stupid, call it vulgar, call it violent,—but +honest it is. Who ever heard of a journal changing its politics? O tempora! O +mores! as Robert Macaire says, this would be carrying the joke too far. +</p> + +<p> +When he has done with newspapers, Robert Macaire begins to distinguish himself +on ’Change,[*] as a creator of companies, a vender of shares, or a +dabbler in foreign stock. “Buy my coal-mine shares,” shouts Robert; +“gold mines, silver mines, diamond mines, ‘sont de la pot-bouille +de la ratatouille en comparaison de ma houille.’” +“Look,” says he, on another occasion, to a very timid, +open-countenanced client, “you have a property to sell! I have found the +very man, a rich capitalist, a fellow whose bills are better than +bank-notes.” His client sells; the bills are taken in payment, and signed +by that respectable capitalist, Monsieur de Saint Bertrand. At Plate 81, we +find him inditing a circular letter to all the world, running thus: +“Sir,—I regret to say that your application for shares in the +Consolidated European Incombustible Blacking Association cannot be complied +with, as all the shares of the C. E. I. B. A. were disposed of on the day they +were issued. I have, nevertheless, registered your name, and in case a second +series should be put forth, I shall have the honor of immediately giving you +notice. I am, sir, yours, &c., the Director, Robert +Macaire.”—“Print 300,000 of these,” he says to +Bertrand, “and poison all France with them.” As usual, the stupid +Bertrand remonstrates—“But we have not sold a single share; you +have not a penny in your pocket, and”—“Bertrand, you are an +ass; do as I bid you.” +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* We have given a description of a genteel Macaire in the account of M. de +Bernard’s novels. +</p> + +<p> +Will this satire apply anywhere in England? Have we any Consolidated European +Blacking Associations amongst us? Have we penniless directors issuing El Dorado +prospectuses, and jockeying their shares through the market? For information on +this head, we must refer the reader to the newspapers; or if he be connected +with the city, and acquainted with commercial men, he will be able to say +whether ALL the persons whose names figure at the head of announcements of +projected companies are as rich as Rothschild, or quite as honest as heart +could desire. +</p> + +<p> +When Macaire has sufficiently exploité the Bourse, whether as a gambler in the +public funds or other companies, he sagely perceives that it is time to turn to +some other profession, and, providing himself with a black gown, proposes +blandly to Bertrand to set up—a new religion. “Mon ami,” says +the repentant sinner, “le temps de la commandite va passer, MAIS LES +BADAUDS NE PASSERONT PAS.” (O rare sentence! it should be written in +letters of gold!) “OCCUPONS NOUS DE CE QUI EST ÉTERNEL. Si nous fassions +une réligion?” On which M. Bertrand remarks, “A religion! what the +devil—a religion is not an easy thing to make.” But Macaire’s +receipt is easy. “Get a gown, take a shop,” he says, “borrow +some chairs, preach about Napoleon, or the discovery of America, or +Molière—and there’s a religion for you.” +</p> + +<p> +We have quoted this sentence more for the contrast it offers with our own +manners, than for its merits. After the noble paragraph, “Les badauds ne +passeront pas. Occupons nous de ce qui est éternel,” one would have +expected better satire upon cant than the words that follow. We are not in a +condition to say whether the subjects chosen are those that had been selected +by Père Enfantin, or Chatel, or Lacordaire; but the words are curious, we +think, for the very reason that the satire is so poor. The fact is, there is no +religion in Paris; even clever M. Philipon, who satirizes everything, and must +know, therefore, some little about the subject which he ridicules, has nothing +to say but, “Preach a sermon, and that makes a religion; anything will +do.” If ANYTHING will do, it is clear that the religious commodity is not +in much demand. Tartuffe had better things to say about hypocrisy in his time; +but then Faith was alive; now, there is no satirizing religious cant in France, +for its contrary, true religion, has disappeared altogether; and having no +substance, can cast no shadow. If a satirist would lash the religious +hypocrites in ENGLAND now—the High Church hypocrites, the Low Church +hypocrites, the promiscuous Dissenting hypocrites, the No Popery +hypocrites—he would have ample subject enough. In France, the religious +hypocrites went out with the Bourbons. Those who remain pious in that country +(or, rather, we should say, in the capital, for of that we speak,) are +unaffectedly so, for they have no worldly benefit to hope for from their piety; +the great majority have no religion at all, and do not scoff at the few, for +scoffing is the minority’s weapon, and is passed always to the weaker +side, whatever that may be. Thus H. B. caricatures the Ministers: if by any +accident that body of men should be dismissed from their situations, and be +succeeded by H. B.’s friends, the Tories,—what must the poor artist +do? He must pine away and die, if he be not converted; he cannot always be +paying compliments; for caricature has a spice of Goethe’s Devil in it, +and is “der Geist der stets verneint,” the Spirit that is always +denying. +</p> + +<p> +With one or two of the French writers and painters of caricatures, the King +tried the experiment of bribery; which succeeded occasionally in buying off the +enemy, and bringing him from the republican to the royal camp; but when there, +the deserter was never of any use. Figaro, when so treated, grew fat and +desponding, and lost all his sprightly VERVE; and Nemesis became as gentle as a +Quakeress. But these instances of “ratting” were not many. Some few +poets were bought over; but, among men following the profession of the press, a +change of politics is an infringement of the point of honor, and a man must +FIGHT as well as apostatize. A very curious table might be made, signalizing +the difference of the moral standard between us and the French. Why is the +grossness and indelicacy, publicly permitted in England, unknown in France, +where private morality is certainly at a lower ebb? Why is the point of private +honor now more rigidly maintained among the French? Why is it, as it should be, +a moral disgrace for a Frenchman to go into debt, and no disgrace for him to +cheat his customer? Why is there more honesty and less—more propriety and +less?—and how are we to account for the particular vices or virtues which +belong to each nation in its turn? +</p> + +<p> +The above is the Reverend M. Macaire’s solitary exploit as a spiritual +swindler: as MAÎTRE Macaire in the courts of law, as avocat, avoué—in a +humbler capacity even, as a prisoner at the bar, he distinguishes himself +greatly, as may be imagined. On one occasion we find the learned gentleman +humanely visiting an unfortunate détenu—no other person, in fact, than +his friend M. Bertrand, who has fallen into some trouble, and is awaiting the +sentence of the law. He begins— +</p> + +<p> +“Mon cher Bertrand, donne moi cent écus, je te fais acquitter +d’emblée.” +</p> + +<p> +“J’ai pas d’argent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hé bien, donne moi cent francs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pas le sou.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tu n’as pas dix francs?” +</p> + +<p> +“Pas un liard.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alors donne moi tes bottes, je plaiderai la circonstance +atténuante.” +</p> + +<p> +The manner in which Maitre Macaire soars from the cent écus (a high point +already) to the sublime of the boots, is in the best comic style. In another +instance he pleads before a judge, and, mistaking his client, pleads for +defendant, instead of plaintiff. “The infamy of the plaintiff’s +character, my LUDS, renders his testimony on such a charge as this wholly +unavailing.” “M. Macaire, M. Macaire,” cries the attorney, in +a fright, “you are for the plaintiff!” “This, my lords, is +what the defendant WILL SAY. This is the line of defence which the opposite +party intend to pursue; as if slanders like these could weigh with an +enlightened jury, or injure the spotless reputation of my client!” In +this story and expedient M. Macaire has been indebted to the English bar. If +there be an occupation for the English satirist in the exposing of the cant and +knavery of the pretenders to religion, what room is there for him to lash the +infamies of the law! On this point the French are babes in iniquity compared to +us—a counsel prostituting himself for money is a matter with us so stale, +that it is hardly food for satire: which, to be popular, must find some much +more complicated and interesting knavery whereon to exercise its skill. +</p> + +<p> +M. Macaire is more skilful in love than in law, and appears once or twice in a +very amiable light while under the influence of the tender passion. We find him +at the head of one of those useful establishments unknown in our +country—a Bureau de Mariage: half a dozen of such places are daily +advertised in the journals: and “une veuve de trente ans ayant une +fortune de deux cent mille francs,” or “une demoiselle de quinze +aus, jolie, d’une famille très distinguée, qui possède trente mille +livres de rentes,”—continually, in this kind-hearted way, are +offering themselves to the public: sometimes it is a gentleman, with a +“physique agréable,—des talens de société”—and a place +under Government, who makes a sacrifice of himself in a similar manner. In our +little historical gallery we find this philanthropic anti-Malthusian at the +head of an establishment of this kind, introducing a very meek, simple-looking +bachelor to some distinguished ladies of his connoissance. “Let me +present you, sir, to Madame de St. Bertrand” (it is our old friend), +“veuve de la grande armée, et Mdlle Eloa de Wormspire. Ces dames brûlent +de l’envie de faire votre connoissance. Je les ai invitées à dîner chez +vous ce soir: vous nous menerez à l’opéra, et nous ferons une petite +partie d’écarté. Tenez vous bien, M. Gobard! ces dames ont des projets +sur vous!” +</p> + +<p> +Happy Gobard! happy system, which can thus bring the pure and loving together, +and acts as the best ally of Hymen! The announcement of the rank and titles of +Madame de St. Bertrand—“veuve de la grande armée”—is +very happy. “La grande armée” has been a father to more orphans, +and a husband to more widows, than it ever made. Mistresses of cafés, old +governesses, keepers of boarding-houses, genteel beggars, and ladies of lower +rank still, have this favorite pedigree. They have all had malheurs (what kind +it is needless to particularize), they are all connected with the grand homme, +and their fathers were all colonels. This title exactly answers to the +“clergyman’s daughter” in England—as, “A young +lady, the daughter of a clergyman, is desirous to teach,” &c. +“A clergyman’s widow receives into her house a few select,” +and so forth. “Appeal to the benevolent.—By a series of unheard-of +calamities, a young lady, daughter of a clergyman in the west of England, has +been plunged,” &c. &c. The difference is curious, as indicating +the standard of respectability. +</p> + +<p> +The male beggar of fashion is not so well known among us as in Paris, where +street-doors are open; six or eight families live in a house; and the gentleman +who earns his livelihood by this profession can make half a dozen visits +without the trouble of knocking from house to house, and the pain of being +observed by the whole street, while the footman is examining him from the area. +Some few may be seen in England about the inns of court, where the locality is +favorable (where, however, the owners of the chambers are not proverbially soft +of heart, so that the harvest must be poor); but Paris is full of such +adventurers,—fat, smooth-tongued, and well dressed, with gloves and +gilt-headed canes, who would be insulted almost by the offer of silver, and +expect your gold as their right. Among these, of course, our friend Robert +plays his part; and an excellent engraving represents him, snuff-box in hand, +advancing to an old gentleman, whom, by his poodle, his powdered head, and his +drivelling, stupid look, one knows to be a Carlist of the old régime. “I +beg pardon,” says Robert; “is it really yourself to whom I have the +honor of speaking?”—“It is.” “Do you take +snuff?”—“I thank you.”—“Sir, I have had +misfortunes—I want assistance. I am a Vendéan of illustrious birth. You +know the family of Macairbec—we are of Brest. My grandfather served the +King in his galleys; my father and I belong, also, to the marine. Unfortunate +suits at law have plunged us into difficulties, and I do not hesitate to ask +you for the succor of ten francs.”—“Sir, I never give to +those I don’t know.”—“Right, sir, perfectly right. +Perhaps you will have the kindness to LEND me ten francs?” +</p> + +<p> +The adventures of Doctor Macaire need not be described, because the different +degrees in quackery which are taken by that learned physician are all well +known in England, where we have the advantage of many higher degrees in the +science, which our neighbors know nothing about. We have not Hahnemann, but we +have his disciples; we have not Broussais, but we have the College of Health; +and surely a dose of Morrison’s pills is a sublimer discovery than a +draught of hot water. We had St. John Long, too—where is his +science?—and we are credibly informed that some important cures have been +effected by the inspired dignitaries of “the church” in Newman +Street which, if it continue to practise, will sadly interfere with the profits +of the regular physicians, and where the miracles of the Abbé of Paris are +about to be acted over again. +</p> + +<p> +In speaking of M. Macaire and his adventures, we have managed so entirely to +convince ourselves of the reality of the personage, that we have quite +forgotten to speak of Messrs. Philipon and Daumier, who are, the one the +inventor, the other the designer, of the Macaire Picture Gallery. As works of +esprit, these drawings are not more remarkable than they are as works of art, +and we never recollect to have seen a series of sketches possessing more +extraordinary cleverness and variety. The countenance and figure of Macaire and +the dear stupid Bertrand are preserved, of course, with great fidelity +throughout; but the admirable way in which each fresh character is conceived, +the grotesque appropriateness of Robert’s every successive attitude and +gesticulation, and the variety of Bertrand’s postures of invariable +repose, the exquisite fitness of all the other characters, who act their little +part and disappear from the scene, cannot be described on paper, or too highly +lauded. The figures are very carelessly drawn; but, if the reader can +understand us, all the attitudes and limbs are perfectly CONCEIVED, and +wonderfully natural and various. After pondering over these drawings for some +hours, as we have been while compiling this notice of them, we have grown to +believe that the personages are real, and the scenes remain imprinted on the +brain as if we had absolutely been present at their acting. Perhaps the clever +way in which the plates are colored, and the excellent effect which is put into +each, may add to this illusion. Now, in looking, for instance, at H. B.’s +slim vapory figures, they have struck us as excellent LIKENESSES of men and +women, but no more: the bodies want spirit, action, and individuality. George +Cruikshank, as a humorist, has quite as much genius, but he does not know the +art of “effect” so well as Monsieur Daumier; and, if we might +venture to give a word of advice to another humorous designer, whose works are +extensively circulated—the illustrator of “Pickwick” and +“Nicholas Nickleby,”—it would be to study well these +caricatures of Monsieur Daumier; who, though he executes very carelessly, knows +very well what he would express, indicates perfectly the attitude and identity +of his figure, and is quite aware, beforehand, of the effect which he intends +to produce. The one we should fancy to be a practised artist, taking his ease; +the other, a young one, somewhat bewildered: a very clever one, however, who, +if he would think more, and exaggerate less, would add not a little to his +reputation. +</p> + +<p> +Having pursued, all through these remarks, the comparison between English art +and French art, English and French humor, manners, and morals, perhaps we +should endeavor, also, to write an analytical essay on English cant or humbug, +as distinguished from French. It might be shown that the latter was more +picturesque and startling, the former more substantial and positive. It has +none of the poetic flights of the French genius, but advances steadily, and +gains more ground in the end than its sprightlier compeer. But such a +discussion would carry us through the whole range of French and English +history, and the reader has probably read quite enough of the subject in this +and the foregoing pages. +</p> + +<p> +We shall, therefore, say no more of French and English caricatures generally, +or of Mr. Macaire’s particular accomplishments and adventures. They are +far better understood by examining the original pictures, by which Philipon and +Daumier have illustrated them, than by translations first into print and +afterwards into English. They form a very curious and instructive commentary +upon the present state of society in Paris, and a hundred years hence, when the +whole of this struggling, noisy, busy, merry race shall have exchanged their +pleasures or occupations for a quiet coffin (and a tawdry lying epitaph) at +Montmartre, or Père la Chaise; when the follies here recorded shall have been +superseded by new ones, and the fools now so active shall have given up the +inheritance of the world to their children: the latter will, at least, have the +advantage of knowing, intimately and exactly, the manners of life and being of +their grandsires, and calling up, when they so choose it, our ghosts from the +grave, to live, love, quarrel, swindle, suffer, and struggle on blindly as of +yore. And when the amused speculator shall have laughed sufficiently at the +immensity of our follies, and the paltriness of our aims, smiled at our +exploded superstitions, wondered how this man should be considered great, who +is now clean forgotten (as copious Guthrie before mentioned); how this should +have been thought a patriot who is but a knave spouting commonplace; or how +that should have been dubbed a philosopher who is but a dull fool, blinking +solemn, and pretending to see in the dark; when he shall have examined all +these at his leisure, smiling in a pleasant contempt and good-humored +superiority, and thanking heaven for his increased lights, he will shut the +book, and be a fool as his fathers were before him. +</p> + +<p> +It runs in the blood. Well hast thou said, O ragged Macaire,—“Le +jour va passer, MAIS LES BADAUDS NE PASSERONT PAS.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"></a> LITTLE POINSINET.</h2> + +<p> +About the year 1760, there lived, at Paris, a little fellow, who was the +darling of all the wags of his acquaintance. Nature seemed, in the formation of +this little man, to have amused herself, by giving loose to half a hundred of +her most comical caprices. He had some wit and drollery of his own, which +sometimes rendered his sallies very amusing; but, where his friends laughed +with him once, they laughed at him a thousand times, for he had a fund of +absurdity in himself that was more pleasant than all the wit in the world. He +was as proud as a peacock, as wicked as an ape, and as silly as a goose. He did +not possess one single grain of common sense; but, in revenge, his pretensions +were enormous, his ignorance vast, and his credulity more extensive still. From +his youth upwards, he had read nothing but the new novels, and the verses in +the almanacs, which helped him not a little in making, what he called, poetry +of his own; for, of course, our little hero was a poet. All the common usages +of life, all the ways of the world, and all the customs of society, seemed to +be quite unknown to him; add to these good qualities, a magnificent conceit, a +cowardice inconceivable, and a face so irresistibly comic, that every one who +first beheld it was compelled to burst out a-laughing, and you will have some +notion of this strange little gentleman. He was very proud of his voice, and +uttered all his sentences in the richest tragic tone. He was little better than +a dwarf; but he elevated his eyebrows, held up his neck, walked on the tips of +his toes, and gave himself the airs of a giant. He had a little pair of bandy +legs, which seemed much too short to support anything like a human body; but, +by the help of these crooked supporters, he thought he could dance like a +Grace; and, indeed, fancied all the graces possible were to be found in his +person. His goggle eyes were always rolling about wildly, as if in +correspondence with the disorder of his little brain and his countenance thus +wore an expression of perpetual wonder. With such happy natural gifts, he not +only fell into all traps that were laid for him, but seemed almost to go out of +his way to seek them; although, to be sure, his friends did not give him much +trouble in that search, for they prepared hoaxes for him incessantly. +</p> + +<p> +One day the wags introduced him to a company of ladies, who, though not +countesses and princesses exactly, took, nevertheless, those titles upon +themselves for the nonce; and were all, for the same reason, violently smitten +with Master Poinsinet’s person. One of them, the lady of the house, was +especially tender; and, seating him by her side at supper, so plied him with +smiles, ogles, and champagne, that our little hero grew crazed with ecstasy, +and wild with love. In the midst of his happiness, a cruel knock was heard +below, accompanied by quick loud talking, swearing, and shuffling of feet: you +would have thought a regiment was at the door. “Oh heavens!” cried +the marchioness, starting up, and giving to the hand of Poinsinet one parting +squeeze; “fly—fly, my Poinsinet: ’tis the colonel—my +husband!” At this, each gentleman of the party rose, and, drawing his +rapier, vowed to cut his way through the colonel and all his mousquetaires, or +die, if need be, by the side of Poinsinet. +</p> + +<p> +The little fellow was obliged to lug out his sword too, and went shuddering +down stairs, heartily repenting of his passion for marchionesses. When the +party arrived in the street, they found, sure enough, a dreadful company of +mousquetaires, as they seemed, ready to oppose their passage. Swords +crossed,—torches blazed; and, with the most dreadful shouts and +imprecations, the contending parties rushed upon one another; the friends of +Poinsinet surrounding and supporting that little warrior, as the French knights +did King Francis at Pavia, otherwise the poor fellow certainly would have +fallen down in the gutter from fright. +</p> + +<p> +But the combat was suddenly interrupted; for the neighbors, who knew nothing of +the trick going on, and thought the brawl was real, had been screaming with all +their might for the police, who began about this time to arrive. Directly they +appeared, friends and enemies of Poinsinet at once took to their heels; and, in +THIS part of the transaction, at least, our hero himself showed that he was +equal to the longest-legged grenadier that ever ran away. +</p> + +<p> +When, at last, those little bandy legs of his had borne him safely to his +lodgings, all Poinsinet’s friends crowded round him, to congratulate him +on his escape and his valor. +</p> + +<p> +“Egad, how he pinked that great red-haired fellow!” said one. +</p> + +<p> +“No; did I?” said Poinsinet. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you? Psha! don’t try to play the modest, and humbug US; you +know you did. I suppose you will say, next, that you were not for three minutes +point to point with Cartentierce himself, the most dreadful swordsman of the +army.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you see,” says Poinsinet, quite delighted, “it was so +dark that I did not know with whom I was engaged; although, corbleu, I DID FOR +one or two of the fellows.” And after a little more of such conversation, +during which he was fully persuaded that he had done for a dozen of the enemy +at least, Poinsinet went to bed, his little person trembling with fright and +pleasure; and he fell asleep, and dreamed of rescuing ladies, and destroying +monsters, like a second Amadis de Gaul. +</p> + +<p> +When he awoke in the morning, he found a party of his friends in his room: one +was examining his coat and waistcoat; another was casting many curious glances +at his inexpressibles. “Look here!” said this gentleman, holding up +the garment to the light; “one—two—three gashes! I am hanged +if the cowards did not aim at Poinsinet’s legs! There are four holes in +the sword arm of his coat, and seven have gone right through coat and +waistcoat. Good heaven! Poinsinet, have you had a surgeon to your +wounds?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wounds!” said the little man, springing up, “I don’t +know—that is, I hope—that is—O Lord! O Lord! I hope I’m +not wounded!” and, after a proper examination, he discovered he was not. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank heaven! thank heaven!” said one of the wags (who, indeed, +during the slumbers of Poinsinet had been occupied in making these very holes +through the garments of that individual), “if you have escaped, it is by +a miracle. Alas! alas! all your enemies have not been so lucky.” +</p> + +<p> +“How! is anybody wounded?” said Poinsinet. +</p> + +<p> +“My dearest friend, prepare yourself; that unhappy man who came to +revenge his menaced honor—that gallant officer—that injured +husband, Colonel Count de Cartentierce—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“IS NO MORE! he died this morning, pierced through with nineteen wounds +from your hand, and calling upon his country to revenge his murder.” +</p> + +<p> +When this awful sentence was pronounced, all the auditory gave a pathetic and +simultaneous sob; and as for Poinsinet, he sank back on his bed with a howl of +terror, which would have melted a Visigoth to tears, or to laughter. As soon as +his terror and remorse had, in some degree, subsided, his comrades spoke to him +of the necessity of making his escape; and, huddling on his clothes, and +bidding them all a tender adieu, he set off, incontinently, without his +breakfast, for England, America, or Russia, not knowing exactly which. +</p> + +<p> +One of his companions agreed to accompany him on a part of this +journey,—that is, as far as the barrier of St. Denis, which is, as +everybody knows, on the high road to Dover; and there, being tolerably secure, +they entered a tavern for breakfast; which meal, the last that he ever was to +take, perhaps, in his native city, Poinsinet was just about to discuss, when, +behold! a gentleman entered the apartment where Poinsinet and his friend were +seated, and, drawing from his pocket a paper, with “AU NOM DU ROY” +flourished on the top, read from it, or rather from Poinsinet’s own +figure, his exact signalement, laid his hand on his shoulder, and arrested him +in the name of the King, and of the provost-marshal of Paris. “I arrest +you, sir,” said he, gravely, “with regret; you have slain, with +seventeen wounds, in single combat, Colonel Count de Cartentierce, one of his +Majesty’s household; and, as his murderer, you fall under the immediate +authority of the provost-marshal, and die without trial or benefit of +clergy.” +</p> + +<p> +You may fancy how the poor little man’s appetite fell when he heard this +speech. “In the provost-marshal’s hands?” said his friend: +“then it is all over, indeed! When does my poor friend suffer, +sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“At half-past six o’clock, the day after to-morrow,” said the +officer, sitting down, and helping himself to wine. “But stop,” +said he, suddenly; “sure I can’t mistake? Yes—no—yes, +it is. My dear friend, my dear Durand! don’t you recollect your old +schoolfellow, Antoine?” And herewith the officer flung himself into the +arms of Durand, Poinsinet’s comrade, and they performed a most affecting +scene of friendship. +</p> + +<p> +“This may be of some service to you,” whispered Durand to +Poinsinet; and, after some further parley, he asked the officer when he was +bound to deliver up his prisoner; and, hearing that he was not called upon to +appear at the Marshalsea before six o’clock at night, Monsieur Durand +prevailed upon Monsieur Antoine to wait until that hour, and in the meantime to +allow his prisoner to walk about the town in his company. This request was, +with a little difficulty, granted; and poor Poinsinet begged to be carried to +the houses of his various friends, and bid them farewell. Some were aware of +the trick that had been played upon him: others were not; but the poor little +man’s credulity was so great, that it was impossible to undeceive him; +and he went from house to house bewailing his fate, and followed by the +complaisant marshal’s officer. +</p> + +<p> +The news of his death he received with much more meekness than could have been +expected; but what he could not reconcile to himself was, the idea of +dissection afterwards. “What can they want with me?” cried the poor +wretch, in an unusual fit of candor. “I am very small and ugly; it would +be different if I were a tall fine-looking fellow.” But he was given to +understand that beauty made very little difference to the surgeons, who, on the +contrary, would, on certain occasions, prefer a deformed man to a handsome one; +for science was much advanced by the study of such monstrosities. With this +reason Poinsinet was obliged to be content; and so paid his rounds of visits, +and repeated his dismal adieux. +</p> + +<p> +The officer of the provost-marshal, however amusing Poinsinet’s woes +might have been, began, by this time, to grow very weary of them, and gave him +more than one opportunity to escape. He would stop at shop-windows, loiter +round corners, and look up in the sky, but all in vain: Poinsinet would not +escape, do what the other would. At length, luckily, about dinner-time, the +officer met one of Poinsinet’s friends and his own: and the three agreed +to dine at a tavern, as they had breakfasted; and here the officer, who vowed +that he had been up for five weeks incessantly, fell suddenly asleep, in the +profoundest fatigue; and Poinsinet was persuaded, after much hesitation on his +part, to take leave of him. +</p> + +<p> +And now, this danger overcome, another was to be avoided. Beyond a doubt the +police were after him, and how was he to avoid them? He must be disguised, of +course; and one of his friends, a tall, gaunt lawyer’s clerk, agreed to +provide him with habits. +</p> + +<p> +So little Poinsinet dressed himself out in the clerk’s dingy black suit, +of which the knee-breeches hung down to his heels, and the waist of the coat +reached to the calves of his legs; and, furthermore, he blacked his eyebrows, +and wore a huge black periwig, in which his friend vowed that no one could +recognize him. But the most painful incident, with regard to the periwig, was, +that Poinsinet, whose solitary beauty—if beauty it might be +called—was a head of copious, curling, yellow hair, was compelled to snip +off every one of his golden locks, and to rub the bristles with a black dye; +“for if your wig were to come off,” said the lawyer, “and +your fair hair to tumble over your shoulders, every man would know, or at least +suspect you.” So off the locks were cut, and in his black suit and +periwig little Poinsinet went abroad. +</p> + +<p> +His friends had their cue; and when he appeared amongst them, not one seemed to +know him. He was taken into companies where his character was discussed before +him, and his wonderful escape spoken of. At last he was introduced to the very +officer of the provost-marshal who had taken him into custody, and who told him +that he had been dismissed the provost’s service, in consequence of the +escape of the prisoner. Now, for the first time, poor Poinsinet thought himself +tolerably safe, and blessed his kind friends who had procured for him such a +complete disguise. How this affair ended I know not,—whether some new lie +was coined to account for his release, or whether he was simply told that he +had been hoaxed: it mattered little; for the little man was quite as ready to +be hoaxed the next day. +</p> + +<p> +Poinsinet was one day invited to dine with one of the servants of the +Tuileries; and, before his arrival, a person in company had been decorated with +a knot of lace and a gold key, such as chamberlains wear; he was introduced to +Poinsinet as the Count de Truchses, chamberlain to the King of Prussia. After +dinner the conversation fell upon the Count’s visit to Paris; when his +Excellency, with a mysterious air, vowed that he had only come for pleasure. +“It is mighty well,” said a third person, “and, of course, we +can’t cross-question your lordship too closely;” but at the same +time it was hinted to Poinsinet that a person of such consequence did not +travel for NOTHING, with which opinion Poinsinet solemnly agreed; and, indeed, +it was borne out by a subsequent declaration of the Count, who condescended, at +last, to tell the company, in confidence, that he HAD a mission, and a most +important one—to find, namely, among the literary men of France, a +governor for the Prince Royal of Prussia. The company seemed astonished that +the King had not made choice of Voltaire or D’Alembert, and mentioned a +dozen other distinguished men who might be competent to this important duty; +but the Count, as may be imagined, found objections to every one of them; and, +at last, one of the guests said, that, if his Prussian Majesty was not +particular as to age, he knew a person more fitted for the place than any other +who could be found,—his honorable friend, M. Poinsinet, was the +individual to whom he alluded. +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens!” cried the Count, “is it possible that the +celebrated Poinsinet would take such a place? I would give the world to see +him?” And you may fancy how Poinsinet simpered and blushed when the +introduction immediately took place. +</p> + +<p> +The Count protested to him that the King would be charmed to know him; and +added, that one of his operas (for it must be told that our little friend was a +vaudeville-maker by trade) had been acted seven-and-twenty times at the theatre +at Potsdam. His Excellency then detailed to him all the honors and privileges +which the governor of the Prince Royal might expect; and all the guests +encouraged the little man’s vanity, by asking him for his protection and +favor. In a short time our hero grew so inflated with pride and vanity, that he +was for patronizing the chamberlain himself, who proceeded to inform him that +he was furnished with all the necessary powers by his sovereign, who had +specially enjoined him to confer upon the future governor of his son the royal +order of the Black Eagle. +</p> + +<p> +Poinsinet, delighted, was ordered to kneel down; and the Count produced a large +yellow ribbon, which he hung over his shoulder, and which was, he declared, the +grand cordon of the order. You must fancy Poinsinet’s face, and excessive +delight at this; for as for describing them, nobody can. For four-and-twenty +hours the happy chevalier paraded through Paris with this flaring yellow +ribbon; and he was not undeceived until his friends had another trick in store +for him. +</p> + +<p> +He dined one day in the company of a man who understood a little of the noble +art of conjuring, and performed some clever tricks on the cards. +Poinsinet’s organ of wonder was enormous; he looked on with the gravity +and awe of a child, and thought the man’s tricks sheer miracles. It +wanted no more to set his companions to work. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is this wonderful man?” said he to his neighbor. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” said the other, mysteriously, “one hardly knows who he +is; or, at least, one does not like to say to such an indiscreet fellow as you +are.” Poinsinet at once swore to be secret. “Well, then,” +said his friend, “you will hear that man—that wonderful +man—called by a name which is not his: his real name is Acosta: he is a +Portuguese Jew, a Rosicrucian, and Cabalist of the first order, and compelled +to leave Lisbon for fear of the Inquisition. He performs here, as you see, some +extraordinary things, occasionally; but the master of the house, who loves him +excessively, would not, for the world, that his name should be made +public.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, bah!” said Poinsinet, who affected the bel esprit; “you +don’t mean to say that you believe in magic, and cabalas, and such +trash?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do I not? You shall judge for yourself.” And, accordingly, +Poinsinet was presented to the magician, who pretended to take a vast liking +for him, and declared that he saw in him certain marks which would infallibly +lead him to great eminence in the magic art, if he chose to study it. +</p> + +<p> +Dinner was served, and Poinsinet placed by the side of the miracle-worker, who +became very confidential with him, and promised him—ay, before dinner was +over—a remarkable instance of his power. Nobody, on this occasion, +ventured to cut a single joke against poor Poinsinet; nor could he fancy that +any trick was intended against him, for the demeanor of the society towards him +was perfectly grave and respectful, and the conversation serious. On a sudden, +however, somebody exclaimed, “Where is Poinsinet? Did any one see him +leave the room?” +</p> + +<p> +All the company exclaimed how singular the disappearance was; and Poinsinet +himself, growing alarmed, turned round to his neighbor, and was about to +explain. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush!” said the magician, in a whisper; “I told you that you +should see what I could do. I HAVE MADE YOU INVISIBLE; be quiet, and you shall +see some more tricks that I shall play with these fellows.” +</p> + +<p> +Poinsinet remained then silent, and listened to his neighbors, who agreed, at +last, that he was a quiet, orderly personage, and had left the table early, +being unwilling to drink too much. Presently they ceased to talk about him, and +resumed their conversation upon other matters. +</p> + +<p> +At first it was very quiet and grave, but the master of the house brought back +the talk to the subject of Poinsinet, and uttered all sorts of abuse concerning +him. He begged the gentleman, who had introduced such a little scamp into his +house, to bring him thither no more: whereupon the other took up, warmly, +Poinsinet’s defence; declared that he was a man of the greatest merit, +frequenting the best society, and remarkable for his talents as well as his +virtues. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Poinsinet to the magician, quite charmed at what he +heard, “how ever shall I thank you, my dear sir, for thus showing me who +my true friends are?” +</p> + +<p> +The magician promised him still further favors in prospect; and told him to +look out now, for he was about to throw all the company into a temporary fit of +madness, which, no doubt, would be very amusing. +</p> + +<p> +In consequence, all the company, who had heard every syllable of the +conversation, began to perform the most extraordinary antics, much to the +delight of Poinsinet. One asked a nonsensical question, and the other delivered +an answer not at all to the purpose. If a man asked for a drink, they poured +him out a pepper-box or a napkin: they took a pinch of snuff, and swore it was +excellent wine; and vowed that the bread was the most delicious mutton ever +tasted. The little man was delighted. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said he, “these fellows are prettily punished for their +rascally backbiting of me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen,” said the host, “I shall now give you some +celebrated champagne,” and he poured out to each a glass of water. +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens!” said one, spitting it out, with the most horrible +grimace, “where did you get this detestable claret?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, faugh!” said a second, “I never tasted such vile corked +burgundy in all my days!” and he threw the glass of water into +Poinsinet’s face, as did half a dozen of the other guests, drenching the +poor wretch to the skin. To complete this pleasant illusion, two of the guests +fell to boxing across Poinsinet, who received a number of the blows, and +received them with the patience of a fakir, feeling himself more flattered by +the precious privilege of beholding this scene invisible, than hurt by the +blows and buffets which the mad company bestowed upon him. +</p> + +<p> +The fame of this adventure spread quickly over Paris, and all the world longed +to have at their houses the representation of Poinsinet the Invisible. The +servants and the whole company used to be put up to the trick; and Poinsinet, +who believed in his invisibility as much as he did in his existence, went about +with his friend and protector the magician. People, of course, never pretended +to see him, and would very often not talk of him at all for some time, but hold +sober conversation about anything else in the world. When dinner was served, of +course there was no cover laid for Poinsinet, who carried about a little stool, +on which he sat by the side of the magician, and always ate off his plate. +Everybody was astonished at the magician’s appetite and at the quantity +of wine he drank; as for little Poinsinet, he never once suspected any trick, +and had such a confidence in his magician, that, I do believe, if the latter +had told him to fling himself out of window, he would have done so, without the +slightest trepidation. +</p> + +<p> +Among other mystifications in which the Portuguese enchanter plunged him, was +one which used to afford always a good deal of amusement. He informed +Poinsinet, with great mystery, that HE WAS NOT HIMSELF; he was not, that is to +say, that ugly, deformed little monster, called Poinsinet; but that his birth +was most illustrious, and his real name Polycarte. He was, in fact, the son of +a celebrated magician; but other magicians, enemies of his father, had changed +him in his cradle, altering his features into their present hideous shape, in +order that a silly old fellow, called Poinsinet, might take him to be his own +son, which little monster the magician had likewise spirited away. +</p> + +<p> +The poor wretch was sadly cast down at this; for he tried to fancy that his +person was agreeable to the ladies, of whom he was one of the warmest little +admirers possible; and to console him somewhat, the magician told him that his +real shape was exquisitely beautiful, and as soon as he should appear in it, +all the beauties in Paris would be at his feet. But how to regain it? +“Oh, for one minute of that beauty!” cried the little man; +“what would he not give to appear under that enchanting form!” The +magician hereupon waved his stick over his head, pronounced some awful magical +words, and twisted him round three times; at the third twist, the men in +company seemed struck with astonishment and envy, the ladies clasped their +hands, and some of them kissed his. Everybody declared his beauty to be +supernatural. +</p> + +<p> +Poinsinet, enchanted, rushed to a glass. “Fool!” said the magician; +“do you suppose that YOU can see the change? My power to render you +invisible, beautiful, or ten times more hideous even than you are, extends only +to others, not to you. You may look a thousand times in the glass, and you will +only see those deformed limbs and disgusting features with which devilish +malice has disguised you.” Poor little Poinsinet looked, and came back in +tears. “But,” resumed the magician,—“ha, ha, +ha!—I know a way in which to disappoint the machinations of these +fiendish magi.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my benefactor!—my great master!—for heaven’s sake +tell it!” gasped Poinsinet. +</p> + +<p> +“Look you—it is this. A prey to enchantment and demoniac art all +your life long, you have lived until your present age perfectly satisfied; nay, +absolutely vain of a person the most singularly hideous that ever walked the +earth!” +</p> + +<p> +“IS it?” whispered Poinsinet. “Indeed and indeed I +didn’t think it so bad!” +</p> + +<p> +“He acknowledges it! he acknowledges it!” roared the magician. +“Wretch, dotard, owl, mole, miserable buzzard! I have no reason to tell +thee now that thy form is monstrous, that children cry, that cowards turn pale, +that teeming matrons shudder to behold it. It is not thy fault that thou art +thus ungainly: but wherefore so blind? wherefore so conceited of thyself! I +tell thee, Poinsinet, that over every fresh instance of thy vanity the hostile +enchanters rejoice and triumph. As long as thou art blindly satisfied with +thyself; as long as thou pretendest, in thy present odious shape, to win the +love of aught above a negress; nay, further still, until thou hast learned to +regard that face, as others do, with the most intolerable horror and disgust, +to abuse it when thou seest it, to despise it, in short, and treat that +miserable disguise in which the enchanters have wrapped thee with the +strongest, hatred and scorn, so long art thou destined to wear it.” +</p> + +<p> +Such speeches as these, continually repeated, caused Poinsinet to be fully +convinced of his ugliness; he used to go about in companies, and take every +opportunity of inveighing against himself; he made verses and epigrams against +himself; he talked about “that dwarf, Poinsinet;” “that +buffoon, Poinsinet;” “that conceited, hump-backed Poinsinet;” +and he would spend hours before the glass, abusing his own face as he saw it +reflected there, and vowing that he grew handsomer at every fresh epithet that +he uttered. +</p> + +<p> +Of course the wags, from time to time, used to give him every possible +encouragement, and declared that since this exercise, his person was amazingly +improved. The ladies, too, began to be so excessively fond of him, that the +little fellow was obliged to caution them at last—for the good, as he +said, of society; he recommended them to draw lots, for he could not gratify +them all; but promised when his metamorphosis was complete, that the one chosen +should become the happy Mrs. Poinsinet; or, to speak more correctly, Mrs. +Polycarte. +</p> + +<p> +I am sorry to say, however, that, on the score of gallantry, Poinsinet was +never quite convinced of the hideousness of his appearance. He had a number of +adventures, accordingly, with the ladies, but strange to say, the husbands or +fathers were always interrupting him. On one occasion he was made to pass the +night in a slipper-bath full of water; where, although he had all his clothes +on, he declared that he nearly caught his death of cold. Another night, in +revenge, the poor fellow +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + —“dans le simple appareil<br/> +D’une beauté, qu’on vient d’arracher au sommeil,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +spent a number of hours contemplating the beauty of the moon on the tiles. +These adventures are pretty numerous in the memoirs of M. Poinsinet; but the +fact is, that people in France were a great deal more philosophical in those +days than the English are now, so that Poinsinet’s loves must be passed +over, as not being to our taste. His magician was a great diver, and told +Poinsinet the most wonderful tales of his two minutes’ absence under +water. These two minutes, he said, lasted through a year, at least, which he +spent in the company of a naiad, more beautiful than Venus, in a palace more +splendid than even Versailles. Fired by the description, Poinsinet used to dip, +and dip, but he never was known to make any mermaid acquaintances, although he +fully believed that one day he should find such. +</p> + +<p> +The invisible joke was brought to an end by Poinsinet’s too great +reliance on it; for being, as we have said, of a very tender and sanguine +disposition, he one day fell in love with a lady in whose company he dined, and +whom he actually proposed to embrace; but the fair lady, in the hurry of the +moment, forgot to act up to the joke; and instead of receiving +Poinsinet’s salute with calmness, grew indignant, called him an impudent +little scoundrel, and lent him a sound box on the ear. With this slap the +invisibility of Poinsinet disappeared, the gnomes and genii left him, and he +settled down into common life again, and was hoaxed only by vulgar means. +</p> + +<p> +A vast number of pages might be filled with narratives of the tricks that were +played upon him; but they resemble each other a good deal, as may be imagined, +and the chief point remarkable about them is the wondrous faith of Poinsinet. +After being introduced to the Prussian ambassador at the Tuileries, he was +presented to the Turkish envoy at the Place Vendôme, who received him in state, +surrounded by the officers of his establishment, all dressed in the smartest +dresses that the wardrobe of the Opéra Comique could furnish. +</p> + +<p> +As the greatest honor that could be done to him, Poinsinet was invited to eat, +and a tray was produced, on which was a delicate dish prepared in the Turkish +manner. This consisted of a reasonable quantity of mustard, salt, cinnamon and +ginger, nutmegs and cloves, with a couple of tablespoonfuls of cayenne pepper, +to give the whole a flavor; and Poinsinet’s countenance may be imagined +when he introduced into his mouth a quantity of this exquisite compound. +</p> + +<p> +“The best of the joke was,” says the author who records so many of +the pitiless tricks practised upon poor Poinsinet, “that the little man +used to laugh at them afterwards himself with perfect good humor; and lived in +the daily hope that, from being the sufferer, he should become the agent in +these hoaxes, and do to others as he had been done by.” Passing, +therefore, one day, on the Pont Neuf, with a friend, who had been one of the +greatest performers, the latter said to him, “Poinsinet, my good fellow, +thou hast suffered enough, and thy sufferings have made thee so wise and +cunning, that thou art worthy of entering among the initiated, and hoaxing in +thy turn.” Poinsinet was charmed; he asked when he should be initiated, +and how? It was told him that a moment would suffice, and that the ceremony +might be performed on the spot. At this news, and according to order, Poinsinet +flung himself straightway on his knees in the kennel; and the other, drawing +his sword, solemnly initiated him into the sacred order of jokers. From that +day the little man believed himself received into the society; and to this +having brought him, let us bid him a respectful adieu. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"></a> THE DEVIL’S WAGER. +</h2> + +<p> +It was the hour of the night when there be none stirring save churchyard +ghosts—when all doors are closed except the gates of graves, and all eyes +shut but the eyes of wicked men. +</p> + +<p> +When there is no sound on the earth except the ticking of the grasshopper, or +the croaking of obscene frogs in the poole. +</p> + +<p> +And no light except that of the blinking starres, and the wicked and devilish +wills-o’-the-wisp, as they gambol among the marshes, and lead good men +astraye. +</p> + +<p> +When there is nothing moving in heaven except the owle, as he flappeth along +lazily; or the magician, as he rides on his infernal broomsticke, whistling +through the aire like the arrowes of a Yorkshire archere. +</p> + +<p> +It was at this hour (namely, at twelve o’clock of the night,) that two +beings went winging through the black clouds, and holding converse with each +other. +</p> + +<p> +Now the first was Mercurius, the messenger, not of gods (as the heathens +feigned), but of daemons; and the second, with whom he held company, was the +soul of Sir Roger de Rollo, the brave knight. Sir Roger was Count of +Chauchigny, in Champagne; Seigneur of Santerre, Villacerf and aultre lieux. But +the great die as well as the humble; and nothing remained of brave Rodger now, +but his coffin and his deathless soul. +</p> + +<p> +And Mercurius, in order to keep fast the soul, his companion, had bound him +round the neck with his tail; which, when the soul was stubborn, he would draw +so tight as to strangle him wellnigh, sticking into him the barbed point +thereof; whereat the poor soul, Sir Rollo, would groan and roar lustily. +</p> + +<p> +Now they two had come together from the gates of purgatorie, being bound to +those regions of fire and flame where poor sinners fry and roast in saecula +saeculorum. +</p> + +<p> +“It is hard,” said the poor Sir Rollo, as they went gliding through +the clouds, “that I should thus be condemned for ever, and all for want +of a single ave.” +</p> + +<p> +“How, Sir Soul?” said the daemon. “You were on earth so +wicked, that not one, or a million of aves, could suffice to keep from +hell-flame a creature like thee; but cheer up and be merry; thou wilt be but a +subject of our lord the Devil, as am I; and, perhaps, thou wilt be advanced to +posts of honor, as am I also:” and to show his authoritie, he lashed with +his tail the ribbes of the wretched Rollo. +</p> + +<p> +“Nevertheless, sinner as I am, one more ave would have saved me; for my +sister, who was Abbess of St. Mary of Chauchigny, did so prevail, by her prayer +and good works, for my lost and wretched soul, that every day I felt the pains +of purgatory decrease; the pitchforks which, on my first entry, had never +ceased to vex and torment my poor carcass, were now not applied above once a +week; the roasting had ceased, the boiling had discontinued; only a certain +warmth was kept up, to remind me of my situation.” +</p> + +<p> +“A gentle stewe,” said the daemon. +</p> + +<p> +“Yea, truly, I was but in a stew, and all from the effects of the prayers +of my blessed sister. But yesterday, he who watched me in purgatory told me, +that yet another prayer from my sister, and my bonds should be unloosed, and I, +who am now a devil, should have been a blessed angel.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the other ave?” said the daemon. +</p> + +<p> +“She died, sir—my sister died—death choked her in the middle +of the prayer.” And hereat the wretched spirit began to weepe and whine +piteously; his salt tears falling over his beard, and scalding the tail of +Mercurius the devil. +</p> + +<p> +“It is, in truth, a hard case,” said the daemon; “but I know +of no remedy save patience, and for that you will have an excellent opportunity +in your lodgings below.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I have relations,” said the Earl; “my kinsman Randal, +who has inherited my lands, will he not say a prayer for his uncle?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou didst hate and oppress him when living.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true; but an ave is not much; his sister, my niece, +Matilda—” +</p> + +<p> +“You shut her in a convent, and hanged her lover.” +</p> + +<p> +“Had I not reason? besides, has she not others?” +</p> + +<p> +“A dozen, without doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +“And my brother, the prior?” +</p> + +<p> +“A liege subject of my lord the Devil: he never opens his mouth, except +to utter an oath, or to swallow a cup of wine.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet, if but one of these would but say an ave for me, I should be +saved.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aves with them are rarae aves,” replied Mercurius, wagging his +tail right waggishly; “and, what is more, I will lay thee any wager that +not one of these will say a prayer to save thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would wager willingly,” responded he of Chauchigny; “but +what has a poor soul like me to stake?” +</p> + +<p> +“Every evening, after the day’s roasting, my lord Satan giveth a +cup of cold water to his servants; I will bet thee thy water for a year, that +none of the three will pray for thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“Done!” said Rollo. +</p> + +<p> +“Done!” said the daemon; “and here, if I mistake not, is thy +castle of Chauchigny.” +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, it was true. The soul, on looking down, perceived the tall towers, the +courts, the stables, and the fair gardens of the castle. Although it was past +midnight, there was a blaze of light in the banqueting-hall, and a lamp burning +in the open window of the Lady Matilda. +</p> + +<p> +“With whom shall we begin?” said the daemon: “with the baron +or the lady?” +</p> + +<p> +“With the lady, if you will.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be it so; her window is open, let us enter.” +</p> + +<p> +So they descended, and entered silently into Matilda’s chamber. +</p> + +<p> +The young lady’s eyes were fixed so intently on a little clock, that it +was no wonder that she did not perceive the entrance of her two visitors. Her +fair cheek rested on her white arm, and her white arm on the cushion of a great +chair in which she sat, pleasantly supported by sweet thoughts and swan’s +down; a lute was at her side, and a book of prayers lay under the table (for +piety is always modest). Like the amorous Alexander, she sighed and looked (at +the clock)—and sighed for ten minutes or more, when she softly breathed +the word “Edward!” +</p> + +<p> +At this the soul of the Baron was wroth. “The jade is at her old +pranks,” said he to the devil; and then addressing Matilda: “I pray +thee, sweet niece, turn thy thoughts for a moment from that villanous page, +Edward, and give them to thine affectionate uncle.” +</p> + +<p> +When she heard the voice, and saw the awful apparition of her uncle (for a +year’s sojourn in purgatory had not increased the comeliness of his +appearance), she started, screamed, and of course fainted. +</p> + +<p> +But the devil Mercurius soon restored her to herself. “What’s +o’clock?” said she, as soon as she had recovered from her fit: +“is he come?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not thy lover, Maude, but thine uncle—that is, his soul. For the +love of heaven, listen to me: I have been frying in purgatory for a year past, +and should have been in heaven but for the want of a single ave.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will say it for thee to-morrow, uncle.” +</p> + +<p> +“To-night, or never.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, to-night be it:” and she requested the devil Mercurius to +give her the prayer-book from under the table; but he had no sooner touched the +holy book than he dropped it with a shriek and a yell. “It was +hotter,” he said, “than his master Sir Lucifer’s own +particular pitchfork.” And the lady was forced to begin her ave without +the aid of her missal. +</p> + +<p> +At the commencement of her devotions the daemon retired, and carried with him +the anxious soul of poor Sir Roger de Rollo. +</p> + +<p> +The lady knelt down—she sighed deeply; she looked again at the clock, and +began— +</p> + +<p> +“Ave Maria.” +</p> + +<p> +When a lute was heard under the window, and a sweet voice singing— +</p> + +<p> +“Hark!” said Matilda. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Now the toils of day are over,<br/> + And the sun hath sunk to rest,<br/> +Seeking, like a fiery lover,<br/> + The bosom of the blushing west—<br/> +<br/> +“The faithful night keeps watch and ward,<br/> + Raising the moon, her silver shield,<br/> +And summoning the stars to guard<br/> + The slumbers of my fair Mathilde!” +</p> + +<p> +“For mercy’s sake!” said Sir Rollo, “the ave first, and +next the song.” +</p> + +<p> +So Matilda again dutifully betook her to her devotions, and began— +</p> + +<p> +“Ave Maria gratiâ plena!” but the music began again, and the prayer +ceased of course. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The faithful night! Now all things lie<br/> + Hid by her mantle dark and dim,<br/> +In pious hope I hither hie,<br/> + And humbly chant mine ev’ning hymn.<br/> +<br/> +“Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine!<br/> + (For never holy pilgrim kneel’d,<br/> +Or wept at feet more pure than thine),<br/> + My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde!” +</p> + +<p> +“Virgin love!” said the Baron. “Upon my soul, this is too +bad!” and he thought of the lady’s lover whom he had caused to be +hanged. +</p> + +<p> +But SHE only thought of him who stood singing at her window. +</p> + +<p> +“Niece Matilda!” cried Sir Roger, agonizedly, “wilt thou +listen to the lies of an impudent page, whilst thine uncle is waiting but a +dozen words to make him happy?” +</p> + +<p> +At this Matilda grew angry: “Edward is neither impudent nor a liar, Sir +Uncle, and I will listen to the end of the song.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come away,” said Mercurius; “he hath yet got wield, field, +sealed, congealed, and a dozen other rhymes beside; and after the song will +come the supper.” +</p> + +<p> +So the poor soul was obliged to go; while the lady listened, and the page sung +away till morning. +</p> + +<p> +“My virtues have been my ruin,” said poor Sir Rollo, as he and +Mercurius slunk silently out of the window. “Had I hanged that knave +Edward, as I did the page his predecessor, my niece would have sung mine ave, +and I should have been by this time an angel in heaven.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is reserved for wiser purposes,” responded the devil: “he +will assassinate your successor, the lady Mathilde’s brother; and, in +consequence, will be hanged. In the love of the lady he will be succeeded by a +gardener, who will be replaced by a monk, who will give way to an ostler, who +will be deposed by a Jew pedler, who shall, finally, yield to a noble earl, the +future husband of the fair Mathilde. So that, you see, instead of having one +poor soul a-frying, we may now look forward to a goodly harvest for our lord +the Devil.” +</p> + +<p> +The soul of the Baron began to think that his companion knew too much for one +who would make fair bets; but there was no help for it; he would not, and he +could not, cry off: and he prayed inwardly that the brother might be found more +pious than the sister. +</p> + +<p> +But there seemed little chance of this. As they crossed the court, lackeys, +with smoking dishes and, full jugs, passed and repassed continually, although +it was long past midnight. On entering the hall, they found Sir Randal at the +head of a vast table, surrounded by a fiercer and more motley collection of +individuals than had congregated there even in the time of Sir Rollo. The lord +of the castle had signified that “it was his royal pleasure to be +drunk,” and the gentlemen of his train had obsequiously followed their +master. Mercurius was delighted with the scene, and relaxed his usually rigid +countenance into a bland and benevolent smile, which became him wonderfully. +</p> + +<p> +The entrance of Sir Roger, who had been dead about a year, and a person with +hoofs, horns, and a tail, rather disturbed the hilarity of the company. Sir +Randal dropped his cup of wine; and Father Peter, the confessor, incontinently +paused in the midst of a profane song, with which he was amusing the society. +</p> + +<p> +“Holy Mother!” cried he, “it is Sir Roger.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alive!” screamed Sir Randal. +</p> + +<p> +“No, my lord,” Mercurius said; “Sir Roger is dead, but cometh +on a matter of business; and I have the honor to act as his counsellor and +attendant.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nephew,” said Sir Roger, “the daemon saith justly; I am come +on a trifling affair, in which thy service is essential.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will do anything, uncle, in my power.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou canst give me life, if thou wilt?” But Sir Randal looked very +blank at this proposition. “I mean life spiritual, Randal,” said +Sir Roger; and thereupon he explained to him the nature of the wager. +</p> + +<p> +Whilst he was telling his story, his companion Mercurius was playing all sorts +of antics in the hall; and, by his wit and fun, became so popular with this +godless crew, that they lost all the fear which his first appearance had given +them. The friar was wonderfully taken with him, and used his utmost eloquence +and endeavors to convert the devil; the knights stopped drinking to listen to +the argument; the men-at-arms forbore brawling; and the wicked little pages +crowded round the two strange disputants, to hear their edifying discourse. The +ghostly man, however, had little chance in the controversy, and certainly +little learning to carry it on. Sir Randal interrupted him. “Father +Peter,” said he, “our kinsman is condemned for ever, for want of a +single ave: wilt thou say it for him?” “Willingly, my lord,” +said the monk, “with my book;” and accordingly he produced his +missal to read, without which aid it appeared that the holy father could not +manage the desired prayer. But the crafty Mercurius had, by his devilish art, +inserted a song in the place of the ave, so that Father Peter, instead of +chanting an hymn, sang the following irreverent ditty— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Some love the matin-chimes, which toll<br/> + The hour of prayer to sinner:<br/> +But better far’s the mid-day bell,<br/> + Which speaks the hour of dinner;<br/> +For when I see a smoking fish,<br/> + Or capon drown’d in gravy,<br/> +Or noble haunch on silver dish,<br/> + Full glad I sing mine ave.<br/> +<br/> +“My pulpit is an ale-house bench,<br/> + Whereon I sit so jolly;<br/> +A smiling rosy country wench<br/> + My saint and patron holy.<br/> +I kiss her cheek so red and sleek,<br/> + I press her ringlets wavy;<br/> +And in her willing ear I speak<br/> + A most religious ave.<br/> +<br/> +“And if I’m blind, yet heaven is kind,<br/> + And holy saints forgiving;<br/> +For sure he leads a right good life<br/> + Who thus admires good living.<br/> +Above, they say, our flesh is air,<br/> + Our blood celestial ichor:<br/> +Oh, grant! mid all the changes there,<br/> + They may not change our liquor!” +</p> + +<p> +And with this pious wish the holy confessor tumbled under the table in an agony +of devout drunkenness; whilst the knights, the men-at-arms, and the wicked +little pages, rang out the last verse with a most melodious and emphatic glee. +“I am sorry, fair uncle,” hiccupped Sir Randal, “that, in the +matter of the ave, we could not oblige thee in a more orthodox manner; but the +holy father has failed, and there is not another man in the hall who hath an +idea of a prayer.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is my own fault,” said Sir Rollo; “for I hanged the last +confessor.” And he wished his nephew a surly good-night, as he prepared +to quit the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Au revoir, gentlemen,” said the devil Mercurius; and once more +fixed his tail round the neck of his disappointed companion. +</p> + +<p> +The spirit of poor Rollo was sadly cast down; the devil, on the contrary, was +in high good humor. He wagged his tail with the most satisfied air in the +world, and cut a hundred jokes at the expense of his poor associate. On they +sped, cleaving swiftly through the cold night winds, frightening the birds that +were roosting in the woods, and the owls that were watching in the towers. +</p> + +<p> +In the twinkling of an eye, as it is known, devils can fly hundreds of miles: +so that almost the same beat of the clock which left these two in Champagne, +found them hovering over Paris. They dropped into the court of the Lazarist +Convent, and winded their way, through passage and cloister, until they reached +the door of the prior’s cell. +</p> + +<p> +Now the prior, Rollo’s brother, was a wicked and malignant sorcerer; his +time was spent in conjuring devils and doing wicked deeds, instead of fasting, +scourging, and singing holy psalms: this Mercurius knew; and he, therefore, was +fully at ease as to the final result of his wager with poor Sir Roger. +</p> + +<p> +“You seem to be well acquainted with the road,” said the knight. +</p> + +<p> +“I have reason,” answered Mercurius, “having, for a long +period, had the acquaintance of his reverence, your brother; but you have +little chance with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why?” said Sir Rollo. +</p> + +<p> +“He is under a bond to my master, never to say a prayer, or else his soul +and his body are forfeited at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, thou false and traitorous devil!” said the enraged knight; +“and thou knewest this when we made our wager?” +</p> + +<p> +“Undoubtedly: do you suppose I would have done so had there been any +chance of losing?” +</p> + +<p> +And with this they arrived at Father Ignatius’s door. +</p> + +<p> +“Thy cursed presence threw a spell on my niece, and stopped the tongue of +my nephew’s chaplain; I do believe that had I seen either of them alone, +my wager had been won.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly; therefore, I took good care to go with thee: however, thou +mayest see the prior alone, if thou wilt; and lo! his door is open. I will +stand without for five minutes, when it will be time to commence our +journey.” +</p> + +<p> +It was the poor Baron’s last chance: and he entered his brother’s +room more for the five minutes’ respite than from any hope of success. +</p> + +<p> +Father Ignatius, the prior, was absorbed in magic calculations: he stood in the +middle of a circle of skulls, with no garment except his long white beard, +which reached to his knees; he was waving a silver rod, and muttering +imprecations in some horrible tongue. +</p> + +<p> +But Sir Rollo came forward and interrupted his incantation. “I am,” +said he, “the shade of thy brother Roger de Rollo; and have come, from +pure brotherly love, to warn thee of thy fate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whence camest thou?” +</p> + +<p> +“From the abode of the blessed in Paradise,” replied Sir Roger, who +was inspired with a sudden thought; “it was but five minutes ago that the +Patron Saint of thy church told me of thy danger, and of thy wicked compact +with the fiend. ‘Go,’ said he, ‘to thy miserable brother, and +tell him there is but one way by which he may escape from paying the awful +forfeit of his bond.’” +</p> + +<p> +“And how may that be?” said the prior; “the false fiend hath +deceived me; I have given him my soul, but have received no worldly benefit in +return. Brother! dear brother! how may I escape?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell thee. As soon as I heard the voice of blessed St. Mary +Lazarus” (the worthy Earl had, at a pinch, coined the name of a saint), +“I left the clouds, where, with other angels, I was seated, and sped +hither to save thee. ‘Thy brother,’ said the Saint, ‘hath but +one day more to live, when he will become for all eternity the subject of +Satan; if he would escape, he must boldly break his bond, by saying an +ave.’” +</p> + +<p> +“It is the express condition of the agreement,” said the unhappy +monk, “I must say no prayer, or that instant I become Satan’s, body +and soul.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is the express condition of the Saint,” answered Roger, +fiercely; “pray, brother, pray, or thou art lost for ever.” +</p> + +<p> +So the foolish monk knelt down, and devoutly sung out an ave. +“Amen!” said Sir Roger, devoutly. +</p> + +<p> +“Amen!” said Mercurius, as, suddenly, coming behind, he seized +Ignatius by his long beard, and flew up with him to the top of the +church-steeple. +</p> + +<p> +The monk roared, and screamed, and swore against his brother; but it was of no +avail: Sir Roger smiled kindly on him, and said, “Do not fret, brother; +it must have come to this in a year or two.” +</p> + +<p> +And he flew alongside of Mercurius to the steeple-top: BUT THIS TIME THE DEVIL +HAD NOT HIS TAIL ROUND HIS NECK. “I will let thee off thy bet,” +said he to the daemon; for he could afford, now, to be generous. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe, my lord,” said the daemon, politely, “that our +ways separate here.” Sir Roger sailed gayly upwards: while Mercurius +having bound the miserable monk faster than ever, he sunk downwards to earth, +and perhaps lower. Ignatius was heard roaring and screaming as the devil dashed +him against the iron spikes and buttresses of the church. +</p> + +<p> +The moral of this story will be given in the second edition. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"></a> MADAME SAND AND THE NEW +APOCALYPSE.</h2> + +<p> +I don’t know an impression more curious than that which is formed in a +foreigner’s mind, who has been absent from this place for two or three +years, returns to it, and beholds the change which has taken place, in the +meantime, in French fashions and ways of thinking. Two years ago, for instance, +when I left the capital, I left the young gentlemen of France with their hair +brushed en toupet in front, and the toes of their boots round; now the +boot-toes are pointed, and the hair combed flat, and, parted in the middle, +falls in ringlets on the fashionable shoulders; and, in like manner, with books +as with boots, the fashion has changed considerably, and it is not a little +curious to contrast the old modes with the new. Absurd as was the literary +dandyism of those days, it is not a whit less absurd now: only the manner is +changed, and our versatile Frenchmen have passed from one caricature to +another. +</p> + +<p> +The revolution may be called a caricature of freedom, as the empire was of +glory; and what they borrow from foreigners undergoes the same process. They +take top-boots and mackintoshes from across the water, and caricature our +fashions; they read a little, very little, Shakespeare, and caricature our +poetry: and while in David’s time art and religion were only a caricature +of Heathenism, now, on the contrary, these two commodities are imported from +Germany; and distorted caricatures originally, are still farther distorted on +passing the frontier. +</p> + +<p> +I trust in heaven that German art and religion will take no hold in our country +(where there is a fund of roast-beef that will expel any such humbug in the +end); but these sprightly Frenchmen have relished the mystical doctrines +mightily; and having watched the Germans, with their sanctified looks, and +quaint imitations of the old times, and mysterious transcendental talk, are +aping many of their fashions; as well and solemnly as they can: not very +solemnly, God wot; for I think one should always prepare to grin when a +Frenchman looks particularly grave, being sure that there is something false +and ridiculous lurking under the owl-like solemnity. +</p> + +<p> +When last in Paris, we were in the midst of what was called a Catholic +reaction. Artists talked of faith in poems and pictures; churches were built +here and there; old missals were copied and purchased; and numberless portraits +of saints, with as much gilding about them as ever was used in the fifteenth +century, appeared in churches, ladies’ boudoirs, and picture-shops. One +or two fashionable preachers rose, and were eagerly followed; the very youth of +the schools gave up their pipes and billiards for some time, and flocked in +crowds to Notre Dame, to sit under the feet of Lacordaire. I went to visit the +Church of Notre Dame de Lorette yesterday, which was finished in the heat of +this Catholic rage, and was not a little struck by the similarity of the place +to the worship celebrated in it, and the admirable manner in which the +architect has caused his work to express the public feeling of the moment. It +is a pretty little bijou of a church: it is supported by sham marble pillars; +it has a gaudy ceiling of blue and gold, which will look very well for some +time; and is filled with gaudy pictures and carvings, in the very pink of the +mode. The congregation did not offer a bad illustration of the present state of +Catholic reaction. Two or three stray people were at prayers; there was no +service; a few countrymen and idlers were staring about at the pictures; and +the Swiss, the paid guardian of the place, was comfortably and appropriately +asleep on his bench at the door. I am inclined to think the famous reaction is +over: the students have taken to their Sunday pipes and billiards again; and +one or two cafés have been established, within the last year, that are ten +times handsomer than Notre Dame de Lorette. +</p> + +<p> +However, if the immortal Görres and the German mystics have had their day, +there is the immortal Göthe, and the Pantheists; and I incline to think that +the fashion has set very strongly in their favor. Voltaire and the +Encyclopaedians are voted, now, barbares, and there is no term of reprobation +strong enough for heartless Humes and Helvetiuses, who lived but to destroy, +and who only thought to doubt. Wretched as Voltaire’s sneers and puns +are, I think there is something more manly and earnest even in them, than in +the present muddy French transcendentalism. Pantheism is the word now; one and +all have begun to éprouver the besoin of a religious sentiment; and we are +deluged with a host of gods accordingly. Monsieur de Balzac feels himself to be +inspired; Victor Hugo is a god; Madame Sand is a god; that tawdry man of +genius, Jules Janin, who writes theatrical reviews for the Débats, has divine +intimations; and there is scarce a beggarly, beardless scribbler of poems and +prose, but tells you, in his preface, of the sainteté of the sacerdoce +littéraire; or a dirty student, sucking tobacco and beer, and reeling home with +a grisette from the chaumière, who is not convinced of the necessity of a new +“Messianism,” and will hiccup, to such as will listen, chapters of +his own drunken Apocalypse. Surely, the negatives of the old days were far less +dangerous than the assertions of the present; and you may fancy what a religion +that must be, which has such high priests. +</p> + +<p> +There is no reason to trouble the reader with details of the lives of many of +these prophets and expounders of new revelations. Madame Sand, for instance, I +do not know personally, and can only speak of her from report. True or false, +the history, at any rate, is not very edifying; and so may be passed over: but, +as a certain great philosopher told us, in very humble and simple words, that +we are not to expect to gather grapes from thorns, or figs from thistles, we +may, at least, demand, in all persons assuming the character of moralist or +philosopher—order, soberness, and regularity of life; for we are apt to +distrust the intellect that we fancy can be swayed by circumstance or passion; +and we know how circumstance and passion WILL sway the intellect: how mortified +vanity will form excuses for itself; and how temper turns angrily upon +conscience, that reproves it. How often have we called our judge our enemy, +because he has given sentence against us!—How often have we called the +right wrong, because the right condemns us! And in the lives of many of the +bitter foes of the Christian doctrine, can we find no personal reason for their +hostility? The men in Athens said it was out of regard for religion that they +murdered Socrates; but we have had time, since then, to reconsider the verdict; +and Socrates’ character is pretty pure now, in spite of the sentence and +the jury of those days. +</p> + +<p> +The Parisian philosophers will attempt to explain to you the changes through +which Madame Sand’s mind has passed,—the initiatory trials, labors, +and sufferings which she has had to go through,—before she reached her +present happy state of mental illumination. She teaches her wisdom in parables, +that are, mostly, a couple of volumes long; and began, first, by an eloquent +attack on marriage, in the charming novel of “Indiana.” +“Pity,” cried she, “for the poor woman who, united to a being +whose brute force makes him her superior, should venture to break the bondage +which is imposed on her, and allow her heart to be free.” +</p> + +<p> +In support of this claim of pity, she writes two volumes of the most exquisite +prose. What a tender, suffering creature is Indiana; how little her husband +appreciates that gentleness which he is crushing by his tyranny and brutal +scorn; how natural it is that, in the absence of his sympathy, she, poor +clinging confiding creature, should seek elsewhere for shelter; how cautious +should we be, to call criminal—to visit with too heavy a censure—an +act which is one of the natural impulses of a tender heart, that seeks but for +a worthy object of love. But why attempt to tell the tale of beautiful Indiana? +Madame Sand has written it so well, that not the hardest-hearted husband in +Christendom can fail to be touched by her sorrows, though he may refuse to +listen to her argument. Let us grant, for argument’s sake, that the laws +of marriage, especially the French laws of marriage, press very cruelly upon +unfortunate women. +</p> + +<p> +But if one wants to have a question of this, or any nature, honestly argued, it +is, better, surely, to apply to an indifferent person for an umpire. For +instance, the stealing of pocket-handkerchiefs or snuff-boxes may or may not be +vicious; but if we, who have not the wit, or will not take the trouble to +decide the question ourselves, want to hear the real rights of the matter, we +should not, surely, apply to a pickpocket to know what he thought on the point. +It might naturally be presumed that he would be rather a prejudiced +person—particularly as his reasoning, if successful, might get him OUT OF +GAOL. This is a homely illustration, no doubt; all we would urge by it is, that +Madame Sand having, according to the French newspapers, had a stern husband, +and also having, according to the newspapers, sought “sympathy” +elsewhere, her arguments may be considered to be somewhat partial, and received +with some little caution. +</p> + +<p> +And tell us who have been the social reformers?—the haters, that is, of +the present system, according to which we live, love, marry, have children, +educate them, and endow them—ARE THEY PURE THEMSELVES? I do believe not +one; and directly a man begins to quarrel with the world and its ways, and to +lift up, as he calls it, the voice of his despair, and preach passionately to +mankind about this tyranny of faith, customs, laws; if we examine what the +personal character of the preacher is, we begin pretty clearly to understand +the value of the doctrine. Any one can see why Rousseau should be such a +whimpering reformer, and Byron such a free and easy misanthropist, and why our +accomplished Madame Sand, who has a genius and eloquence inferior to neither, +should take the present condition of mankind (French-kind) so much to heart, +and labor so hotly to set it right. +</p> + +<p> +After “Indiana” (which, we presume, contains the lady’s +notions upon wives and husbands) came “Valentine,” which may be +said to exhibit her doctrine, in regard of young men and maidens, to whom the +author would accord, as we fancy, the same tender license. +“Valentine” was followed by “Lelia,” a wonderful book +indeed, gorgeous in eloquence, and rich in magnificent poetry: a regular +topsyturvyfication of morality, a thieves’ and prostitutes’ +apotheosis. This book has received some late enlargements and emendations by +the writer; it contains her notions on morals, which, as we have said, are so +peculiar, that, alas! they only can be mentioned here, not particularized: but +of “Spiridion” we may write a few pages, as it is her religious +manifesto. +</p> + +<p> +In this work, the lady asserts her pantheistical doctrine, and openly attacks +the received Christian creed. She declares it to be useless now, and unfitted +to the exigencies and the degree of culture of the actual world; and, though it +would be hardly worth while to combat her opinions in due form, it is, at +least, worth while to notice them, not merely from the extraordinary eloquence +and genius of the woman herself, but because they express the opinions of a +great number of people besides: for she not only produces her own thoughts, but +imitates those of others very eagerly; and one finds in her writings so much +similarity with others, or, in others, so much resemblance to her, that the +book before us may pass for the expression of the sentiments of a certain +French party. +</p> + +<p> +“Dieu est mort,” says another writer of the same class, and of +great genius too.—“Dieu est mort,” writes Mr. Henry Heine, +speaking of the Christian God; and he adds, in a daring figure of +speech;—“N’entendez-vous pas sonner la Clochette?—on +porte les sacremens à un Dieu qui se meurt!” Another of the pantheist +poetical philosophers, Mr. Edgar Quinet, has a poem, in which Christ and the +Virgin Mary are made to die similarly, and the former is classed with +Prometheus. This book of “Spiridion” is a continuation of the +theme, and perhaps you will listen to some of the author’s expositions of +it. +</p> + +<p> +It must be confessed that the controversialists of the present day have an +eminent advantage over their predecessors in the days of folios; it required +some learning then to write a book, and some time, at least—for the very +labor of writing out a thousand such vast pages would demand a considerable +period. But now, in the age of duodecimos, the system is reformed altogether: a +male or female controversialist draws upon his imagination, and not his +learning; makes a story instead of an argument, and, in the course of 150 pages +(where the preacher has it all his own way) will prove or disprove you +anything. And, to our shame be it said, we Protestants have set the example of +this kind of proselytism—those detestable mixtures of truth, lies, false +sentiment, false reasoning, bad grammar, correct and genuine philanthropy and +piety—I mean our religious tracts, which any woman or man, be he ever so +silly, can take upon himself to write, and sell for a penny, as if religious +instruction were the easiest thing in the world. We, I say, have set the +example in this kind of composition, and all the sects of the earth will, +doubtless, speedily follow it. I can point you out blasphemies in famous pious +tracts that are as dreadful as those above mentioned; but this is no place for +such discussions, and we had better return to Madame Sand. As Mrs. Sherwood +expounds, by means of many touching histories and anecdotes of little boys and +girls, her notions of church history, church catechism, church +doctrine;—as the author of “Father Clement, a Roman Catholic +Story,” demolishes the stately structure of eighteen centuries, the +mighty and beautiful Roman Catholic faith, in whose bosom repose so many saints +and sages,—by the means of a three-and-sixpenny duodecimo volume, which +tumbles over the vast fabric, as David’s pebble-stone did +Goliath;—as, again, the Roman Catholic author of “Geraldine” +falls foul of Luther and Calvin, and drowns the awful echoes of their +tremendous protest by the sounds of her little half-crown trumpet: in like +manner, by means of pretty sentimental tales, and cheap apologues, Mrs. Sand +proclaims HER truth—that we need a new Messiah, and that the Christian +religion is no more! O awful, awful name of God! Light unbearable! Mystery +unfathomable! Vastness immeasurable!—Who are these who come forward to +explain the mystery, and gaze unblinking into the depths of the light, and +measure the immeasurable vastness to a hair? O name, that God’s people of +old did fear to utter! O light, that God’s prophet would have perished +had he seen! Who are these that are now so familiar with it?—Women, +truly; for the most part weak women—weak in intellect, weak mayhap in +spelling and grammar, but marvellously strong in faith:—women, who step +down to the people with stately step and voice of authority, and deliver their +twopenny tablets, as if there were some Divine authority for the wretched +nonsense recorded there! +</p> + +<p> +With regard to the spelling and grammar, our Parisian Pythoness stands, in the +goodly fellowship, remarkable. Her style is a noble, and, as far as a foreigner +can judge, a strange tongue, beautifully rich and pure. She has a very +exuberant imagination, and, with it, a very chaste style of expression. She +never scarcely indulges in declamation, as other modern prophets do, and yet +her sentences are exquisitely melodious and full. She seldom runs a thought to +death (after the manner of some prophets, who, when they catch a little one, +toy with it until they kill it), but she leaves you at the end of one of her +brief, rich, melancholy sentences, with plenty of food for future cogitation. I +can’t express to you the charm of them; they seem to me like the sound of +country bells—provoking I don’t know what vein of musing and +meditation, and falling sweetly and sadly on the ear. +</p> + +<p> +This wonderful power of language must have been felt by most people who read +Madame Sand’s first books, “Valentine” and +“Indiana”: in “Spiridion” it is greater, I think, than +ever; and for those who are not afraid of the matter of the novel, the manner +will be found most delightful. The author’s intention, I presume, is to +describe, in a parable, her notions of the downfall of the Catholic church; +and, indeed, of the whole Christian scheme: she places her hero in a monastery +in Italy, where, among the characters about him, and the events which occur, +the particular tenets of Madame Dudevant’s doctrine are not inaptly laid +down. Innocent, faithful, tender-hearted, a young monk, by name Angel, finds +himself, when he has pronounced his vows, an object of aversion and hatred to +the godly men whose lives he so much respects, and whose love he would make any +sacrifice to win. After enduring much, he flings himself at the feet of his +confessor, and begs for his sympathy and counsel; but the confessor spurns him +away, and accuses him, fiercely, of some unknown and terrible crime—bids +him never return to the confessional until contrition has touched his heart, +and the stains which sully his spirit are, by sincere repentance, washed away. +</p> + +<p> +“Thus speaking,” says Angel, “Father Hegesippus tore away his +robe, which I was holding in my supplicating hands. In a sort of wildness I +still grasped it tighter; he pushed me fiercely from him, and I fell with my +face towards the ground. He quitted me, closing violently after him the door of +the sacristy, in which this scene had passed. I was left alone in the darkness. +Either from the violence of my fall, or the excess of my grief, a vein had +burst in my throat, and a haemorrhage ensued. I had not the force to rise; I +felt my senses rapidly sinking, and, presently, I lay stretched on the +pavement, unconscious, and bathed in my blood.” +</p> + +<p> +[Now the wonderful part of the story begins.] +</p> + +<p> +“I know not how much time I passed in this way. As I came to myself I +felt an agreeable coolness. It seemed as if some harmonious air was playing +round about me, stirring gently in my hair, and drying the drops of +perspiration on my brow. It seemed to approach, and then again to withdraw, +breathing now softly and sweetly in the distance, and now returning, as if to +give me strength and courage to rise. +</p> + +<p> +“I would not, however, do so as yet; for I felt myself, as I lay, under +the influence of a pleasure quite new to me; and listened, in a kind of +peaceful aberration, to the gentle murmurs of the summer wind, as it breathed +on me through the closed window-blinds above me. Then I fancied I heard a voice +that spoke to me from the end of the sacristy: it whispered so low that I could +not catch the words. I remained motionless, and gave it my whole attention. At +last I heard, distinctly, the following sentence:—‘Spirit of Truth, +raise up these victims of ignorance and imposture.’ ‘Father +Hegesippus,’ said I, in a weak voice, ‘is that you who are +returning to me?’ But no one answered. I lifted myself on my hands and +knees, I listened again, but I heard nothing. I got up completely, and looked +about me: I had fallen so near to the only door in this little room, that none, +after the departure of the confessor, could have entered it without passing +over me; besides, the door was shut, and only opened from the inside by a +strong lock of the ancient shape. I touched it, and assured myself that it was +closed. I was seized with terror, and, for some moments, did not dare to move. +Leaning against the door, I looked round, and endeavored to see into the gloom +in which the angles of the room were enveloped. A pale light, which came from +an upper window, half closed, was seen to be trembling in the midst of the +apartment. The wind beat the shutter to and fro, and enlarged or diminished the +space through which the light issued. The objects which were in this half +light—the praying-desk, surmounted by its skull—a few books lying +on the benches—a surplice hanging against the wall—seemed to move +with the shadow of the foliage that the air agitated behind the window. When I +thought I was alone, I felt ashamed of my former timidity; I made the sign of +the cross, and was about to move forward in order to open the shutter +altogether, but a deep sigh came from the praying-desk, and kept me nailed to +my place. And yet I saw the desk distinctly enough to be sure that no person +was near it. Then I had an idea which gave me courage. Some person, I thought, +is behind the shutter, and has been saying his prayers outside without thinking +of me. But who would be so bold as to express such wishes and utter such a +prayer as I had just heard? +</p> + +<p> +“Curiosity, the only passion and amusement permitted in a cloister, now +entirely possessed me, and I advanced towards the window. But I had not made a +step when a black shadow, as it seemed to me, detaching itself from the +praying-desk, traversed the room, directing itself towards the window, and +passed swiftly by me. The movement was so rapid that I had not time to avoid +what seemed a body advancing towards me, and my fright was so great that I +thought I should faint a second time. But I felt nothing, and, as if the shadow +had passed through me, I saw it suddenly disappear to my left. +</p> + +<p> +“I rushed to the window, I pushed back the blind with precipitation, and +looked round the sacristy: I was there, entirely alone. I looked into the +garden—it was deserted, and the mid-day wind was wandering among the +flowers. I took courage, I examined all the corners of the room; I looked +behind the praying-desk, which was very large, and I shook all the sacerdotal +vestments which were hanging on the walls, everything was in its natural +condition, and could give me no explanation of what had just occurred. The +sight of all the blood I had lost led me to fancy that my brain had, probably, +been weakened by the haemorrhage, and that I had been a prey to some delusion. +I retired to my cell, and remained shut up there until the next day.” +</p> + +<p> +I don’t know whether the reader has been as much struck with the above +mysterious scene as the writer has; but the fancy of it strikes me as very +fine; and the natural SUPERNATURALNESS is kept up in the best style. The +shutter swaying to and fro, the fitful LIGHT APPEARING over the furniture of +the room, and giving it an air of strange motion—the awful shadow which +passed through the body of the timid young novice—are surely very finely +painted. “I rushed to the shutter, and flung it back: there was no one in +the sacristy. I looked into the garden; it was deserted, and the mid-day wind +was roaming among the flowers.” The dreariness is wonderfully described: +only the poor pale boy looking eagerly out from the window of the sacristy, and +the hot mid-day wind walking in the solitary garden. How skilfully is each of +these little strokes dashed in, and how well do all together combine to make a +picture! But we must have a little more about Spiridion’s wonderful +visitant. +</p> + +<p> +“As I entered into the garden, I stepped a little on one side, to make +way for a person whom I saw before me. He was a young man of surprising beauty, +and attired in a foreign costume. Although dressed in the large black robe +which the superiors of our order wear, he had, underneath, a short jacket of +fine cloth, fastened round the waist by a leathern belt, and a buckle of +silver, after the manner of the old German students. Like them, he wore, +instead of the sandals of our monks, short tight boots; and over the collar of +his shirt, which fell on his shoulders, and was as white as snow, hung, in rich +golden curls, the most beautiful hair I ever saw. He was tall, and his elegant +posture seemed to reveal to me that he was in the habit of commanding. With +much respect, and yet uncertain, I half saluted him. He did not return my +salute; but he smiled on me with so benevolent an air, and at the same time, +his eyes severe and blue, looked towards me with an expression of such +compassionate tenderness, that his features have never since then passed away +from my recollection. I stopped, hoping he would speak to me, and persuading +myself, from the majesty of his aspect, that he had the power to protect me; +but the monk, who was walking behind me, and who did not seem to remark him in +the least, forced him brutally to step aside from the walk, and pushed me so +rudely as almost to cause me to fall. Not wishing to engage in a quarrel with +this coarse monk, I moved away; but, after having taken a few steps in the +garden, I looked back, and saw the unknown still gazing on me with looks of the +tenderest solicitude. The sun shone full upon him, and made his hair look +radiant. He sighed, and lifted his fine eyes to heaven, as if to invoke its +justice in my favor, and to call it to bear witness to my misery; he turned +slowly towards the sanctuary, entered into the quire, and was lost, presently, +in the shade. I longed to return, spite of the monk, to follow this noble +stranger, and to tell him my afflictions; but who was he, that I imagined he +would listen to them, and cause them to cease? I felt, even while his softness +drew me towards him, that he still inspired me with a kind of fear; for I saw +in his physiognomy as much austerity as sweetness.” +</p> + +<p> +Who was he?—we shall see that. He was somebody very mysterious indeed; +but our author has taken care, after the manner of her sex, to make a very +pretty fellow of him, and to dress him in the most becoming costumes possible. +</p> + +<p> +The individual in tight boots and a rolling collar, with the copious golden +locks, and the solemn blue eyes, who had just gazed on Spiridion, and inspired +him with such a feeling of tender awe, is a much more important personage than +the reader might suppose at first sight. This beautiful, mysterious, dandy +ghost, whose costume, with a true woman’s coquetry, Madame Dudevant has +so rejoiced to describe—is her religious type, a mystical representation +of Faith struggling up towards Truth, through superstition, doubt, fear, +reason,—in tight inexpressibles, with “a belt such as is worn by +the old German students.” You will pardon me for treating such an awful +person as this somewhat lightly; but there is always, I think, such a dash of +the ridiculous in the French sublime, that the critic should try and do justice +to both, or he may fail in giving a fair account of either. This character of +Hebronius, the type of Mrs. Sand’s convictions—if convictions they +may be called—or, at least, the allegory under which her doubts are +represented, is, in parts, very finely drawn; contains many passages of truth, +very deep and touching, by the side of others so entirely absurd and +unreasonable, that the reader’s feelings are continually swaying between +admiration and something very like contempt—always in a kind of wonder at +the strange mixture before him. But let us hear Madame Sand:— +</p> + +<p> +“Peter Hebronius,” says our author, “was not originally so +named. His real name was Samuel. He was a Jew, and born in a little village in +the neighborhood of Innsprück. His family, which possessed a considerable +fortune, left him, in his early youth, completely free to his own pursuits. +From infancy he had shown that these were serious. He loved to be alone and +passed his days, and sometimes his nights, wandering among the mountains and +valleys in the neighborhood of his birthplace. He would often sit by the brink +of torrents, listening to the voice of their waters, and endeavoring to +penetrate the meaning which Nature had hidden in those sounds. As he advanced +in years, his inquiries became more curious and more grave. It was necessary +that he should receive a solid education, and his parents sent him to study in +the German universities. Luther had been dead only a century, and his words and +his memory still lived in the enthusiasm of his disciples. The new faith was +strengthening the conquests it had made; the Reformers were as ardent as in the +first days, but their ardor was more enlightened and more measured. Proselytism +was still carried on with zeal, and new converts were made every day. In +listening to the morality and to the dogmas which Lutheranism had taken from +Catholicism, Samuel was filled with admiration. His bold and sincere spirit +instantly compared the doctrines which were now submitted to him, with those in +the belief of which he had been bred; and, enlightened by the comparison, was +not slow to acknowledge the inferiority of Judaism. He said to himself, that a +religion made for a single people, to the exclusion of all others,—which +only offered a barbarous justice for rule of conduct,—which neither +rendered the present intelligible nor satisfactory, and left the future +uncertain,—could not be that of noble souls and lofty intellects; and +that he could not be the God of truth who had dictated, in the midst of +thunder, his vacillating will, and had called to the performance of his narrow +wishes the slaves of a vulgar terror. Always conversant with himself, Samuel, +who had spoken what he thought, now performed what he had spoken; and, a year +after his arrival in Germany, solemnly abjured Judaism, and entered into the +bosom of the Reformed Church. As he did not wish to do things by halves, and +desired as much as was in him to put off the old man and lead a new life, he +changed his name of Samuel to that of Peter. Some time passed, during which he +strengthened and instructed himself in his new religion. Very soon he arrived +at the point of searching for objections to refute, and adversaries to +overthrow. Bold and enterprising, he went at once to the strongest, and Bossuet +was the first Catholic author that he set himself to read. He commenced with a +kind of disdain; believing that the faith which he had just embraced contained +the pure truth. He despised all the attacks which could be made against it, and +laughed already at the irresistible arguments which he was to find in the works +of the Eagle of Meaux. But his mistrust and irony soon gave place to wonder +first, and then to admiration: he thought that the cause pleaded by such an +advocate must, at least, be respectable; and, by a natural transition, came to +think that great geniuses would only devote themselves to that which was great. +He then studied Catholicism with the same ardor and impartiality which he had +bestowed on Lutheranism. He went into France to gain instruction from the +professors of the Mother Church, as he had from the Doctors of the reformed +creed in Germany. He saw Arnauld Fénélon, that second Gregory of Nazianzen, and +Bossuet himself. Guided by these masters, whose virtues made him appreciate +their talents the more, he rapidly penetrated to the depth of the mysteries of +the Catholic doctrine and morality. He found, in this religion, all that had +for him constituted the grandeur and beauty of Protestantism,—the dogmas +of the Unity and Eternity of God, which the two religions had borrowed from +Judaism; and, what seemed the natural consequence of the last doctrine—a +doctrine, however, to which the Jews had not arrived—the doctrine of the +immortality of the soul; free will in this life; in the next, recompense for +the good, and punishment for the evil. He found, more pure, perhaps, and more +elevated in Catholicism than in Protestantism, that sublime morality which +preaches equality to man, fraternity, love, charity, renouncement of self, +devotion to your neighbor; Catholicism, in a word, seemed to possess that vast +formula, and that vigorous unity, which Lutheranism wanted. The latter had, +indeed, in its favor, the liberty of inquiry, which is also a want of the human +mind; and had proclaimed the authority of individual reason: but it had so lost +that which is the necessary basis and vital condition of all revealed +religion—the principle of infallibility; because nothing can live except +in virtue of the laws that presided at its birth; and, in consequence, one +revelation cannot be continued and confirmed without another. Now, +infallibility is nothing but revelation continued by God, or the Word, in the +person of his vicars. +</p> + +<p> +“At last, after much reflection, Hebronius acknowledged himself entirely +and sincerely convinced, and received baptism from the hands of Bossuet. He +added the name of Spiridion to that of Peter, to signify that he had been twice +enlightened by the Spirit. Resolved thenceforward to consecrate his life to the +worship of the new God who had called him to Him, and to the study of His +doctrines, he passed into Italy, and, with the aid of a large fortune, which +one of his uncles, a Catholic like himself, had left to him, he built this +convent where we now are.” +</p> + +<p> +A friend of mine, who has just come from Italy, says that he has there left +Messrs. Sp—r, P—l, and W. Dr—d, who were the lights of the +great church in Newman Street, who were themselves apostles, and declared and +believed that every word of nonsense which fell from their lips was a direct +spiritual intervention. These gentlemen have become Puseyites already, and are, +my friend states, in the high way to Catholicism. Madame Sand herself was a +Catholic some time since: having been converted to that faith along with M. +N—, of the Academy of Music; Mr. L—, the pianoforte player; and one +or two other chosen individuals, by the famous Abbé de la M—. Abbé de la +M— (so told me in the Diligence, a priest, who read his breviary and +gossiped alternately very curiously and pleasantly) is himself an âme perdue: +the man spoke of his brother clergyman with actual horror; and it certainly +appears that the Abbé’s works of conversion have not prospered; for +Madame Sand, having brought her hero (and herself, as we may presume) to the +point of Catholicism, proceeds directly to dispose of that as she has done of +Judaism and Protestantism, and will not leave, of the whole fabric of +Christianity, a single stone standing. +</p> + +<p> +I think the fate of our English Newman Street apostles, and of M. de la +M—, the mad priest, and his congregation of mad converts, should be a +warning to such of us as are inclined to dabble in religious speculations; for, +in them, as in all others, our flighty brains soon lose themselves, and we find +our reason speedily lying prostrated at the mercy of our passions; and I think +that Madame Sand’s novel of Spiridion may do a vast deal of good, and +bears a good moral with it; though not such an one, perhaps, as our fair +philosopher intended. For anything he learned, Samuel-Peter-Spiridion-Hebronius +might have remained a Jew from the beginning to the end. Wherefore be in such a +hurry to set up new faiths? Wherefore, Madame Sand, try and be so +preternaturally wise? Wherefore be so eager to jump out of one religion, for +the purpose of jumping into another? See what good this philosophical +friskiness has done you, and on what sort of ground you are come at last. You +are so wonderfully sagacious, that you flounder in mud at every step; so +amazingly clear-sighted, that your eyes cannot see an inch before you, having +put out, with that extinguishing genius of yours, every one of the lights that +are sufficient for the conduct of common men. And for what? Let our friend +Spiridion speak for himself. After setting up his convent, and filling it with +monks, who entertain an immense respect for his wealth and genius, Father +Hebronius, unanimously elected prior, gives himself up to further studies, and +leaves his monks to themselves. Industrious and sober as they were, originally, +they grow quickly intemperate and idle; and Hebronius, who does not appear +among his flock until he has freed himself of the Catholic religion, as he has +of the Jewish and the Protestant, sees, with dismay, the evil condition of his +disciples, and regrets, too late, the precipitancy by which he renounced, then +and for ever, Christianity. “But, as he had no new religion to adopt in +its place, and as, grown more prudent and calm, he did not wish to accuse +himself unnecessarily, once more, of inconstancy and apostasy, he still +maintained all the exterior forms of the worship which inwardly he had abjured. +But it was not enough for him to have quitted error, it was necessary to +discover truth. But Hebronius had well looked round to discover it; he could +not find anything that resembled it. Then commenced for him a series of +sufferings, unknown and terrible. Placed face to face with doubt, this sincere +and religious spirit was frightened at its own solitude; and as it had no other +desire nor aim on earth than truth, and nothing else here below interested it, +he lived absorbed in his own sad contemplations, looked ceaselessly into the +vague that surrounded him like an ocean without bounds, and seeing the horizon +retreat and retreat as ever he wished to near it. Lost in this immense +uncertainty, he felt as if attacked by vertigo, and his thoughts whirled within +his brain. Then, fatigued with his vain toils and hopeless endeavors, he would +sink down depressed, unmanned, life-wearied, only living in the sensation of +that silent grief which he felt and could not comprehend.” +</p> + +<p> +It is a pity that this hapless Spiridion, so eager in his passage from one +creed to another, and so loud in his profession of the truth, wherever he +fancied that he had found it, had not waited a little, before he avowed himself +either Catholic or Protestant, and implicated others in errors and follies +which might, at least, have been confined to his own bosom, and there have lain +comparatively harmless. In what a pretty state, for instance, will Messrs. +Dr—d and P—l have left their Newman Street congregation, who are +still plunged in their old superstitions, from which their spiritual pastors +and masters have been set free! In what a state, too, do Mrs. Sand and her +brother and sister philosophers, Templars, Saint Simonians, Fourierites, +Lerouxites, or whatever the sect may be, leave the unfortunate people who have +listened to their doctrines, and who have not the opportunity, or the fiery +versatility of belief, which carries their teachers from one creed to another, +leaving only exploded lies and useless recantations behind them! I wish the +state would make a law that one individual should not be allowed to preach more +than one doctrine in his life, or, at any rate, should be soundly corrected for +every change of creed. How many charlatans would have been silenced,—how +much conceit would have been kept within bounds,—how many fools, who are +dazzled by fine sentences, and made drunk by declamation, would have remained, +quiet and sober, in that quiet and sober way of faith which their fathers held +before them. However, the reader will be glad to learn that, after all his +doubts and sorrows, Spiridion does discover the truth (THE truth, what a wise +Spiridion!) and some discretion with it; for, having found among his monks, who +are dissolute, superstitious—and all hate him—one only being, +Fulgentius, who is loving, candid, and pious, he says to him, “If you +were like myself, if the first want of your nature were, like mine, to know, I +would, without hesitation, lay bare to you my entire thoughts. I would make you +drink the cup of truth, which I myself have filled with so many tears, at the +risk of intoxicating you with the draught. But it is not so, alas! you are made +to love rather than to know, and your heart is stronger than your intellect. +You are attached to Catholicism,—I believe so, at least,—by bonds +of sentiment which you could not break without pain, and which, if you were to +break, the truth which I could lay bare to you in return would not repay you +for what you had sacrificed. Instead of exalting, it would crush you, very +likely. It is a food too strong for ordinary men, and which, when it does not +revivify, smothers. I will not, then, reveal to you this doctrine, which is the +triumph of my life, and the consolation of my last days; because it might, +perhaps, be for you only a cause of mourning and despair..... Of all the works +which my long studies have produced, there is one alone which I have not given +to the flames; for it alone is complete. In that you will find me entire, and +there LIES THE TRUTH. And, as the sage has said you must not bury your +treasures in a well, I will not confide mine to the brutal stupidity of these +monks. But as this volume should only pass into hands worthy to touch it, and +be laid open for eyes that are capable of comprehending its mysteries, I shall +exact from the reader one condition, which, at the same time, shall be a proof: +I shall carry it with me to the tomb, in order that he who one day shall read +it, may have courage enough to brave the vain terrors of the grave, in +searching for it amid the dust of my sepulchre. As soon as I am dead, +therefore, place this writing on my breast..... Ah! when the time comes for +reading it, I think my withered heart will spring up again, as the frozen grass +at the return of the sun, and that, from the midst of its infinite +transformations, my spirit will enter into immediate communication with +thine!” +</p> + +<p> +Does not the reader long to be at this precious manuscript, which contains THE +TRUTH; and ought he not to be very much obliged to Mrs. Sand, for being so good +as to print it for him? We leave all the story aside: how Fulgentius had not +the spirit to read the manuscript, but left the secret to Alexis; how Alexis, a +stern old philosophical unbelieving monk as ever was, tried in vain to lift up +the gravestone, but was taken with fever, and obliged to forego the discovery; +and how, finally, Angel, his disciple, a youth amiable and innocent as his +name, was the destined person who brought the long-buried treasure to light. +Trembling and delighted, the pair read this tremendous MANUSCRIPT OF SPIRIDION. +</p> + +<p> +Will it be believed, that of all the dull, vague, windy documents that mortal +ever set eyes on, this is the dullest? If this be absolute truth, à quoi bon +search for it, since we have long, long had the jewel in our possession, or +since, at least, it has been held up as such by every sham philosopher who has +had a mind to pass off his wares on the public? Hear Spiridion:— +</p> + +<p> +“How much have I wept, how much have I suffered, how much have I prayed, +how much have I labored, before I understood the cause and the aim of my +passage on this earth! After many incertitudes, after much remorse, after many +scruples, I HAVE COMPREHENDED THAT I WAS A MARTYR!—But why my martyrdom? +said I; what crimne did I commit before I was born, thus to be condemned to +labor and groaning, from the hour when I first saw the day up to that when I am +about to enter into the night of the tomb? +</p> + +<p> +“At last, by dint of imploring God—by dint of inquiry into the +history of man, a ray of the truth has descended on my brow, and the shadows of +the past have melted from before my eyes. I have lifted a corner of the +curtain: I have seen enough to know that my life, like that of the rest of the +human race, has been a series of necessary errors, yet, to speak more +correctly, of incomplete truths, conducting, more or less slowly and directly, +to absolute truth and ideal perfection. But when will they rise on the face of +the earth—when will they issue from the bosom of the Divinity—those +generations who shall salute the august countenance of Truth, and proclaim the +reign of the ideal on earth? I see well how humanity marches, but I neither can +see its cradle nor its apotheosis. Man seems to me a transitory race, between +the beast and the angel; but I know not how many centuries have been required, +that he might pass from the state of brute to the state of man, and I cannot +tell how many ages are necessary that he may pass from the state of man to the +state of angel! +</p> + +<p> +“Yet I hope, and I feel within me, at the approach of death, that which +warns me that great destinies await humanity. In this life all is over for me. +Much have I striven, to advance but little: I have labored without ceasing, and +have done almost nothing. Yet, after pains immeasurable, I die content, for I +know that I have done all I could, and am sure that the little I have done will +not be lost. +</p> + +<p> +“What, then, have I done? this wilt thou demand of me, man of a future +age, who will seek for truth in the testaments of the past. Thou who wilt be no +more Catholic—no more Christian, thou wilt ask of the poor monk, lying in +the dust, an account of his life and death. Thou wouldst know wherefore were +his vows, why his austerities, his labors, his retreat, his prayers? +</p> + +<p> +“You who turn back to me, in order that I may guide you on your road, and +that you may arrive more quickly at the goal which it has not been my lot to +attain, pause, yet, for a moment, and look upon the past history of humanity. +You will see that its fate has been ever to choose between the least of two +evils, and ever to commit great faults in order to avoid others still greater. +You will see.... on one side, the heathen mythology, that debased the spirit, +in its efforts to deify the flesh; on the other, the austere Christian +principle, that debased the flesh too much, in order to raise the worship of +the spirit. You will see, afterwards, how the religion of Christ embodies +itself in a church, and raises itself a generous democratic power against the +tyranny of princes. Later still, you will see how that power has attained its +end, and passed beyond it. You will see it, having chained and conquered +princes, league itself with them, in order to oppress the people, and seize on +temporal power. Schism, then, raises up against it the standard of revolt, and +preaches the bold and legitimate principle of liberty of conscience: but, also, +you will see how this liberty of conscience brings religious anarchy in its +train; or, worse still, religious indifference and disgust. And if your soul, +shattered in the tempestuous changes which you behold humanity undergoing, +would strike out for itself a passage through the rocks, amidst which, like a +frail bark, lies tossing trembling truth, you will be embarrassed to choose +between the new philosophers—who, in preaching tolerance, destroy +religious and social unity—and the last Christians, who, to preserve +society, that is, religion and philosophy, are obliged to brave the principle +of toleration. Man of truth! to whom I address, at once, my instruction and my +justification, at the time when you shall live, the science of truth no doubt +will have advanced a step. Think, then, of all your fathers have suffered, as, +bending beneath the weight of their ignorance and uncertainty, they have +traversed the desert across which, with so much pain, they have conducted thee! +And if the pride of thy young learning shall make thee contemplate the petty +strifes in which our life has been consumed, pause and tremble, as you think of +that which is still unknown to yourself, and of the judgment that your +descendants will pass on you. Think of this, and learn to respect all those +who, seeking their way in all sincerity, have wandered from the path, +frightened by the storm, and sorely tried by the severe hand of the +All-Powerful. Think of this, and prostrate yourself; for all these, even the +most mistaken among them, are saints and martyrs. +</p> + +<p> +“Without their conquests and their defeats, thou wert in darkness still. +Yes, their failures, their errors even, have a right to your respect; for man +is weak..... Weep then, for us obscure travellers—unknown victims, who, +by our mortal sufferings and unheard-of labors, have prepared the way before +you. Pity me, who have passionately loved justice, and perseveringly sought for +truth, only opened my eyes to shut them again for ever, and saw that I had been +in vain endeavoring to support a ruin, to take refuge in a vault of which the +foundations were worn away.”.... +</p> + +<p> +The rest of the book of Spiridion is made up of a history of the rise, +progress, and (what our philosopher is pleased to call) decay of +Christianity—of an assertion, that the “doctrine of Christ is +incomplete;” that “Christ may, nevertheless, take his place in the +Pantheon of divine men!” and of a long, disgusting, absurd, and impious +vision, in which the Saviour, Moses, David, and Elijah are represented, and in +which Christ is made to say—“WE ARE ALL MESSIAHS, when we wish to +bring the reign of truth upon earth; we are all Christs, when we suffer for +it!” +</p> + +<p> +And this is the ultimatum, the supreme secret, the absolute truth! and it has +been published by Mrs. Sand, for so many napoleons per sheet, in the Revue des +Deux Mondes: and the Deux Mondes are to abide by it for the future. After +having attained it, are we a whit wiser? “Man is between an angel and a +beast: I don’t know how long it is since he was a brute—I +can’t say how long it will be before he is an angel.” Think of +people living by their wits, and living by such a wit as this! Think of the +state of mental debauch and disease which must have been passed through, ere +such words could be written, and could be popular! +</p> + +<p> +When a man leaves our dismal, smoky London atmosphere, and breathes, instead of +coal-smoke and yellow fog, this bright, clear, French air, he is quite +intoxicated by it at first, and feels a glow in his blood, and a joy in his +spirits, which scarcely thrice a year, and then only at a distance from London, +he can attain in England. Is the intoxication, I wonder, permanent among the +natives? and may we not account for the ten thousand frantic freaks of these +people by the peculiar influence of French air and sun? The philosophers are +from night to morning drunk, the politicians are drunk, the literary men reel +and stagger from one absurdity to another, and how shall we understand their +vagaries? Let us suppose, charitably, that Madame Sand had inhaled a more than +ordinary quantity of this laughing gas when she wrote for us this precious +manuscript of Spiridion. That great destinies are in prospect for the human +race we may fancy, without her ladyship’s word for it: but more liberal +than she, and having a little retrospective charity, as well as that easy +prospective benevolence which Mrs. Sand adopts, let us try and think there is +some hope for our fathers (who were nearer brutality than ourselves, according +to the Sandean creed), or else there is a very poor chance for us, who, great +philosophers as we are, are yet, alas! far removed from that angelic +consummation which all must wish for so devoutly. She cannot say—is it +not extraordinary?—how many centuries have been necessary before man +could pass from the brutal state to his present condition, or how many ages +will be required ere we may pass from the state of man to the state of angels? +What the deuce is the use of chronology or philosophy? We were beasts, and we +can’t tell when our tails dropped off: we shall be angels; but when our +wings are to begin to sprout, who knows? In the meantime, O man of genius, +follow our counsel: lead an easy life, don’t stick at trifles; never mind +about DUTY, it is only made for slaves; if the world reproach you, reproach the +world in return, you have a good loud tongue in your head: if your +straight-laced morals injure your mental respiration, fling off the +old-fashioned stays, and leave your free limbs to rise and fall as Nature +pleases; and when you have grown pretty sick of your liberty, and yet unfit to +return to restraint, curse the world, and scorn it, and be miserable, like my +Lord Byron and other philosophers of his kidney; or else mount a step higher, +and, with conceit still more monstrous, and mental vision still more wretchedly +debauched and weak, begin suddenly to find yourself afflicted with a maudlin +compassion for the human race, and a desire to set them right after your own +fashion. There is the quarrelsome stage of drunkenness, when a man can as yet +walk and speak, when he can call names, and fling plates and wine-glasses at +his neighbor’s head with a pretty good aim; after this comes the pathetic +stage, when the patient becomes wondrous philanthropic, and weeps wildly, as he +lies in the gutter, and fancies he is at home in bed—where he ought to +be; but this is an allegory. +</p> + +<p> +I don’t wish to carry this any farther, or to say a word in defence of +the doctrine which Mrs. Dudevant has found +“incomplete”;—here, at least, is not the place for discussing +its merits, any more than Mrs. Sand’s book was the place for exposing, +forsooth, its errors: our business is only with the day and the new novels, and +the clever or silly people who write them. Oh! if they but knew their places, +and would keep to them, and drop their absurd philosophical jargon! Not all the +big words in the world can make Mrs. Sand talk like a philosopher: when will +she go back to her old trade, of which she was the very ablest practitioner in +France? +</p> + +<p> +I should have been glad to give some extracts from the dramatic and descriptive +parts of the novel, that cannot, in point of style and beauty, be praised too +highly. One must suffice,—it is the descent of Alexis to seek that +unlucky manuscript, Spiridion. +</p> + +<p> +“It seemed to me,” he begins, “that the descent was eternal; +and that I was burying myself in the depths of Erebus: at last, I reached a +level place,—and I heard a mournful voice deliver these words, as it +were, to the secret centre of the earth—‘He will mount that ascent +no more!’—Immediately I heard arise towards me, from the depth of +invisible abysses, a myriad of formidable voices united in a strange +chant—‘Let us destroy him! Let him be destroyed! What does he here +among the dead? Let him be delivered back to torture! Let him be given again to +life!’ +</p> + +<p> +“Then a feeble light began to pierce the darkness, and I perceived that I +stood on the lowest step of a staircase, vast as the foot of a mountain. Behind +me were thousands of steps of lurid iron; before me, nothing but a +void—an abyss, and ether; the blue gloom of midnight beneath my feet, as +above my head. I became delirious, and quitting that staircase, which methought +it was impossible for me to reascend, I sprung forth into the void with an +execration. But, immediately, when I had uttered the curse, the void began to +be filled with forms and colors, and I presently perceived that I was in a vast +gallery, along which I advanced, trembling. There was still darkness round me; +but the hollows of the vaults gleamed with a red light, and showed me the +strange and hideous forms of their building..... I did not distinguish the +nearest objects; but those towards which I advanced assumed an appearance more +and more ominous, and my terror increased with every step I took. The enormous +pillars which supported the vault, and the tracery thereof itself, were figures +of men, of supernatural stature, delivered to tortures without a name. Some +hung by their feet, and, locked in the coils of monstrous serpents, clenched +their teeth in the marble of the pavement; others, fastened by their waists, +were dragged upwards, these by their feet, those by their heads, towards +capitals, where other figures stooped towards them, eager to torment them. +Other pillars, again, represented a struggling mass of figures devouring one +another; each of which only offered a trunk severed to the knees or to the +shoulders, the fierce heads whereof retained life enough to seize and devour +that which was near them. There were some who, half hanging down, agonized +themselves by attempting, with their upper limbs, to flay the lower moiety of +their bodies, which drooped from the columns, or were attached to the +pedestals; and others, who, in their fight with each other, were dragged along +by morsels of flesh,—grasping which, they clung to each other with a +countenance of unspeakable hate and agony. Along, or rather in place of, the +frieze, there were on either side a range of unclean beings, wearing the human +form, but of a loathsome ugliness, busied in tearing human corpses to +pieces—in feasting upon their limbs and entrails. From the vault, instead +of bosses and pendants, hung the crushed and wounded forms of children; as if +to escape these eaters of man’s flesh, they would throw themselves +downwards, and be dashed to pieces on the pavement..... The silence and +motionlessness of the whole added to its awfulness. I became so faint with +terror, that I stopped, and would fain have returned. But at that moment I +heard, from the depths of the gloom through which I had passed, confused +noises, like those of a multitude on its march. And the sounds soon became more +distinct, and the clamor fiercer, and the steps came hurrying on +tumultuously—at every new burst nearer, more violent, more threatening. I +thought that I was pursued by this disorderly crowd; and I strove to advance, +hurrying into the midst of those dismal sculptures. Then it seemed as if those +figures began to heave,—and to sweat blood,—and their beady eyes to +move in their sockets. At once I beheld that they were all looking upon me, +that they were all leaning towards me,—some with frightful derision, +others with furious aversion. Every arm was raised against me, and they made as +though they would crush me with the quivering limbs they had torn one from the +other.”.... +</p> + +<p> +It is, indeed, a pity that the poor fellow gave himself the trouble to go down +into damp, unwholesome graves, for the purpose of fetching up a few trumpery +sheets of manuscript; and if the public has been rather tired with their +contents, and is disposed to ask why Mrs. Sand’s religious or irreligious +notions are to be brought forward to people who are quite satisfied with their +own, we can only say that this lady is the representative of a vast class of +her countrymen, whom the wits and philosophers of the eighteenth century have +brought to this condition. The leaves of the Diderot and Rousseau tree have +produced this goodly fruit: here it is, ripe, bursting, and ready to +fall;—and how to fall? Heaven send that it may drop easily, for all can +see that the time is come. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"></a> THE CASE OF PEYTEL:</h2> + +<p class="center"> +IN A LETTER TO EDWARD BRIEFLESS, ESQUIRE, OF PUMP COURT, TEMPLE. +</p> + +<p> +PARIS, November, 1839. +</p> + +<p> +MY DEAR BRIEFLESS,—Two months since, when the act of accusation first +appeared, containing the sum of the charges against Sebastian Peytel, all Paris +was in a fervor on the subject. The man’s trial speedily followed, and +kept for three days the public interest wound up to a painful point. He was +found guilty of double murder at the beginning of September; and, since that +time, what with Maroto’s disaffection and Turkish news, we have had +leisure to forget Monsieur Peytel, and to occupy ourselves with [Greek text +omitted]. Perhaps Monsieur de Balzac helped to smother what little sparks of +interest might still have remained for the murderous notary. Balzac put forward +a letter in his favor, so very long, so very dull, so very pompous, promising +so much, and performing so little, that the Parisian public gave up Peytel and +his case altogether; nor was it until to-day that some small feeling was raised +concerning him, when the newspapers brought the account how Peytel’s head +had been cut off at Bourg. +</p> + +<p> +He had gone through the usual miserable ceremonies and delays which attend what +is called, in this country, the march of justice. He had made his appeal to the +Court of Cassation, which had taken time to consider the verdict of the +Provincial Court, and had confirmed it. He had made his appeal for mercy; his +poor sister coming up all the way from Bourg (a sad journey, poor thing!) to +have an interview with the King, who had refused to see her. Last Monday +morning, at nine o’clock, an hour before Peytel’s breakfast, the +Greffier of Assize Court, in company with the Curé of Bourg, waited on him, and +informed him that he had only three hours to live. At twelve o’clock, +Peytel’s head was off his body: an executioner from Lyons had come over +the night before, to assist the professional throat-cutter of Bourg. +</p> + +<p> +I am not going to entertain you with any sentimental lamentations for this +scoundrel’s fate, or to declare my belief in his innocence, as Monsieur +de Balzac has done. As far as moral conviction can go, the man’s guilt is +pretty clearly brought home to him. But any man who has read the “Causes +Célèbres,” knows that men have been convicted and executed upon evidence +ten times more powerful than that which was brought against Peytel. His own +account of his horrible case may be true; there is nothing adduced in the +evidence which is strong enough to overthrow it. It is a serious privilege, God +knows, that society takes upon itself, at any time, to deprive one of +God’s creatures of existence. But when the slightest doubt remains, what +a tremendous risk does it incur! In England, thank heaven, the law is more wise +and more merciful: an English jury would never have taken a man’s blood +upon such testimony: an English judge and Crown advocate would never have acted +as these Frenchmen have done; the latter inflaming the public mind by +exaggerated appeals to their passions: the former seeking, in every way, to +draw confessions from the prisoner, to perplex and confound him, to do away, by +fierce cross-questioning and bitter remarks from the bench, with any effect +that his testimony might have on the jury. I don’t mean to say that +judges and lawyers have been more violent and inquisitorial against the unhappy +Peytel than against any one else; it is the fashion of the country: a man is +guilty until he proves himself to be innocent; and to batter down his defence, +if he have any, there are the lawyers, with all their horrible ingenuity, and +their captivating passionate eloquence. It is hard thus to set the skilful and +tried champions of the law against men unused to this kind of combat; nay, give +a man all the legal aid that he can purchase or procure, still, by this plan, +you take him at a cruel, unmanly disadvantage; he has to fight against the law, +clogged with the dreadful weight of his presupposed guilt. Thank God that, in +England, things are not managed so. +</p> + +<p> +However, I am not about to entertain you with ignorant disquisitions about the +law. Peytel’s case may, nevertheless, interest you; for the tale is a +very stirring and mysterious one; and you may see how easy a thing it is for a +man’s life to be talked away in France, if ever he should happen to fall +under the suspicion of a crime. The French “Acte +d’accusation” begins in the following manner:— +</p> + +<p> +“Of all the events which, in these latter times, have afflicted the +department of the Ain, there is none which has caused a more profound and +lively sensation than the tragical death of the lady, Félicité Alcazar, wife of +Sebastian Benedict Peytel, notary, at Belley. At the end of October, 1838, +Madame Peytel quitted that town, with her husband, and their servant Louis Rey, +in order to pass a few days at Macon: at midnight, the inhabitants of Belley +were suddenly awakened by the arrival of Monsieur Peytel, by his cries, and by +the signs which he exhibited of the most lively agitation: he implored the +succors of all the physicians in the town; knocked violently at their doors; +rung at the bells of their houses with a sort of frenzy, and announced that his +wife, stretched out, and dying, in his carriage, had just been shot, on the +Lyons road, by his domestic, whose life Peytel himself had taken. +</p> + +<p> +“At this recital a number of persons assembled, and what a spectacle was +presented to their eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“A young woman lay at the bottom of a carriage, deprived of life; her +whole body was wet, and seemed as if it had just been plunged into the water. +She appeared to be severely wounded in the face; and her garments, which were +raised up, in spite of the cold and rainy weather, left the upper part of her +knees almost entirely exposed. At the sight of this half-naked and inanimate +body, all the spectators were affected. People said that the first duty to pay +to a dying woman was, to preserve her from the cold, to cover her. A physician +examined the body; he declared that all remedies were useless; that Madame +Peytel was dead and cold. +</p> + +<p> +“The entreaties of Peytel were redoubled; he demanded fresh succors, and, +giving no heed to the fatal assurance which had just been given him, required +that all the physicians in the place should be sent for. A scene so strange and +so melancholy; the incoherent account given by Peytel of the murder of his +wife; his extraordinary movements; and the avowal which he continued to make, +that he had despatched the murderer, Rey, with strokes of his hammer, excited +the attention of Lieutenant Wolf, commandant of gendarmes: that officer gave +orders for the immediate arrest of Peytel; but the latter threw himself into +the arms of a friend, who interceded for him, and begged the police not +immediately to seize upon his person. +</p> + +<p> +“The corpse of Madame Peytel was transported to her apartment; the +bleeding body of the domestic was likewise brought from the road, where it lay; +and Peytel, asked to explain the circumstance, did so.”.... +</p> + +<p> +Now, as there is little reason to tell the reader, when an English counsel has +to prosecute a prisoner on the part of the Crown for a capital offence, he +produces the articles of his accusation in the most moderate terms, and +especially warns the jury to give the accused person the benefit of every +possible doubt that the evidence may give, or may leave. See how these things +are managed in France, and how differently the French counsel for the Crown +sets about his work. +</p> + +<p> +He first prepares his act of accusation, the opening of which we have just +read; it is published six days before the trial, so that an unimpassioned, +unprejudiced jury has ample time to study it, and to form its opinions +accordingly, and to go into court with a happy, just prepossession against the +prisoner. +</p> + +<p> +Read the first part of the Peytel act of accusation; it is as turgid and +declamatory as a bad romance; and as inflated as a newspaper document, by an +unlimited penny-a-liner:—“The department of the Ain is in a +dreadful state of excitement; the inhabitants of Belley come trooping from +their beds,—and what a sight do they behold;—a young woman at the +bottom of a carriage, toute ruisselante, just out of a river; her garments, in +spite of the cold and rain, raised, so as to leave the upper part of her knees +entirely exposed, at which all the beholders were affected, and cried, that the +FIRST DUTY was to cover her from the cold.” This settles the case at +once; the first duty of a man is to cover the legs of the sufferer; the second +to call for help. The eloquent “Substitut du Procureur du Roi” has +prejudged the case, in the course of a few sentences. He is putting his +readers, among whom his future jury is to be found, into a proper state of +mind; he works on them with pathetic description, just as a romance-writer +would: the rain pours in torrents; it is a dreary evening in November; the +young creature’s situation is neatly described; the distrust which +entered into the breast of the keen old officer of gendarmes strongly painted, +the suspicions which might, or might not, have been entertained by the +inhabitants, eloquently argued. How did the advocate know that the people had +such? did all the bystanders say aloud, “I suspect that this is a case of +murder by Monsieur Peytel, and that his story about the domestic is all +deception?” or did they go off to the mayor, and register their +suspicion? or was the advocate there to hear them? Not he; but he paints you +the whole scene, as though it had existed, and gives full accounts of +suspicions, as if they had been facts, positive, patent, staring, that +everybody could see and swear to. +</p> + +<p> +Having thus primed his audience, and prepared them for the testimony of the +accused party, “Now,” says he, with a fine show of justice, +“let us hear Monsieur Peytel;” and that worthy’s narrative is +given as follows:— +</p> + +<p> +“He said that he had left Macon on the 31st October, at eleven +o’clock in the morning, in order to return to Belley, with his wife and +servant. The latter drove, or led, an open car; he himself was driving his wife +in a four-wheeled carriage, drawn by one horse: they reached Bourg at five +o’clock in the evening; left it at seven, to sleep at Pont d’Ain, +where they did not arrive before midnight. During the journey, Peytel thought +he remarked that Rey had slackened his horse’s pace. When they alighted +at the inn, Peytel bade him deposit in his chamber 7,500 francs, which he +carried with him; but the domestic refused to do so, saying that the inn gates +were secure, and there was no danger. Peytel was, therefore, obliged to carry +his money up stairs himself. The next day, the 1st November, they set out on +their journey again, at nine o’clock in the morning; Louis did not come, +according to custom, to take his master’s orders. They arrived at Tenay +about three, stopped there a couple of hours to dine, and it was eight +o’clock when they reached the bourg of Rossillon, where they waited half +an hour to bait the horses. +</p> + +<p> +“As they left Rossillon, the weather became bad, and the rain began to +fall: Peytel told his domestic to get a covering for the articles in the open +chariot; but Rey refused to do so, adding, in an ironical tone, that the +weather was fine. For some days past, Peytel had remarked that his servant was +gloomy, and scarcely spoke at all. +</p> + +<p> +“After they had gone about 500 paces beyond the bridge of Andert, that +crosses the river Furans, and ascended to the least steep part of the hill of +Darde, Peytel cried out to his servant, who was seated in the car, to come down +from it, and finish the ascent on foot. +</p> + +<p> +“At this moment a violent wind was blowing from the south, and the rain +was falling heavily: Peytel was seated back in the right corner of the +carriage, and his wife, who was close to him, was asleep, with her head on his +left shoulder. All of a sudden he heard the report of a fire-arm (he had seen +the light of it at some paces’ distance), and Madame Peytel cried out, +‘My poor husband, take your pistols;’ the horse was frightened, and +began to trot. Peytel immediately drew the pistol, and fired, from the interior +of the carriage, upon an individual whom he saw running by the side of the +road. +</p> + +<p> +“Not knowing, as yet, that his wife had been hit, he jumped out on one +side of the carriage, while Madame Peytel descended from the other; and he +fired a second pistol at his domestic, Louis Rey, whom he had just recognized. +Redoubling his pace, he came up with Rey, and struck him, from behind, a blow +with the hammer. Rey turned at this, and raised up his arm to strike his master +with the pistol which he had just discharged at him; but Peytel, more quick +than he, gave the domestic a blow with the hammer, which felled him to the +ground (he fell his face forwards), and then Peytel, bestriding the body, +despatched him, although the brigand asked for mercy. +</p> + +<p> +“He now began to think of his wife and ran back, calling out her name +repeatedly, and seeking for her, in vain, on both sides of the road. Arrived at +the bridge of Andert, he recognized his wife, stretched in a field, covered +with water, which bordered the Furans. This horrible discovery had so much the +more astonished him, because he had no idea, until now, that his wife had been +wounded: he endeavored to draw her from the water; and it was only after +considerable exertions that he was enabled to do so, and to place her, with her +face towards the ground, on the side of the road. Supposing that, here, she +would be sheltered from any farther danger, and believing, as yet, that she was +only wounded, he determined to ask for help at a lone house, situated on the +road towards Rossillon; and at this instant he perceived, without at all being +able to explain how, that his horse had followed him back to the spot, having +turned back of its own accord, from the road to Belley. +</p> + +<p> +“The house at which he knocked was inhabited by two men, of the name of +Thannet, father and son, who opened the door to him, and whom he entreated to +come to his aid, saying that his wife had just been assassinated by his +servant. The elder Thannet approached to, and examined the body, and told +Peytel that it was quite dead; he and his son took up the corpse, and placed it +in the bottom of the carriage, which they all mounted themselves, and pursued +their route to Belley. In order to do so, they had to pass by Rey’s body, +on the road, which Peytel wished to crush under the wheels of his carriage. It +was to rob him of 7,500 francs, said Peytel, that the attack had been +made.” +</p> + +<p> +Our friend, the Procureur’s Substitut, has dropped, here, the eloquent +and pathetic style altogether, and only gives the unlucky prisoner’s +narrative in the baldest and most unimaginative style. How is a jury to listen +to such a fellow? they ought to condemn him, if but for making such an +uninteresting statement. Why not have helped poor Peytel with some of those +rhetorical graces which have been so plentifully bestowed in the opening part +of the act of accusation? He might have said:— +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur Peytel is an eminent notary at Belley; he is a man +distinguished for his literary and scientific acquirements; he has lived long +in the best society of the capital; he had been but a few months married to +that young and unfortunate lady, whose loss has plunged her bereaved husband +into despair—almost into madness. Some early differences had marked, it +is true, the commencement of their union; but these, which, as can be proved by +evidence, were almost all the unhappy lady’s fault,—had happily +ceased, to give place to sentiments far more delightful and tender. Gentlemen, +Madame Peytel bore in her bosom a sweet pledge of future concord between +herself and her husband: in three brief months she was to become a mother. +</p> + +<p> +“In the exercise of his honorable profession,—in which, to succeed, +a man must not only have high talents, but undoubted probity,—and, +gentlemen, Monsieur Peytel DID succeed—DID inspire respect and +confidence, as you, his neighbors, well know;—in the exercise, I say, of +his high calling, Monsieur Peytel, towards the end of October last, had +occasion to make a journey in the neighborhood, and visit some of his many +clients. +</p> + +<p> +“He travelled in his own carriage, his young wife beside him. Does this +look like want of affection, gentlemen? or is it not a mark of love—of +love and paternal care on his part towards the being with whom his lot in life +was linked,—the mother of his coming child,—the young girl, who had +everything to gain from the union with a man of his attainments of intellect, +his kind temper, his great experience, and his high position? In this manner +they travelled, side by side, lovingly together. Monsieur Peytel was not a +lawyer merely, but a man of letters and varied learning; of the noble and +sublime science of geology he was, especially, an ardent devotee.” +</p> + +<p> +(Suppose, here, a short panegyric upon geology. Allude to the creation of this +mighty world, and then, naturally, to the Creator. Fancy the conversations +which Peytel, a religious man,[*] might have with his young wife upon the +subject.) +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* He always went to mass; it is in the evidence. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur Peytel had lately taken into his service a man named Louis Rey. +Rey was a foundling, and had passed many years in a regiment—a school, +gentlemen, where much besides bravery, alas! is taught; nay, where the spirit +which familiarizes one with notions of battle and death, I fear, may +familiarize one with ideas, too, of murder. Rey, a dashing reckless fellow, +from the army, had lately entered Peytel’s service, was treated by him +with the most singular kindness; accompanied him (having charge of another +vehicle) upon the journey before alluded to; and KNEW THAT HIS MASTER CARRIED +WITH HIM A CONSIDERABLE SUM OF MONEY; for a man like Rey an enormous sum, 7,500 +francs. At midnight on the 1st of November, as Madame Peytel and her husband +were returning home, an attack was made upon their carriage. Remember, +gentlemen, the hour at which the attack was made; remember the sum of money +that was in the carriage; and remember that the Savoy frontier IS WITHIN A +LEAGUE OF THE SPOT where the desperate deed was done.” +</p> + +<p> +Now, my dear Briefless, ought not Monsieur Procureur, in common justice to +Peytel, after he had so eloquently proclaimed, not the facts, but the +suspicions, which weighed against that worthy, to have given a similar florid +account of the prisoner’s case? Instead of this, you will remark, that it +is the advocate’s endeavor to make Peytel’s statements as +uninteresting in style as possible; and then he demolishes them in the +following way:— +</p> + +<p> +“Scarcely was Peytel’s statement known, when the common sense of +the public rose against it. Peytel had commenced his story upon the bridge of +Andert, over the cold body of his wife. On the 2nd November he had developed it +in detail, in the presence of the physicians, in the presence of the assembled +neighbors—of the persons who, on the day previous only, were his friends. +Finally, he had completed it in his interrogatories, his conversations, his +writings, and letters to the magistrates and everywhere these words, repeated +so often, were only received with a painful incredulity. The fact was that, +besides the singular character which Peytel’s appearance, attitude, and +talk had worn ever since the event, there was in his narrative an inexplicable +enigma; its contradictions and impossibilities were such, that calm persons +were revolted at it, and that even friendship itself refused to believe +it.” +</p> + +<p> +Thus Mr. Attorney speaks, not for himself alone, but for the whole French +public; whose opinions, of course, he knows. Peytel’s statement is +discredited EVERYWHERE; the statement which he had made over the cold body of +his wife—the monster! It is not enough simply to prove that the man +committed the murder, but to make the jury violently angry against him, and +cause them to shudder in the jury-box, as he exposes the horrid details of the +crime. +</p> + +<p> +“Justice,” goes on Mr. Substitute (who answers for the feelings of +everybody), “DISTURBED BY THE PRE-OCCUPATIONS OF PUBLIC OPINION, +commenced, without delay, the most active researches. The bodies of the victims +were submitted to the investigations of men of art; the wounds and projectiles +were examined; the place where the event took place explored with care. The +morality of the author of this frightful scene became the object of rigorous +examination; the exigeances of the prisoner, the forms affected by him, his +calculating silence, and his answers, coldly insulting, were feeble obstacles; +and justice at length arrived, by its prudence, and by the discoveries it made, +to the most cruel point of certainty.” +</p> + +<p> +You see that a man’s demeanor is here made a crime against him; and that +Mr. Substitute wishes to consider him guilty, because he has actually the +audacity to hold his tongue. Now follows a touching description of the +domestic, Louis Rey:— +</p> + +<p> +“Louis Rey, a child of the Hospital at Lyons, was confided, at a very +early age, to some honest country people, with whom he stayed until he entered +the army. At their house, and during this long period of time, his conduct, his +intelligence, and the sweetness of his manners were such, that the family of +his guardians became to him as an adopted family; and his departure caused them +the most sincere affliction. When Louis quitted the army, he returned to his +benefactors, and was received as a son. They found him just as they had ever +known him” (I acknowledge that this pathos beats my humble defence of +Peytel entirely), “except that he had learned to read and write; and the +certificates of his commanders proved him to be a good and gallant soldier. +</p> + +<p> +“The necessity of creating some resources for himself, obliged him to +quit his friends, and to enter the service of Monsieur de Montrichard, a +lieutenant of gendarmerie, from whom he received fresh testimonials of regard. +Louis, it is true, might have a fondness for wine and a passion for women; but +he had been a soldier, and these faults were, according to the witnesses, amply +compensated for by his activity, his intelligence, and the agreeable manner in +which he performed his service. In the month of July, 1839, Rey quitted, +voluntarily, the service of M. de Montrichard; and Peytel, about this period, +meeting him at Lyons, did not hesitate to attach him to his service. Whatever +may be the prisoner’s present language, it is certain that up to the day +of Louis’s death, he served Peytel with diligence and fidelity. +</p> + +<p> +“More than once his master and mistress spoke well of him. EVERYBODY who +has worked, or been at the house of Madame Peytel, has spoken in praise of his +character; and, indeed, it may be said, that these testimonials were general. +</p> + +<p> +“On the very night of the 1st of November, and immediately after the +catastrophe, we remark how Peytel begins to make insinuations against his +servant; and how artfully, in order to render them more sure, he disseminates +them through the different parts of his narrative. But, in the course of the +proceeding, these charges have met with a most complete denial. Thus we find +the disobedient servant who, at Pont d’Ain, refused to carry the +money-chest to his master’s room, under the pretext that the gates of the +inn were closed securely, occupied with tending the horses after their long +journey: meanwhile Peytel was standing by, and neither master nor servant +exchanged a word, and the witnesses who beheld them both have borne testimony +to the zeal and care of the domestic. +</p> + +<p> +“In like manner, we find that the servant, who was so remiss in the +morning as to neglect to go to his master for orders, was ready for departure +before seven o’clock, and had eagerly informed himself whether Monsieur +and Madame Peytel were awake; learning from the maid of the inn, that they had +ordered nothing for their breakfast. This man, who refused to carry with him a +covering for the car, was, on the contrary, ready to take off his own cloak, +and with it shelter articles of small value; this man, who had been for many +days so silent and gloomy, gave, on the contrary, many proofs of his +gayety—almost of his indiscretion, speaking, at all the inns, in terms of +praise of his master and mistress. The waiter at the inn at Dauphin, says he +was a tall young fellow, mild and good-natured; ‘we talked for some time +about horses, and such things; he seemed to be perfectly natural, and not +pre-occupied at all.’ At Pont d’Ain, he talked of his being a +foundling; of the place where he had been brought up, and where he had served; +and finally, at Rossillon, an hour before his death, he conversed familiarly +with the master of the port, and spoke on indifferent subjects. +</p> + +<p> +“All Peytel’s insinuations against his servant had no other end +than to show, in every point of Rey’s conduct, the behavior of a man who +was premeditating attack. Of what, in fact, does he accuse him? Of wishing to +rob him of 7,500 francs, and of having had recourse to assassination, in order +to effect the robbery. But, for a premeditated crime, consider what singular +improvidence the person showed who had determined on committing it; what folly +and what weakness there is in the execution of it. +</p> + +<p> +“How many insurmountable obstacles are there in the way of committing and +profiting by crime! On leaving Belley, Louis Rey, according to Peytel’s +statement, knowing that his master would return with money, provided himself +with a holster pistol, which Madame Peytel had once before perceived among his +effects. In Peytel’s cabinet there were some balls; four of these were +found in Rey’s trunk, on the 6th of November. And, in order to commit the +crime, this domestic had brought away with him a pistol, and no ammunition; for +Peytel has informed us that Rey, an hour before his departure from Macon, +purchased six balls at a gunsmith’s. To gain his point, the assassin must +immolate his victims; for this, he has only one pistol, knowing, perfectly +well, that Peytel, in all his travels, had two on his person; knowing that, at +a late hour of the night, his shot might fail of effect; and that, in this +case, he would be left to the mercy of his opponent. +</p> + +<p> +“The execution of the crime is, according to Peytel’s account, +still more singular. Louis does not get off the carriage, until Peytel tells +him to descend. He does not think of taking his master’s life until he is +sure that the latter has his eyes open. It is dark, and the pair are covered in +one cloak; and Rey only fires at them at six paces’ distance: he fires at +hazard, without disquieting himself as to the choice of his victim; and the +soldier, who was bold enough to undertake this double murder, has not force nor +courage to consummate it. He flies, carrying in his hand a useless whip, with a +heavy mantle on his shoulders, in spite of the detonation of two pistols at his +ears, and the rapid steps of an angry master in pursuit, which ought to have +set him upon some better means of escape. And we find this man, full of youth +and vigor, lying with his face to the ground, in the midst of a public road, +falling without a struggle, or resistance, under the blows of a hammer! +</p> + +<p> +“And suppose the murderer had succeeded in his criminal projects, what +fruit could he have drawn from them?—Leaving, on the road, the two +bleeding bodies; obliged to lead two carriages at a time, for fear of +discovery; not able to return himself, after all the pains he had taken to +speak, at every place at which they had stopped, of the money which his master +was carrying with him; too prudent to appear alone at Belley; arrested at the +frontier, by the excise officers, who would present an impassable barrier to +him till morning, what could he do, or hope to do? The examination of the car +has shown that Rey, at the moment of the crime, had neither linen, nor clothes, +nor effects of any kind. There was found in his pockets, when the body was +examined, no passport, nor certificate; one of his pockets contained a ball, of +large calibre, which he had shown, in play, to a girl, at the inn at Macon, a +little horn-handled knife, a snuff-box, a little packet of gunpowder, and a +purse, containing only a halfpenny and some string. Here is all the baggage, +with which, after the execution of his homicidal plan, Louis Rey intended to +take refuge in a foreign country.[*] Beside these absurd contradictions, there +is another remarkable fact, which must not be passed over; it is +this:—the pistol found by Rey is of antique form, and the original owner +of it has been found. He is a curiosity-merchant at Lyons; and, though he +cannot affirm that Peytel was the person who bought this pistol of him, he +perfectly recognizes Peytel as having been a frequent customer at his shop! +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* This sentence is taken from another part of the “Acte +d’accusation.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, we may fearlessly affirm that Louis Rey was not guilty of the crime +which Peytel lays to his charge. If, to those who knew him, his mild and open +disposition, his military career, modest and without a stain, the touching +regrets of his employers, are sufficient proofs of his innocence,—the +calm and candid observer, who considers how the crime was conceived, was +executed, and what consequences would have resulted from it, will likewise +acquit him, and free him of the odious imputation which Peytel endeavors to +cast upon his memory. +</p> + +<p> +“But justice has removed the veil, with which an impious hand endeavored +to cover itself. Already, on the night of the 1st of November, suspicion was +awakened by the extraordinary agitation of Peytel; by those excessive +attentions towards his wife, which came so late; by that excessive and noisy +grief, and by those calculated bursts of sorrow, which are such as Nature does +not exhibit. The criminal, whom the public conscience had fixed upon; the man +whose frightful combinations have been laid bare, and whose falsehoods, step by +step, have been exposed, during the proceedings previous to the trial; the +murderer, at whose hands a heart-stricken family, and society at large, demands +an account of the blood of a wife;—that murderer is Peytel.” +</p> + +<p> +When, my dear Briefless, you are a judge (as I make no doubt you will be, when +you have left off the club all night, cigar-smoking of mornings, and reading +novels in bed), will you ever find it in your heart to order a +fellow-sinner’s head off upon such evidence as this? Because a romantic +Substitut du Procureur de Roi chooses to compose and recite a little drama, and +draw tears from juries, let us hope that severe Rhadamanthine judges are not to +be melted by such trumpery. One wants but the description of the characters to +render the piece complete, as thus:— +</p> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Personages. Costumes. + + SEBASTIAN PEYTAL Meurtrier Habillement complet de notaire + perfide: figure pâle, barbe + noire, cheveux noirs. + + LOUIS REY Soldat rétiré, bon, Costume ordinaire; il porte sur + brave, franc, jovial ses épaules une couverture de + aimant le vin, les cheval. + femmes, la gaieté, + ses maîtres surtout; + vrai Français, enfin + + WOLF Lieutenant de gendarmerie. + + FÉLICITÉ D’ALCAZAR Femme et victime de Peytel. + + Médecins, Villageois, Filles d’Auberge, Garçons d’Ecurie, &c. &c. + + La scène se passe sur le pont d’Andert, entre Macon et Belley. Il + est minuit. La pluie tombe: les tonnerres grondent. Le ciel est + convert de nuages, et sillonné d’éclairs. +</pre> + +<p> +All these personages are brought into play in the Procureur’s drama; the +villagers come in with their chorus; the old lieutenant of gendarmes with his +suspicions; Rey’s frankness and gayety, the romantic circumstances of his +birth, his gallantry and fidelity, are all introduced, in order to form a +contrast with Peytel, and to call down the jury’s indignation against the +latter. But are these proofs? or anything like proofs? And the suspicions, that +are to serve instead of proofs, what are they? +</p> + +<p> +“My servant, Louis Rey, was very sombre and reserved,” says Peytel; +“he refused to call me in the morning, to carry my money-chest to my +room, to cover the open car when it rained.” The Prosecutor disproves +this by stating that Rey talked with the inn maids and servants, asked if his +master was up, and stood in the inn-yard, grooming the horses, with his master +by his side, neither speaking to the other. Might he not have talked to the +maids, and yet been sombre when speaking to his master? Might he not have +neglected to call his master, and yet have asked whether he was awake? Might he +not have said that the inn-gates were safe, out of hearing of the ostler +witness? Mr. Substitute’s answers to Peytel’s statements are no +answer at all. Every word Peytel said might be true, and yet Louis Rey might +not have committed the murder; or every word might have been false, and yet +Louis Rey might have committed the murder. +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” says Mr. Substitute, “how many obstacles are there to +the commission of the crime? And these are— +</p> + +<p> +“1. Rey provided himself with ONE holster pistol, to kill two people, +knowing well that one of them had always a brace of pistols about him. +</p> + +<p> +“2. He does not think of firing until his master’s eyes are open: +fires at six paces, not caring at whom he fires, and then runs away. +</p> + +<p> +“3. He could not have intended to kill his master, because he had no +passport in his pocket, and no clothes; and because he must have been detained +at the frontier until morning; and because he would have had to drive two +carriages, in order to avoid suspicion. +</p> + +<p> +“4. And, a most singular circumstance, the very pistol which was found by +his side had been bought at the shop of a man at Lyons, who perfectly +recognized Peytel as one of his customers, though he could not say he had sold +that particular weapon to Peytel.” +</p> + +<p> +Does it follow, from this, that Louis Rey is not the murderer, much more, that +Peytel is? Look at argument No. 1. Rey had no need to kill two people: he +wanted the money, and not the blood. Suppose he had killed Peytel, would he not +have mastered Madame Peytel easily?—a weak woman, in an excessively +delicate situation, incapable of much energy, at the best of times. +</p> + +<p> +2. “He does not fire till he knows his master’s eyes are +open.” Why, on a stormy night, does a man driving a carriage go to sleep? +Was Rey to wait until his master snored? “He fires at six paces, not +caring whom he hits;”—and might not this happen too? The night is +not so dark but that he can see his master, in HIS USUAL PLACE, driving. He +fires and hits—whom? Madame Peytel, who had left her place, AND WAS +WRAPPED UP WITH PEYTEL IN HIS CLOAK. She screams out, “Husband, take your +pistols.” Rey knows that his master has a brace, thinks that he has hit +the wrong person, and, as Peytel fires on him, runs away. Peytel follows, +hammer in hand; as he comes up with the fugitive, he deals him a blow on the +back of the head, and Rey falls—his face to the ground. Is there anything +unnatural in this story?—anything so monstrously unnatural, that is, that +it might not be true? +</p> + +<p> +3. These objections are absurd. Why need a man have change of linen? If he had +taken none for the journey, why should he want any for the escape? Why need he +drive two carriages?—He might have driven both into the river, and Mrs. +Peytel in one. Why is he to go to the douane, and thrust himself into the very +jaws of danger? Are there not a thousand ways for a man to pass a frontier? Do +smugglers, when they have to pass from one country to another, choose exactly +those spots where a police is placed? +</p> + +<p> +And, finally, the gunsmith of Lyons, who knows Peytel quite well, cannot say +that he sold the pistol to him; that is, he did NOT sell the pistol to him; for +you have only one man’s word, in this case (Peytel’s), to the +contrary; and the testimony, as far as it goes, is in his favor. I say, my lud, +and gentlemen of the jury, that these objections of my learned friend, who is +engaged for the Crown, are absurd, frivolous, monstrous; that to SUSPECT away +the life of a man upon such suppositions as these, is wicked, illegal, and +inhuman; and, what is more, that Louis Rey, if he wanted to commit the +crime—if he wanted to possess himself of a large sum of money, chose the +best time and spot for so doing; and, no doubt, would have succeeded, if Fate +had not, in a wonderful manner, caused Madame Peytel TO TAKE HER +HUSBAND’S PLACE, and receive the ball intended for him in her own head. +</p> + +<p> +But whether these suspicions are absurd or not, hit or miss, it is the +advocate’s duty, as it appears, to urge them. He wants to make as +unfavorable an impression as possible with regard to Peytel’s character; +he, therefore, must, for contrast’s sake, give all sorts of praise to his +victim, and awaken every sympathy in the poor fellow’s favor. Having done +this, as far as lies in his power, having exaggerated every circumstance that +can be unfavorable to Peytel, and given his own tale in the baldest manner +possible—having declared that Peytel is the murderer of his wife and +servant, the Crown now proceeds to back this assertion, by showing what +interested motives he had, and by relating, after its own fashion, the +circumstances of his marriage. +</p> + +<p> +They may be told briefly here. Peytel was of a good family, of Macon, and +entitled, at his mother’s death, to a considerable property. He had been +educated as a notary, and had lately purchased a business, in that line, in +Belley, for which he had paid a large sum of money; part of the sum, 15,000 +francs, for which he had given bills, was still due. +</p> + +<p> +Near Belley, Peytel first met Félicité Alcazar, who was residing with her +brother-in-law, Monsieur de Montrichard; and, knowing that the young +lady’s fortune was considerable, he made an offer of marriage to the +brother-in-law, who thought the match advantageous, and communicated on the +subject with Félicité’s mother, Madame Alcazar, at Paris. After a time +Peytel went to Paris, to press his suit, and was accepted. There seems to have +been no affectation of love on his side; and some little repugnance on the part +of the lady, who yielded, however, to the wishes of her parents, and was +married. The parties began to quarrel on the very day of the marriage, and +continued their disputes almost to the close of the unhappy connection. +Félicité was half blind, passionate, sarcastic, clumsy in her person and +manners, and ill educated; Peytel, a man of considerable intellect and +pretensions, who had lived for some time at Paris, where he had mingled with +good literary society. The lady was, in fact, as disagreeable a person as could +well be, and the evidence describes some scenes which took place between her +and her husband, showing how deeply she must have mortified and enraged him. +</p> + +<p> +A charge very clearly made out against Peytel, is that of dishonesty; he +procured from the notary of whom he bought his place an acquittance in full, +whereas there were 15,000 francs owing, as we have seen. He also, in the +contract of marriage, which was to have resembled, in all respects, that +between Monsieur Broussais and another Demoiselle Alcazar, caused an alteration +to be made in his favor, which gave him command over his wife’s funded +property, without furnishing the guarantees by which the other son-in-law was +bound. And, almost immediately after his marriage, Peytel sold out of the funds +a sum of 50,000 francs, that belonged to his wife, and used it for his own +purposes. +</p> + +<p> +About two months after his marriage, PEYTEL PRESSED HIS WIFE TO MAKE HER WILL. +He had made his, he said, leaving everything to her, in case of his death: +after some parley, the poor thing consented.[*] This is a cruel suspicion +against him; and Mr. Substitute has no need to enlarge upon it. As for the +previous fact, the dishonest statement about the 15,000 francs, there is +nothing murderous in that—nothing which a man very eager to make a good +marriage might not do. The same may be said of the suppression, in +Peytel’s marriage contract, of the clause to be found in +Broussais’s, placing restrictions upon the use of the wife’s money. +Mademoiselle d’Alcazar’s friends read the contract before they +signed it, and might have refused it, had they so pleased. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* “Peytel,” says the act of accusation, “did not fail to see +the danger which would menace him, if this will (which had escaped the +magistrates in their search of Peytel’s papers) was discovered. He, +therefore, instructed his agent to take possession of it, which he did, and the +fact was not mentioned for several months afterwards. Peytel and his agent were +called upon to explain the circumstance, but refused, and their silence for a +long time interrupted the ‘instruction’” (getting up of the +evidence). “All that could be obtained from them was an avowal, that such +a will existed, constituting Peytel his wife’s sole legatee; and a +promise, on their parts, to produce it before the court gave its +sentence.” But why keep the will secret? The anxiety about it was surely +absurd and unnecessary: the whole of Madame Peytel’s family knew that +such a will was made. She had consulted her sister concerning it, who +said—“If there is no other way of satisfying him, make the +will;” and the mother, when she heard of it, cried out—“Does +he intend to poison her?” +</p> + +<p> +After some disputes, which took place between Peytel and his wife (there were +continual quarrels, and continual letters passing between them from room to +room), the latter was induced to write him a couple of exaggerated letters, +swearing “by the ashes of her father” that she would be an obedient +wife to him, and entreating him to counsel and direct her. These letters were +seen by members of the lady’s family, who, in the quarrels between the +couple, always took the husband’s part. They were found in Peytel’s +cabinet, after he had been arrested for the murder, and after he had had full +access to all his papers, of which he destroyed or left as many as he pleased. +The accusation makes it a matter of suspicion against Peytel, that he should +have left these letters of his wife’s in a conspicuous situation. +</p> + +<p> +“All these circumstances,” says the accusation, “throw a +frightful light upon Peytel’s plans. The letters and will of Madame +Peytel are in the hands of her husband. Three months pass away, and this poor +woman is brought to her home, in the middle of the night, with two balls in her +head, stretched at the bottom of her carriage, by the side of a peasant.” +</p> + +<p> +“What other than Sebastian Peytel could have committed this +murder?—whom could it profit?—who but himself had an odious chain +to break, and an inheritance to receive? Why speak of the servant’s +projected robbery? The pistols found by the side of Louis’s body, the +balls bought by him at Macon, and those discovered at Belley among his effects, +were only the result of a perfidious combination. The pistol, indeed, which was +found on the hill of Darde, on the night of the 1st of November, could only +have belonged to Peytel, and must have been thrown by him, near the body of his +domestic, with the paper which had before enveloped it. Who had seen this +pistol in the hands of Louis? Among all the gendarmes, work-women, domestics, +employed by Peytel and his brother-in-law, is there one single witness who had +seen this weapon in Louis’s possession? It is true that Madame Peytel +did, on one occasion, speak to M. de Montrichard of a pistol; which had nothing +to do, however, with that found near Louis Rey.” +</p> + +<p> +Is this justice, or good reason? Just reverse the argument, and apply it to +Rey. “Who but Rey could have committed this murder?—who but Rey had +a large sum of money to seize upon?—a pistol is found by his side, balls +and powder in his pocket, other balls in his trunks at home. The pistol found +near his body could not, indeed, have belonged to Peytel: did any man ever see +it in his possession? The very gunsmith who sold it, and who knew Peytel, would +he not have known that he had sold him this pistol? At his own house, Peytel +has a collection of weapons of all kinds; everybody has seen them—a man +who makes such collections is anxious to display them. Did any one ever see +this weapon?—Not one. And Madame Peytel did, in her lifetime, remark a +pistol in the valet’s possession. She was short-sighted, and could not +particularize what kind of pistol it was; but she spoke of it to her husband +and her brother-in-law.” This is not satisfactory, if you please; but, at +least, it is as satisfactory as the other set of suppositions. It is the very +chain of argument which would have been brought against Louis Rey by this very +same compiler of the act of accusation, had Rey survived, instead of Peytel, +and had he, as most undoubtedly would have been the case, been tried for the +murder. +</p> + +<p> +This argument was shortly put by Peytel’s counsel:—“if Peytel +had been killed by Rey in the struggle, would you not have found Rey guilty of +the murder of his master and mistress?” It is such a dreadful dilemma, +that I wonder how judges and lawyers could have dared to persecute Peytel in +the manner which they did. +</p> + +<p> +After the act of accusation, which lays down all the suppositions against +Peytel as facts, which will not admit the truth of one of the prisoner’s +allegations in his own defence, comes the trial. The judge is quite as +impartial as the preparer of the indictment, as will be seen by the following +specimens of his interrogatories:— +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “The act of accusation finds in your statement contradictions, +improbabilities, impossibilities. Thus your domestic, who had determined to +assassinate you, in order to rob you, and who MUST HAVE CALCULATED UPON THE +CONSEQUENCE OF A FAILURE, had neither passport nor money upon him. This is very +unlikely; because he could not have gone far with only a single halfpenny, +which was all he had.” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “My servant was known, and often passed the frontier without a +passport.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “YOUR DOMESTIC HAD TO ASSASSINATE TWO PERSONS, and had no weapon +but a single pistol. He had no dagger; and the only thing found on him was a +knife.” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “In the car there were several turner’s implements, which +he might have used.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “But he had not those arms upon him, because you pursued him +immediately. He had, according to you, only this old pistol.” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “I have nothing to say.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “Your domestic, instead of flying into woods, which skirt the +road, ran straight forward on the road itself: THIS, AGAIN, IS VERY +UNLIKELY.” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “This is a conjecture I could answer by another conjecture; I +can only reason on the facts.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “How far did you pursue him?” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “I don’t know exactly.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “You said ‘two hundred paces.’” +</p> + +<p> +No answer from the prisoner. +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “Your domestic was young, active, robust, and tall. He was ahead +of you. You were in a carriage, from which you had to descend: you had to take +your pistols from a cushion, and THEN your hammer;—how are we to believe +that you could have caught him, if he ran? It is IMPOSSIBLE.” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “I can’t explain it: I think that Rey had some defect in +one leg. I, for my part, run tolerably fast.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “At what distance from him did you fire your first shot?” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “I can’t tell.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “Perhaps he was not running when you fired.” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “I saw him running.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “In what position was your wife?” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “She was leaning on my left arm, and the man was on the right +side of the carriage.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “The shot must have been fired à bout portant, because it burned +the eyebrows and lashes entirely. The assassin must have passed his pistol +across your breast.” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “The shot was not fired so close; I am convinced of it: +professional gentlemen will prove it.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “That is what you pretend, because you understand perfectly the +consequences of admitting the fact. Your wife was hit with two balls—one +striking downwards, to the right, by the nose, the other going horizontally +through the cheek, to the left.” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “The contrary will be shown by the witnesses called for the +purpose.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “IT IS A VERY UNLUCKY COMBINATION FOR YOU that these balls, which +went, you say, from the same pistol, should have taken two different +directions.” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “I can’t dispute about the various combinations of +fire-arms—professional persons will be heard.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “According to your statement, your wife said to you, ‘My +poor husband, take your pistols.’” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “She did.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “In a manner quite distinct.” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “So distinct that you did not fancy she was hit?” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “Yes; that is the fact.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “HERE, AGAIN, IS AN IMPOSSIBILITY; and nothing is more precise +than the declaration of the medical men. They affirm that your wife could not +have spoken—their report is unanimous.” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “I can only oppose to it quite contrary opinions from +professional men, also: you must hear them.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge. “What did your wife do next?” +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Judge. “You deny the statements of the witnesses:” (they related to +Peytel’s demeanor and behavior, which the judge wishes to show were very +unusual;—and what if they were?) “Here, however, are some mute +witnesses, whose testimony, you will not perhaps refuse. Near Louis Rey’s +body was found a horse-cloth, a pistol, and a whip..... Your domestic must have +had this cloth upon him when he went to assassinate you: it was wet and heavy. +An assassin disencumbers himself of anything that is likely to impede him, +especially when he is going to struggle with a man as young as himself.” +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “My servant had, I believe, this covering on his body; it might +be useful to him to keep the priming of his pistol dry.” +</p> + +<p> +The president caused the cloth to be opened, and showed that there was no hook, +or tie, by which it could be held together; and that Rey must have held it with +one hand, and, in the other, his whip, and the pistol with which he intended to +commit the crime; which was impossible. +</p> + +<p> +Prisoner. “These are only conjectures.” +</p> + +<p> +And what conjectures, my God! upon which to take away the life of a man. +Jeffreys, or Fouquier Tinville, could scarcely have dared to make such. Such +prejudice, such bitter persecution, such priming of the jury, such monstrous +assumptions and unreason—fancy them coming from an impartial judge! The +man is worse than the public accuser. +</p> + +<p> +“Rey,” says the Judge, “could not have committed the murder, +BECAUSE HE HAD NO MONEY IN HIS POCKET, TO FLY, IN CASE OF FAILURE.” And +what is the precise sum that his lordship thinks necessary for a gentleman to +have, before he makes such an attempt? Are the men who murder for money, +usually in possession of a certain independence before they begin? How much +money was Rey, a servant, who loved wine and women, had been stopping at a +score of inns on the road, and had, probably, an annual income of 400 +francs,—how much money was Rey likely to have? +</p> + +<p> +“Your servant had to assassinate two persons.” This I have +mentioned before. Why had he to assassinate two persons,[*] when one was +enough? If he had killed Peytel, could he not have seized and gagged his wife +immediately? +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* M. Balzac’s theory of the case is, that Rey had intrigued with Madame +Peytel; having known her previous to her marriage, when she was staying in the +house of her brother- in-law, Monsieur de Montrichard, where Rey had been a +servant. +</p> + +<p> +“Your domestic ran straight forward, instead of taking to the woods, by +the side of the rood: this is very unlikely.” How does his worship know? +Can any judge, however enlightened, tell the exact road that a man will take, +who has just missed a coup of murder, and is pursued by a man who is firing +pistols at him? And has a judge a right to instruct a jury in this way, as to +what they shall, or shall not, believe? +</p> + +<p> +“You have to run after an active man, who has the start of you: to jump +out of a carriage; to take your pistols; and THEN, your hammer. THIS IS +IMPOSSIBLE.” By heavens! does it not make a man’s blood boil, to +read such blundering, blood-seeking sophistry? This man, when it suits him, +shows that Rey would be slow in his motions; and when it suits him, declares +that Rey ought to be quick; declares ex cathedrâ, what pace Rey should go, and +what direction he should take; shows, in a breath, that he must have run faster +than Peytel; and then, that he could not run fast, because the cloak clogged +him; settles how he is to be dressed when he commits a murder, and what money +he is to have in his pocket; gives these impossible suppositions to the jury, +and tells them that the previous statements are impossible; and, finally, +informs them of the precise manner in which Rey must have stood holding his +horse-cloth in one hand, his whip and pistol in the other, when he made the +supposed attempt at murder. Now, what is the size of a horse-cloth? Is it as +big as a pocket-handkerchief? Is there no possibility that it might hang over +one shoulder; that the whip should be held under that very arm? Did you never +see a carter so carry it, his hands in his pockets all the while? Is it +monstrous, abhorrent to nature, that a man should fire a pistol from under a +cloak on a rainy day?—that he should, after firing the shot, be +frightened, and run; run straight before him, with the cloak on his shoulders, +and the weapon in his hand? Peytel’s story is possible, and very +possible; it is almost probable. Allow that Rey had the cloth on, and you allow +that he must have been clogged in his motions; that Peytel may have come up +with him—felled him with a blow of the hammer; the doctors say that he +would have so fallen by one blow—he would have fallen on his face, as he +was found: the paper might have been thrust into his breast, and tumbled out as +he fell. Circumstances far more impossible have occurred ere this; and men have +been hanged for them, who were as innocent of the crime laid to their charge as +the judge on the bench, who convicted them. +</p> + +<p> +In like manner, Peytel may not have committed the crime charged to him; and Mr. +Judge, with his arguments as to possibilities and impossibilities,—Mr. +Public Prosecutor, with his romantic narrative and inflammatory harangues to +the jury,—may have used all these powers to bring to death an innocent +man. From the animus with which the case had been conducted from beginning to +end, it was easy to see the result. Here it is, in the words of the provincial +paper:— +</p> + +<p> +BOURG, 28 October, 1839. +</p> + +<p> +“The condemned Peytel has just undergone his punishment, which took place +four days before the anniversary of his crime. The terrible drama of the bridge +of Andert, which cost the life of two persons, has just terminated on the +scaffold. Mid-day had just sounded on the clock of the Palais: the same clock +tolled midnight when, on the 30th of August, his sentence was pronounced. +</p> + +<p> +“Since the rejection of his appeal in Cassation, on which his principal +hopes were founded, Peytel spoke little of his petition to the King. The notion +of transportation was that which he seemed to cherish most. However, he made +several inquiries from the gaoler of the prison, when he saw him at meal-time, +with regard to the place of execution, the usual hour, and other details on the +subject. From that period, the words ‘Champ de Foire’ (the +fair-field, where the execution was to be held), were frequently used by him in +conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“Yesterday, the idea that the time had arrived seemed to be more strongly +than ever impressed upon him; especially after the departure of the curé, who +latterly has been with him every day. The documents connected with the trial +had arrived in the morning. He was ignorant of this circumstance, but sought to +discover from his guardians what they tried to hide from him; and to find out +whether his petition was rejected, and when he was to die. +</p> + +<p> +“Yesterday, also, he had written to demand the presence of his counsel, +M. Margerand, in order that he might have some conversation with him, and +regulate his affairs, before he ——; he did not write down the word, +but left in its place a few points of the pen. +</p> + +<p> +“In the evening, whilst he was at supper, he begged earnestly to be +allowed a little wax-candle, to finish what he was writing: otherwise, he said, +TIME MIGHT FAIL. This was a new, indirect manner of repeating his ordinary +question. As light, up to that evening, had been refused him, it was thought +best to deny him in this, as in former instances; otherwise his suspicions +might have been confirmed. The keeper refused his demand. +</p> + +<p> +“This morning, Monday, at nine o’clock, the Greffier of the Assize +Court, in fulfilment of the painful duty which the law imposes upon him, came +to the prison, in company with the curé of Bourg, and announced to the convict +that his petition was rejected, and that he had only three hours to live. He +received this fatal news with a great deal of calmness, and showed himself to +be no more affected than he had been on the trial. ‘I am ready; but I +wish they had given me four-and-twenty hours’ notice,’—were +all the words he used. +</p> + +<p> +“The Greffier now retired, leaving Peytel alone with the curé, who did +not thenceforth quit him. Peytel breakfasted at ten o’clock. +</p> + +<p> +“At eleven, a piquet of mounted gendarmerie and infantry took their +station upon the place before the prison, where a great concourse of people had +already assembled. An open car was at the door. Before he went out Peytel asked +the gaoler for a looking-glass; and having examined his face for a moment, +said, ‘At least, the inhabitants of Bourg will see that I have not grown +thin.’ +</p> + +<p> +“As twelve o’clock sounded, the prison gates opened, an aide +appeared, followed by Peytel, leaning on the arm of the curé. Peytel’s +face was pale, he had a long black beard, a blue cap on his head, and his +great-coat flung over his shoulders, and buttoned at the neck. +</p> + +<p> +“He looked about at the place and the crowd; he asked if the carriage +would go at a trot; and on being told that that would be difficult, he said he +would prefer walking, and asked what the road was. He immediately set out, +walking at a firm and rapid pace. He was not bound at all. +</p> + +<p> +“An immense crowd of people encumbered the two streets through which he +had to pass to the place of execution. He cast his eyes alternately upon them +and upon the guillotine, which was before him. +</p> + +<p> +“Arrived at the foot of the scaffold, Peytel embraced the curé, and bade +him adieu. He then embraced him again; perhaps, for his mother and sister. He +then mounted the steps rapidly, and gave himself into the hands of the +executioner, who removed his coat and cap. He asked how he was to place +himself, and on a sign being made, he flung himself briskly on the plank, and +stretched his neck. In another moment he was no more. +</p> + +<p> +“The crowd, which had been quite silent, retired, profoundly moved by the +sight it had witnessed. As at all executions, there was a very great number of +women present. +</p> + +<p> +“Under the scaffold there had been, ever since the morning, a coffin. The +family had asked for his remains, and had them immediately buried, privately: +and thus the unfortunate man’s head escaped the modellers in wax, several +of whom had arrived to take an impression of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Down goes the axe; the poor wretch’s head rolls gasping into the basket; +the spectators go home, pondering; and Mr. Executioner and his aides have, in +half an hour, removed all traces of the august sacrifice, and of the altar on +which it had been performed. Say, Mr. Briefless, do you think that any single +person, meditating murder, would be deterred therefrom by beholding +this—nay, a thousand more executions? It is not for moral improvement, as +I take it, nor for opportunity to make appropriate remarks upon the punishment +of crime, that people make a holiday of a killing-day, and leave their homes +and occupations, to flock and witness the cutting off of a head. Do we crowd to +see Mr. Macready in the new tragedy, or Mademoiselle Ellssler in her last new +ballet and flesh-colored stockinnet pantaloons, out of a pure love of abstract +poetry and beauty; or from a strong notion that we shall be excited, in +different ways, by the actor and the dancer? And so, as we go to have a meal of +fictitious terror at the tragedy, of something more questionable in the ballet, +we go for a glut of blood to the execution. The lust is in every man’s +nature, more or less. Did you ever witness a wrestling or boxing match? The +first clatter of the kick on the shins, or the first drawing of blood, makes +the stranger shudder a little; but soon the blood is his chief enjoyment, and +he thirsts for it with a fierce delight. It is a fine grim pleasure that we +have in seeing a man killed; and I make no doubt that the organs of +destructiveness must begin to throb and swell as we witness the delightful +savage spectacle. +</p> + +<p> +Three or four years back, when Fieschi and Lacenaire were executed, I made +attempts to see the execution of both; but was disappointed in both cases. In +the first instance, the day for Fieschi’s death was, purposely, kept +secret; and he was, if I remember rightly, executed at some remote quarter of +the town. But it would have done a philanthropist good, to witness the scene +which we saw on the morning when his execution did NOT take place. +</p> + +<p> +It was carnival time, and the rumor had pretty generally been carried abroad +that he was to die on that morning. A friend, who accompanied me, came many +miles, through the mud and dark, in order to be in at the death. We set out +before light, floundering through the muddy Champs Elysées; where, besides, +were many other persons floundering, and all bent upon the same errand. We +passed by the Concert of Musard, then held in the Rue St. Honoré; and round +this, in the wet, a number of coaches were collected. The ball was just up, and +a crowd of people in hideous masquerade, drunk, tired, dirty, dressed in +horrible old frippery, and daubed with filthy rouge, were trooping out of the +place: tipsy women and men, shrieking, jabbering, gesticulating, as French will +do; parties swaggering, staggering forwards, arm in arm, reeling to and fro +across the street, and yelling songs in chorus: hundreds of these were bound +for the show, and we thought ourselves lucky in finding a vehicle to the +execution place, at the Barrière d’Enfer. As we crossed the river and +entered the Enfer Street, crowds of students, black workmen, and more drunken +devils from more carnival balls, were filling it; and on the grand place there +were thousands of these assembled, looking out for Fiaschi and his cortège. We +waited and waited; but alas! no fun for us that morning: no throat-cutting; no +august spectacle of satisfied justice; and the eager spectators were obliged to +return, disappointed of their expected breakfast of blood. It would have been a +fine scene, that execution, could it but have taken place in the midst of the +mad mountebanks and tipsy strumpets who had flocked so far to witness it, +wishing to wind up the delights of their carnival by a bonnebouche of a murder. +</p> + +<p> +The other attempt was equally unfortunate. We arrived too late on the ground to +be present at the execution of Lacenaire and his co-mate in murder, Avril. But +as we came to the ground (a gloomy round space, within the barrier—three +roads lead to it; and, outside, you see the wine-shops and restaurateurs’ +of the barrier looking gay and inviting,)—as we came to the ground, we +only found, in the midst of it, a little pool of ice, just partially tinged +with red. Two or three idle street-boys were dancing and stamping about this +pool; and when I asked one of them whether the execution had taken place, he +began dancing more madly than ever, and shrieked out with a loud fantastical, +theatrical voice, “Venez tous Messieurs et Dames, voyez ici le sang du +monstre Lacenaire, et de son compagnon he traître Avril,” or words to +that effect; and straightway all the other gamins screamed out the words in +chorus, and took hands and danced round the little puddle. +</p> + +<p> +O august Justice, your meal was followed by a pretty appropriate grace! Was any +man, who saw the show, deterred, or frightened, or moralized in any way? He had +gratified his appetite for blood, and this was all. There is something +singularly pleasing, both in the amusement of execution-seeing, and in the +results. You are not only delightfully excited at the time, but most pleasingly +relaxed afterwards; the mind, which has been wound up painfully until now, +becomes quite complacent and easy. There is something agreeable in the +misfortunes of others, as the philosopher has told us. Remark what a good +breakfast you eat after an execution; how pleasant it is to cut jokes after it, +and upon it. This merry, pleasant mood is brought on by the blood tonic. +</p> + +<p> +But, for God’s sake, if we are to enjoy this, let us do so in moderation; +and let us, at least, be sure of a man’s guilt before we murder him. To +kill him, even with the full assurance that he is guilty is hazardous enough. +Who gave you the right to do so?—you, who cry out against suicides, as +impious and contrary to Christian law? What use is there in killing him? You +deter no one else from committing the crime by so doing: you give us, to be +sure, half an hour’s pleasant entertainment; but it is a great question +whether we derive much moral profit from the sight. If you want to keep a +murderer from farther inroads upon society, are there not plenty of hulks and +prisons, God wot; treadmills, galleys, and houses of correction? Above all, as +in the case of Sebastian Peytel and his family, there have been two deaths +already; was a third death absolutely necessary? and, taking the fallibility of +judges and lawyers into his heart, and remembering the thousand instances of +unmerited punishment that have been suffered, upon similar and stronger +evidence before, can any man declare, positively and upon his oath, that Peytel +was guilty, and that this was not THE THIRD MURDER IN THE FAMILY? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"></a> FOUR IMITATIONS OF BÉRANGER +</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"></a> LE ROI D’YVETOT. +</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Il était un roi d’Yvetot,<br/> + Peu connu dans l’histoire;<br/> +Se levant tard, se couchant tôt,<br/> + Dormant fort bien sans gloire,<br/> +Et couronné par Jeanneton<br/> +D’un simple bonnet de coton,<br/> + Dit-on.<br/> + Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah!<br/> + Quel bon petit roi c’était là!<br/> + La, la.<br/> +<br/> +Il fesait ses quatre repas<br/> + Dans son palais de chaume,<br/> +Et sur un âne, pas à pas,<br/> + Parcourait son royaume.<br/> +Joyeux, simple et croyant le bien,<br/> +Pour toute garde il n’avait rien<br/> + Qu’un chien.<br/> + Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c.<br/> + La, la.<br/> +<br/> +Il n’avait de goût onéreux<br/> + Qu’une soif un peu vive;<br/> +Mais, en rendant son peuple heureux,<br/> + Il faux bien qu’un roi vive.<br/> +Lui-même à table, et sans suppôt,<br/> +Sur chaque muid levait un pot<br/> + D’impôt.<br/> + Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c.<br/> + La, la.<br/> +<br/> +Aux filles de bonnes maisons<br/> + Comme il avait su plaire,<br/> +Ses sujets avaient cent raisons<br/> + De le nommer leur père:<br/> +D’ailleurs il ne levait de ban<br/> +Que pour tirer quatre fois l’an<br/> + Au blanc.<br/> + Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c.<br/> + La, la.<br/> +<br/> +Il n’agrandit point ses états,<br/> + Fut un voisin commode,<br/> +Et, modèle des potentats,<br/> + Prit le plaisir pour code.<br/> +Ce n’est que lorsqu’il expira,<br/> +Que le peuple qui l’enterra<br/> + Pleura.<br/> + Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c.<br/> + La, la.<br/> +<br/> +On conserve encor le portrait<br/> + De ce digne et bon prince;<br/> +C’est l’enseigne d’un cabaret<br/> + Fameux dans la province.<br/> +Les jours de fête, bien souvent,<br/> +La foule s’écrie en buvant<br/> + Devant:<br/> + Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah!<br/> + Quel bon petit roi c’était là!<br/> + La, la. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +THE KING OF YVETOT. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +There was a king of Yvetot,<br/> + Of whom renown hath little said,<br/> +Who let all thoughts of glory go,<br/> + And dawdled half his days a-bed;<br/> +And every night, as night came round,<br/> +By Jenny, with a nightcap crowned,<br/> + Slept very sound:<br/> + Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!<br/> + That’s the kind of king for me.<br/> +<br/> +And every day it came to pass,<br/> + That four lusty meals made he;<br/> +And, step by step, upon an ass,<br/> + Rode abroad, his realms to see;<br/> +And wherever he did stir,<br/> +What think you was his escort, sir?<br/> + Why, an old cur.<br/> + Sing ho, ho, ho! &c.<br/> +<br/> +If e’er he went into excess,<br/> + ’Twas from a somewhat lively thirst;<br/> +But he who would his subjects bless,<br/> + Odd’s fish!—must wet his whistle first;<br/> +And so from every cask they got,<br/> +Our king did to himself allot,<br/> + At least a pot.<br/> + Sing ho, ho! &c.<br/> +<br/> +To all the ladies of the land,<br/> + A courteous king, and kind, was he;<br/> +The reason why you’ll understand,<br/> + They named him Pater Patriae.<br/> +Each year he called his fighting men,<br/> +And marched a league from home, and then<br/> + Marched back again.<br/> + Sing ho, ho! &c.<br/> +<br/> +Neither by force nor false pretence,<br/> + He sought to make his kingdom great,<br/> +And made (O princes, learn from hence),—<br/> + “Live and let live,” his rule of state.<br/> +’Twas only when he came to die,<br/> +That his people who stood by,<br/> + Were known to cry.<br/> + Sing ho, ho! &c.<br/> +<br/> +The portrait of this best of kings<br/> + Is extant still, upon a sign<br/> +That on a village tavern swings,<br/> + Famed in the country for good wine.<br/> +The people in their Sunday trim,<br/> +Filling their glasses to the brim,<br/> + Look up to him,<br/> + Singing ha, ha, ha! and he, he, he!<br/> + That’s the sort of king for me. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"></a> THE KING OF BRENTFORD. +ANOTHER VERSION.</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +There was a king in Brentford,—of whom no legends tell,<br/> +But who, without his glory,—could eat and sleep right well.<br/> +His Polly’s cotton nightcap,—it was his crown of state,<br/> +He slept of evenings early,—and rose of mornings late.<br/> +<br/> +All in a fine mud palace,—each day he took four meals,<br/> +And for a guard of honor,—a dog ran at his heels,<br/> +Sometimes, to view his kingdoms,—rode forth this monarch good,<br/> +And then a prancing jackass—he royally bestrode.<br/> +<br/> +There were no costly habits—with which this king was curst,<br/> +Except (and where’s the harm on’t?)—a somewhat lively +thirst;<br/> +But people must pay taxes,—and kings must have their sport,<br/> +So out of every gallon—His Grace he took a quart.<br/> +<br/> +He pleased the ladies round him,—with manners soft and bland;<br/> +With reason good, they named him,—the father of his land.<br/> +Each year his mighty armies—marched forth in gallant show;<br/> +Their enemies were targets—their bullets they were tow.<br/> +<br/> +He vexed no quiet neighbor,—no useless conquest made,<br/> +But by the laws of pleasure,—his peaceful realm he swayed.<br/> +And in the years he reigned,—through all this country wide,<br/> +There was no cause for weeping,—save when the good man died.<br/> +<br/> +The faithful men of Brentford,—do still their king deplore,<br/> +His portrait yet is swinging,—beside an alehouse door.<br/> +And topers, tender-hearted,—regard his honest phiz,<br/> +And envy times departed—that knew a reign like his. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"></a> LE GRENIER.</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Je viens revoir l’asile où ma jeunesse<br/> +De la misère a subi les leçons.<br/> +J’avais vingt ans, une folle maîtresse,<br/> +De francs amis et l’amour des chansons<br/> +Bravant le monde et les sots et les sages,<br/> +Sans avenir, riche de mon printemps,<br/> +Leste et joyeux je montais six étages.<br/> +Dans un grenier qu’on est bien à vingt ans!<br/> +<br/> +C’est un grenier, point ne veux qu’on l’ignore.<br/> +Là fut mon lit, bien chétif et bien dur;<br/> +Là fut ma table; et je retrouve encore<br/> +Trois pieds d’un vers charbonnés sur le mur.<br/> +Apparaissez, plaisirs de mon bel âge,<br/> +Que d’un coup d’aile a fustigés le temps,<br/> +Vingt fois pour vous j’ai mis ma montre en gage.<br/> +Dans un grenier qu’on est bien à vingt ans!<br/> +<br/> +Lisette ici doit surtout apparaître,<br/> +Vive, jolie, avec un frais chapeau;<br/> +Déjà sa main à l’étroite fenêtre<br/> +Suspend son schal, en guise de rideau.<br/> +Sa robe aussi va parer ma couchette;<br/> +Respecte, Amour, ses plis longs et flottans.<br/> +J’ai su depuis qui payait sa toilette.<br/> +Dans un grenier qu’on est bien à vingt ans!<br/> +<br/> +A table un jour, jour de grande richesse,<br/> +De mes amis les voix brillaient en choeur,<br/> +Quand jusqu’ici monte un cri d’allégresse:<br/> +A Marengo Bonaparte est vainqueur.<br/> +Le canon gronde; un autre chant commence;<br/> +Nous célébrons tant de faits éclatans.<br/> +Les rois jamais n’envahiront la France.<br/> +Dans un grenier qu’on est bien à vingt ans!<br/> +<br/> +Quittons ce toit où ma raison s’enivre.<br/> +Oh! qu’ils sont loin ces jours si regrettés!<br/> +J’échangerais ce qu’il me reste à vivre<br/> +Contre un des mois qu’ici Dieu m’a comptés,<br/> +Pour rêver gloire, amour, plaisir, folie,<br/> +Pour dépenser sa vie en peu d’instans,<br/> +D’un long espoir pour la voir embellie,<br/> +Dans un grenier qu’on est bien à vingt ans! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"></a> THE GARRET.</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +With pensive eyes the little room I view,<br/> + Where, in my youth, I weathered it so long;<br/> +With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two,<br/> + And a light heart still breaking into song:<br/> +Making a mock of life, and all its cares,<br/> + Rich in the glory of my rising sun,<br/> +Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs,<br/> + In the brave days when I was twenty-one.<br/> +<br/> +Yes; ’tis a garret—let him know’t who will—<br/> + There was my bed—full hard it was and small.<br/> +My table there—and I decipher still<br/> + Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall.<br/> +Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away,<br/> + Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun;<br/> +For you I pawned my watch how many a day,<br/> + In the brave days when I was twenty-one.<br/> +<br/> +And see my little Jessy, first of all;<br/> + She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes:<br/> +Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl<br/> + Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise;<br/> +Now by the bed her petticoat glides down,<br/> + And when did woman look the worse in none?<br/> +I have heard since who paid for many a gown,<br/> + In the brave days when I was twenty-one.<br/> +<br/> +One jolly evening, when my friends and I<br/> + Made happy music with our songs and cheers,<br/> +A shout of triumph mounted up thus high,<br/> + And distant cannon opened on our ears:<br/> +We rise,—we join in the triumphant strain,—<br/> + Napoleon conquers—Austerlitz is won—<br/> +Tyrants shall never tread us down again,<br/> + In the brave days when I was twenty-one.<br/> +<br/> +Let us begone—the place is sad and strange—<br/> + How far, far off, these happy times appear;<br/> +All that I have to live I’d gladly change<br/> + For one such month as I have wasted here—<br/> +To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power,<br/> + From founts of hope that never will outrun,<br/> +And drink all life’s quintessence in an hour,<br/> + Give me the days when I was twenty-one! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"></a> ROGER-BONTEMPS.</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Aux gens atrabilaires<br/> +Pour exemple donné,<br/> +En un temps de misères<br/> +Roger-Bontemps est né.<br/> +Vivre obscur à sa guise,<br/> +Narguer les mécontens:<br/> +Eh gai! c’est la devise<br/> +Du gros Roger-Bontemps.<br/> +<br/> +Du chapeau de son père<br/> +Coîffé dans le grands jours,<br/> +De roses ou de lierre<br/> +Le rajeunir toujours;<br/> +Mettre un manteau de bure,<br/> +Vieil ami de vingt ans;<br/> +Eh gai! c’est la parure<br/> +Du gros Roger-Bontemps.<br/> +<br/> +Posséder dans sa hutte<br/> +Une table, un vieux lit,<br/> +Des cartes, une flûte,<br/> +Un broc que Dieu remplit;<br/> +Un portrait de maîtresse,<br/> +Un coffre et rien dedans;<br/> +Eh gai! c’est la richesse<br/> +Du gros Roger-Bontemps.<br/> +<br/> +Aux enfans de la ville<br/> +Montrer de petits jeux;<br/> +Etre fesseur habile<br/> +De contes graveleux;<br/> +Ne parler que de danse<br/> +Et d’almanachs chantans;<br/> +Eh gai! c’est la science<br/> +Du gros Roger-Bontemps.<br/> +<br/> +Faute de vins d’élite,<br/> +Sabler ceux du canton:<br/> +Préférer Marguerite<br/> +Aux dames du grand ton:<br/> +De joie et de tendresse<br/> +Remplir tous ses instans;<br/> +Eh gai! c’est la sagesse<br/> +Du gros Roger-Bontemps.<br/> +<br/> +Dire au ciel: Je me fie,<br/> +Mon père, à ta bonté;<br/> +De ma philosophie<br/> +Pardonne le gaîté<br/> +Que ma saison dernière<br/> +Soit encore un printemps;<br/> +Eh gai! c’est la prière<br/> +Du gros Roger-Bontemps.<br/> +<br/> +Vous, pauvres pleins d’envie,<br/> +Vous, riches désireux,<br/> +Vous, dont le char dévie<br/> +Après un cours heureux;<br/> +Vous, qui perdrez peut-être<br/> +Des titres éclatans,<br/> +Eh gai! prenez pour maître<br/> +Le gros Roger Bontemps. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"></a> JOLLY JACK.</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +When fierce political debate<br/> + Throughout the isle was storming,<br/> +And Rads attacked the throne and state,<br/> + And Tories the reforming,<br/> +To calm the furious rage of each,<br/> + And right the land demented,<br/> +Heaven sent us Jolly Jack, to teach<br/> +The way to be contented.<br/> +<br/> +Jack’s bed was straw, ’twas warm and soft,<br/> + His chair, a three-legged stool;<br/> +His broken jug was emptied oft,<br/> + Yet, somehow, always full.<br/> +His mistress’ portrait decked the wall,<br/> + His mirror had a crack;<br/> +Yet, gay and glad, though this was all<br/> + His wealth, lived Jolly Jack.<br/> +<br/> +To give advice to avarice,<br/> + Teach pride its mean condition,<br/> +And preach good sense to dull pretence,<br/> + Was honest Jack’s high mission.<br/> +Our simple statesman found his rule<br/> + Of moral in the flagon,<br/> +And held his philosophic school<br/> + Beneath the “George and Dragon.”<br/> +<br/> +When village Solons cursed the Lords,<br/> + And called the malt-tax sinful,<br/> +Jack heeded not their angry words,<br/> + But smiled and drank his skinful.<br/> +And when men wasted health and life,<br/> + In search of rank and riches,<br/> +Jack marked, aloof, the paltry strife,<br/> + And wore his threadbare breeches.<br/> +<br/> +“I enter not the church,” he said,<br/> + “But I’ll not seek to rob it;”<br/> +So worthy Jack Joe Miller read,<br/> + While others studied Cobbett.<br/> +His talk it was of feast and fun;<br/> + His guide the Almanack;<br/> +From youth to age thus gayly run<br/> + The life of Jolly Jack.<br/> +<br/> +And when Jack prayed, as oft he would,<br/> + He humbly thanked his Maker;<br/> +“I am,” said he, “O Father good!<br/> + Nor Catholic nor Quaker:<br/> +Give each his creed, let each proclaim<br/> + His catalogue of curses;<br/> +I trust in Thee, and not in them,<br/> + In Thee, and in Thy mercies!<br/> +<br/> +“Forgive me if, midst all Thy works,<br/> + No hint I see of damning;<br/> +And think there’s faith among the Turks,<br/> + And hope for e’en the Brahmin.<br/> +Harmless my mind is, and my mirth,<br/> + And kindly is my laughter:<br/> +I cannot see the smiling earth,<br/> + And think there’s hell hereafter.”<br/> +<br/> +Jack died; he left no legacy,<br/> + Save that his story teaches:—<br/> +Content to peevish poverty;<br/> + Humility to riches.<br/> +Ye scornful great, ye envious small,<br/> + Come follow in his track;<br/> +We all were happier, if we all<br/> + Would copy JOLLY JACK. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"></a> FRENCH DRAMAS AND +MELODRAMAS.</h2> + +<p> +There are three kinds of drama in France, which you may subdivide as much as +you please. +</p> + +<p> +There is the old classical drama, wellnigh dead, and full time too: old +tragedies, in which half a dozen characters appear, and spout sonorous +Alexandrines for half a dozen hours. The fair Rachel has been trying to revive +this genre, and to untomb Racine; but be not alarmed, Racine will never come to +life again, and cause audiences to weep as of yore. Madame Rachel can only +galvanize the corpse, not revivify it. Ancient French tragedy, red-heeled, +patched, and be-periwigged, lies in the grave; and it is only the ghost of it +that we see, which the fair Jewess has raised. There are classical comedies in +verse, too, wherein the knavish valets, rakish heroes, stolid old guardians, +and smart, free-spoken serving-women, discourse in Alexandrines, as loud as the +Horaces or the Cid. An Englishman will seldom reconcile himself to the +roulement of the verses, and the painful recurrence of the rhymes; for my part, +I had rather go to Madame Saqui’s or see Deburau dancing on a rope: his +lines are quite as natural and poetical. +</p> + +<p> +Then there is the comedy of the day, of which Monsieur Scribe is the father. +Good heavens! with what a number of gay colonels, smart widows, and silly +husbands has that gentleman peopled the play-books. How that unfortunate +seventh commandment has been maltreated by him and his disciples. You will see +four pieces, at the Gymnase, of a night; and so sure as you see them, four +husbands shall be wickedly used. When is this joke to cease? Mon Dieu! +Play-writers have handled it for about two thousand years, and the public, like +a great baby, must have the tale repeated to it over and over again. +</p> + +<p> +Finally, there is the Drama, that great monster which has sprung into life of +late years; and which is said, but I don’t believe a word of it, to have +Shakspeare for a father. If Monsieur Scribe’s plays may be said to be so +many ingenious examples how to break one commandment, the drame is a grand and +general chaos of them all; nay, several crimes are added, not prohibited in the +Decalogue, which was written before dramas were. Of the drama, Victor Hugo and +Dumas are the well-known and respectable guardians. Every piece Victor Hugo has +written, since “Hernani,” has contained a monster—a +delightful monster, saved by one virtue. There is Triboulet, a foolish monster; +Lucrèce Borgia, a maternal monster; Mary Tudor, a religious monster; Monsieur +Quasimodo, a humpback monster; and others, that might be named, whose +monstrosities we are induced to pardon—nay, admiringly to +witness—because they are agreeably mingled with some exquisite display of +affection. And, as the great Hugo has one monster to each play, the great Dumas +has, ordinarily, half a dozen, to whom murder is nothing; common intrigue, and +simple breakage of the before-mentioned commandment, nothing; but who live and +move in a vast, delightful complication of crime, that cannot be easily +conceived in England, much less described. +</p> + +<p> +When I think over the number of crimes that I have seen Mademoiselle Georges, +for instance, commit, I am filled with wonder at her greatness, and the +greatness of the poets who have conceived these charming horrors for her. I +have seen her make love to, and murder, her sons, in the “Tour de +Nesle.” I have seen her poison a company of no less than nine gentlemen, +at Ferrara, with an affectionate son in the number; I have seen her, as Madame +de Brinvilliers, kill off numbers of respectable relations in the first four +acts; and, at the last, be actually burned at the stake, to which she comes +shuddering, ghastly, barefooted, and in a white sheet. Sweet excitement of +tender sympathies! Such tragedies are not so good as a real, downright +execution; but, in point of interest, the next thing to it: with what a number +of moral emotions do they fill the breast; with what a hatred for vice, and yet +a true pity and respect for that grain of virtue that is to be found in us all: +our bloody, daughter-loving Brinvilliers; our warmhearted, poisonous Lucretia +Borgia; above all, what a smart appetite for a cool supper afterwards, at the +Café Anglais, when the horrors of the play act as a piquant sauce to the +supper! +</p> + +<p> +Or, to speak more seriously, and to come, at last, to the point. After having +seen most of the grand dramas which have been produced at Paris for the last +half-dozen years, and thinking over all that one has seen,—the fictitious +murders, rapes, adulteries, and other crimes, by which one has been interested +and excited,—a man may take leave to be heartily ashamed of the manner in +which he has spent his time; and of the hideous kind of mental intoxication in +which he has permitted himself to indulge. +</p> + +<p> +Nor are simple society outrages the only sort of crime in which the spectator +of Paris plays has permitted himself to indulge; he has recreated himself with +a deal of blasphemy besides, and has passed many pleasant evenings in beholding +religion defiled and ridiculed. +</p> + +<p> +Allusion has been made, in a former paper, to a fashion that lately obtained in +France, and which went by the name of Catholic reaction; and as, in this happy +country, fashion is everything, we have had not merely Catholic pictures and +quasi religious books, but a number of Catholic plays have been produced, very +edifying to the frequenters of the theatres or the Boulevards, who have learned +more about religion from these performances than they have acquired, no doubt, +in the whole of their lives before. In the course of a very few years we have +seen—“The Wandering Jew;” “Belshazzar’s +Feast;” “Nebuchadnezzar:” and the “Massacre of the +Innocents;” “Joseph and his Brethren;” “The Passage of +the Red Sea;” and “The Deluge.” +</p> + +<p> +The great Dumas, like Madame Sand before mentioned, has brought a vast quantity +of religion before the foot-lights. There was his famous tragedy of +“Caligula,” which, be it spoken to the shame of the Paris critics, +was coldly received; nay, actually hissed, by them. And why? Because, says +Dumas, it contained a great deal too much piety for the rogues. The public, he +says, was much more religious, and understood him at once. +</p> + +<p> +“As for the critics,” says he, nobly, “let those who cried +out against the immorality of Antony and Marguérite de Bourgogne, reproach me +for THE CHASTITY OF MESSALINA.” (This dear creature is the heroine of the +play of “Caligula.”) “It matters little to me. These people +have but seen the form of my work: they have walked round the tent, but have +not seen the arch which it covered; they have examined the vases and candles of +the altar, but have not opened the tabernacle! +</p> + +<p> +“The public alone has, instinctively, comprehended that there was, +beneath this outward sign, an inward and mysterious grace: it followed the +action of the piece in all its serpentine windings; it listened for four hours, +with pious attention (avec recueillement et religion), to the sound of this +rolling river of thoughts, which may have appeared to it new and bold, perhaps, +but chaste and grave; and it retired, with its head on its breast, like a man +who had just perceived, in a dream, the solution of a problem which he has long +and vainly sought in his waking hours.” +</p> + +<p> +You see that not only Saint Sand is an apostle, in her way; but Saint Dumas is +another. We have people in England who write for bread, like Dumas and Sand, +and are paid so much for their line; but they don’t set up for prophets. +Mrs. Trollope has never declared that her novels are inspired by heaven; Mr. +Buckstone has written a great number of farces, and never talked about the +altar and the tabernacle. Even Sir Edward Bulwer (who, on a similar occasion, +when the critics found fault with a play of his, answered them by a pretty +decent declaration of his own merits,) never ventured to say that he had +received a divine mission, and was uttering five-act revelations. +</p> + +<p> +All things considered, the tragedy of “Caligula” is a decent +tragedy; as decent as the decent characters of the hero and heroine can allow +it to be; it may be almost said, provokingly decent: but this, it must be +remembered, is the characteristic of the modern French school (nay, of the +English school too); and if the writer take the character of a remarkable +scoundrel, it is ten to one but he turns out an amiable fellow, in whom we have +all the warmest sympathy. “Caligula” is killed at the end of the +performance; Messalina is comparatively well-behaved; and the sacred part of +the performance, the tabernacle-characters apart from the mere +“vase” and “candlestick” personages, may be said to be +depicted in the person of a Christian convert, Stella, who has had the good +fortune to be converted by no less a person than Mary Magdalene, when she, +Stella, was staying on a visit to her aunt, near Narbonne. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +STELLA (Continuant.) Voilà<br/> +Que je vois s’avancer, sans pilote et sans rames,<br/> +Une barque portant deux hommes et deux femmes,<br/> +Et, spectacle inouï qui me ravit encor,<br/> +Tous quatre avaient au front une auréole d’or<br/> +D’où partaient des rayons de si vive lumière<br/> +Que je fus obligée à baisser la paupière;<br/> +Et, lorsque je rouvris les yeux avec effroi,<br/> +Les voyageurs divins étaient auprès de moi.<br/> +Un jour de chacun d’eux et dans toute sa gloire<br/> +Je te raconterai la marveilleuse histoire,<br/> +Et tu l’adoreras, j’espère; en ce moment,<br/> +Ma mère, il te suffit de savoir seulement<br/> +Que tous quatre venaient du fond de la Syrie:<br/> +Un édit les avait bannis de leur patrie,<br/> +Et, se faisant bourreaux, des hommes irrités,<br/> +Sans avirons, sans eau, sans pain et garrotés,<br/> +Sur une frêle barque échouée au rivage,<br/> +Les avaient à la mer poussés dans un orage.<br/> +Mais à peine l’esquif eut-il touché les flots<br/> +Qu’au cantique chanté par les saints matelots,<br/> +L’ouragan replia ses ailes frémissantes,<br/> +Que la mer aplanit ses vagues mugissantes,<br/> +Et qu’un soleil plus pur, reparaissant aux cieux,<br/> +Enveloppa l’esquif d’un cercle radieux!...<br/> +JUNIA.—Mais c’était un prodige.<br/> +STELLA.— Un miracle, ma mère!<br/> +Leurs fers tombèrent seuls, l’eau cessa d’être amère,<br/> +Et deux fois chaque jour le bateau fut couvert<br/> +D’une manne pareille à celle du désert:<br/> +C’est ainsi que, poussés par une main céleste,<br/> +Je les vis aborder.<br/> +JUNIA.— Oh! dis vîte le reste!<br/> +STELLA.—A l’aube, trois d’entre eux quittèrent la +maison:<br/> +Marthe prit le chemin qui mène à Tarascon,<br/> +Lazare et Maximin celui de Massilie,<br/> +Et celle qui resta.... C’ETAIT LA PLUS JOLIE, (how truly French!)<br/> +Nous faisant appeler vers le milieu du jour,<br/> +Demanda si les monts ou les bois d’alentour<br/> +Cachaient quelque retraite inconnue et profonde,<br/> +Qui la pût séparer à tout jamais du monde.....<br/> +Aquila se souvint qu’il avait pénétré<br/> +Dans un antre sauvage et de tous ignoré,<br/> +Grotte creusée aux flancs de ces Alpes sublimes,<br/> +Ou l’aigle fait son aire au-dessus des abîmes.<br/> +Il offrit cet asile, et dès le lendemain<br/> +Tous deux, pour l’y guider, nous étions en chemin.<br/> +Le soir du second jour nous touchâmes sa base:<br/> +Là, tombant à genoux dans une sainte extase,<br/> +Elle pria long-temps, puis vers l’antre inconnu,<br/> +Dénouant se chaussure, elle marcha pied nu.<br/> +Nos prières, nos cris restèrent sans réponses:<br/> +Au milieu des cailloux, des épines, des ronces,<br/> +Nous la vîmes monter, un bâton à la main,<br/> +Et ce n’est qu’arrivée au terme du chemin,<br/> +Qu’enfin elle tomba sans force et sans haleine....<br/> +JUNIA.—Comment la nommait-on, ma fille?<br/> +STELLA.— Madeleine. +</p> + +<p> +Walking, says Stella, by the sea-shore, “A bark drew near, that had nor +sail nor oar; two women and two men the vessel bore: each of that crew, +’twas wondrous to behold, wore round his head a ring of blazing gold; +from which such radiance glittered all around, that I was fain to look towards +the ground. And when once more I raised my frightened eyne, before me stood the +travellers divine; their rank, the glorious lot that each befell, at better +season, mother, will I tell. Of this anon: the time will come when thou shalt +learn to worship as I worship now. Suffice it, that from Syria’s land +they came; an edict from their country banished them. Fierce, angry men had +seized upon the four, and launched them in that vessel from the shore. They +launched these victims on the waters rude; nor rudder gave to steer, nor bread +for food. As the doomed vessel cleaves the stormy main, that pious crew uplifts +a sacred strain; the angry waves are silent as it sings; the storm, +awe-stricken, folds its quivering wings. A purer sun appears the heavens to +light, and wraps the little bark in radiance bright. +</p> + +<p> +“JUNIA.—Sure, ’twas a prodigy. +</p> + +<p> +“STELLA.—A miracle. Spontaneous from their hands the fetters fell. +The salt sea-wave grew fresh, and, twice a day, manna (like that which on the +desert lay) covered the bark and fed them on their way. Thus, hither led, at +heaven’s divine behest, I saw them land— +</p> + +<p> +“JUNIA.—My daughter, tell the rest. +</p> + +<p> +“STELLA.—Three of the four, our mansion left at dawn. One, Martha, +took the road to Tarascon; Lazarus and Maximin to Massily; but one remained +(the fairest of the three), who asked us, if i’ the woods or mountains +near, there chanced to be some cavern lone and drear; where she might hide, for +ever, from all men. It chanced, my cousin knew of such a den; deep hidden in a +mountain’s hoary breast, on which the eagle builds his airy nest. And +thither offered he the saint to guide. Next day upon the journey forth we hied; +and came, at the second eve, with weary pace, unto the lonely mountain’s +rugged base. Here the worn traveller, falling on her knee, did pray awhile in +sacred ecstasy; and, drawing off her sandals from her feet, marched, naked, +towards that desolate retreat. No answer made she to our cries or groans; but +walking midst the prickles and rude stones, a staff in hand, we saw her upwards +toil; nor ever did she pause, nor rest the while, save at the entry of that +savage den. Here, powerless and panting, fell she then. +</p> + +<p> +“JUNIA.—What was her name, my daughter? +</p> + +<p> +“STELLA. MAGDALEN.” +</p> + +<p> +Here the translator must pause—having no inclination to enter “the +tabernacle,” in company with such a spotless high-priest as Monsieur +Dumas. +</p> + +<p> +Something “tabernacular” may be found in Dumas’s famous piece +of “Don Juan de Marana.” The poet has laid the scene of his play in +a vast number of places: in heaven (where we have the Virgin Mary and little +angels, in blue, swinging censers before her!)—on earth, under the earth, +and in a place still lower, but not mentionable to ears polite; and the plot, +as it appears from a dialogue between a good and a bad angel, with which the +play commences, turns upon a contest between these two worthies for the +possession of the soul of a member of the family of Marana. +</p> + +<p> +“Don Juan de Marana” not only resembles his namesake, celebrated by +Mozart and Molière, in his peculiar successes among the ladies, but possesses +further qualities which render his character eminently fitting for stage +representation: he unites the virtues of Lovelace and Lacenaire; he blasphemes +upon all occasions; he murders, at the slightest provocation, and without the +most trifling remorse; he overcomes ladies of rigid virtue, ladies of easy +virtue, and ladies of no virtue at all; and the poet, inspired by the +contemplation of such a character, has depicted his hero’s adventures and +conversation with wonderful feeling and truth. +</p> + +<p> +The first act of the play contains a half-dozen of murders and intrigues; which +would have sufficed humbler genius than M. Dumas’s, for the completion +of, at least, half a dozen tragedies. In the second act our hero flogs his +elder brother, and runs away with his sister-in-law; in the third, he fights a +duel with a rival, and kills him: whereupon the mistress of his victim takes +poison, and dies, in great agonies, on the stage. In the fourth act, Don Juan, +having entered a church for the purpose of carrying off a nun, with whom he is +in love, is seized by the statue of one of the ladies whom he has previously +victimized, and made to behold the ghosts of all those unfortunate persons +whose deaths he has caused. +</p> + +<p> +This is a most edifying spectacle. The ghosts rise solemnly, each in a white +sheet, preceded by a wax-candle; and, having declared their names and +qualities, call, in chorus, for vengeance upon Don Juan, as thus:— +</p> + +<p> +DON SANDOVAL loquitur. +</p> + +<p> +“I am Don Sandoval d’Ojedo. I played against Don Juan my fortune, +the tomb of my fathers, and the heart of my mistress;—I lost all: I +played against him my life, and I lost it. Vengeance against the murderer! +vengeance!”—(The candle goes out.) +</p> + +<p> +THE CANDLE GOES OUT, and an angel descends—a flaming sword in his +hand—and asks: “Is there no voice in favor of Don Juan?” when +lo! Don Juan’s father (like one of those ingenious toys called +“Jack-in-the-box,”) jumps up from his coffin, and demands grace for +his son. +</p> + +<p> +When Martha the nun returns, having prepared all things for her elopement, she +finds Don Juan fainting upon the ground.—“I am no longer your +husband,” says he, upon coming to himself; “I am no longer Don +Juan; I am Brother Juan the Trappist. Sister Martha, recollect that you must +die!” +</p> + +<p> +This was a most cruel blow upon Sister Martha, who is no less a person than an +angel, an angel in disguise—the good spirit of the house of Marana, who +has gone to the length of losing her wings and forfeiting her place in heaven, +in order to keep company with Don Juan on earth, and, if possible, to convert +him. Already, in her angelic character, she had exhorted him to repentance, but +in vain; for, while she stood at one elbow, pouring not merely hints, but long +sermons, into his ear, at the other elbow stood a bad spirit, grinning and +sneering at all her pious counsels, and obtaining by far the greater share of +the Don’s attention. +</p> + +<p> +In spite, however, of the utter contempt with which Don Juan treats +her,—in spite of his dissolute courses, which must shock her +virtue,—and his impolite neglect, which must wound her vanity, the poor +creature (who, from having been accustomed to better company, might have been +presumed to have had better taste), the unfortunate angel feels a certain +inclination for the Don, and actually flies up to heaven to ask permission to +remain with him on earth. +</p> + +<p> +And when the curtain draws up, to the sound of harps, and discovers white-robed +angels walking in the clouds, we find the angel of Marana upon her knees, +uttering the following address:— +</p> + +<p class="center"> +LE BON ANGE. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Vierge, à qui le calice à la liqueur amère<br/> + Fut si souvent offert,<br/> +Mère, que l’on nomma la douloureuse mère,<br/> + Tant vous avez souffert!<br/> +<br/> +Vous, dont les yeux divins sur la terre des hommes<br/> + Ont versé plus de pleurs<br/> +Que vos pieds n’ont depuis, dans le ciel où nous sommes,<br/> + Fait éclore de fleurs.<br/> +<br/> +Vase d’élection, étoile matinale,<br/> + Miroir de pureté,<br/> +Vous qui priez pour nous, d’une voix virginale,<br/> + La suprême bonté;<br/> +<br/> +A mon tour, aujourd’hui, bienheureuse Marie,<br/> + Je tombe à vos genoux;<br/> +Daignez donc m’écouter, car c’est vous que je prie,<br/> + Vous qui priez pour nous. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Which may be thus interpreted:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +O Virgin blest! by whom the bitter draught<br/> + So often has been quaffed,<br/> +That, for thy sorrow, thou art named by us<br/> + The Mother Dolorous!<br/> +<br/> +Thou, from whose eyes have fallen more tears of woe,<br/> + Upon the earth below,<br/> +Than ’neath thy footsteps, in this heaven of ours,<br/> + Have risen flowers!<br/> +<br/> +O beaming morning star! O chosen vase!<br/> + O mirror of all grace!<br/> +Who, with thy virgin voice, dost ever pray<br/> + Man’s sins away;<br/> +<br/> +Bend down thine ear, and list, O blessed saint!<br/> + Unto my sad complaint;<br/> +Mother! to thee I kneel, on thee I call,<br/> + Who hearest all. +</p> + +<p> +She proceeds to request that she may be allowed to return to earth, and follow +the fortunes of Don Juan; and, as there is one difficulty, or, to use her own +words,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Mais, comme vous savez qu’aux voûtes éternelles,<br/> + Malgré moi, tend mon vol,<br/> +Soufflez sur mon étoile et détachez mes ailes,<br/> + Pour m’enchainer au sol; +</p> + +<p> +her request is granted, her star is BLOWN OUT (O poetic allusion!) and she +descends to earth to love, and to go mad, and to die for Don Juan! +</p> + +<p> +The reader will require no further explanation, in order to be satisfied as to +the moral of this play: but is it not a very bitter satire upon the country, +which calls itself the politest nation in the world, that the incidents, the +indecency, the coarse blasphemy, and the vulgar wit of this piece, should find +admirers among the public, and procure reputation for the author? Could not the +Government, which has re-established, in a manner, the theatrical censorship, +and forbids or alters plays which touch on politics, exert the same +guardianship over public morals? The honest English reader, who has a faith in +his clergyman, and is a regular attendant at Sunday worship, will not be a +little surprised at the march of intellect among our neighbors across the +Channel, and at the kind of consideration in which they hold their religion. +Here is a man who seizes upon saints and angels, merely to put sentiments in +their mouths which might suit a nymph of Drury Lane. He shows heaven, in order +that he may carry debauch into it; and avails himself of the most sacred and +sublime parts of our creed as a vehicle for a scene-painter’s skill, or +an occasion for a handsome actress to wear a new dress. +</p> + +<p> +M. Dumas’s piece of “Kean” is not quite so sublime; it was +brought out by the author as a satire upon the French critics, who, to their +credit be it spoken, had generally attacked him, and was intended by him, and +received by the public, as a faithful portraiture of English manners. As such, +it merits special observation and praise. In the first act you find a Countess +and an Ambassadress, whose conversation relates purely to the great actor. All +the ladies in London are in love with him, especially the two present. As for +the Ambassadress, she prefers him to her husband (a matter of course in all +French plays), and to a more seducing person still—no less a person than +the Prince of Wales! who presently waits on the ladies, and joins in their +conversation concerning Kean. “This man,” says his Royal Highness, +“is the very pink of fashion. Brummell is nobody when compared to him; +and I myself only an insignificant private gentleman. He has a reputation among +ladies, for which I sigh in vain; and spends an income twice as great as +mine.” This admirable historic touch at once paints the actor and the +Prince; the estimation in which the one was held, and the modest economy for +which the other was so notorious. +</p> + +<p> +Then we have Kean, at a place called the Trou de Charbon, the “Coal +Hole,” where, to the edification of the public, he engages in a fisty +combat with a notorious boxer. This scene was received by the audience with +loud exclamations of delight, and commented on, by the journals, as a faultless +picture of English manners. “The Coal Hole” being on the banks of +the Thames, a nobleman—LORD MELBOURN!—has chosen the tavern as a +rendezvous for a gang of pirates, who are to have their ship in waiting, in +order to carry off a young lady with whom his lordship is enamored. It need not +be said that Kean arrives at the nick of time, saves the innocent Meess Anna, +and exposes the infamy of the Peer. A violent tirade against noblemen ensues, +and Lord Melbourn slinks away, disappointed, to meditate revenge. Kean’s +triumphs continue through all the acts: the Ambassadress falls madly in love +with him; the Prince becomes furious at his ill success, and the Ambassador +dreadfully jealous. They pursue Kean to his dressing-room at the theatre; +where, unluckily, the Ambassadress herself has taken refuge. Dreadful quarrels +ensue; the tragedian grows suddenly mad upon the stage, and so cruelly insults +the Prince of Wales that his Royal Highness determines to send HIM TO BOTANY +BAY. His sentence, however, is commuted to banishment to New York; whither, of +course, Miss Anna accompanies him; rewarding him, previously, with her hand and +twenty thousand a year! +</p> + +<p> +This wonderful performance was gravely received and admired by the people of +Paris: the piece was considered to be decidedly moral, because the popular +candidate was made to triumph throughout, and to triumph in the most virtuous +manner; for, according to the French code of morals, success among women is, at +once, the proof and the reward of virtue. +</p> + +<p> +The sacred personage introduced in Dumas’s play behind a cloud, figures +bodily in the piece of the Massacre of the Innocents, represented at Paris last +year. She appears under a different name, but the costume is exactly that of +Carlo Dolce’s Madonna; and an ingenious fable is arranged, the interest +of which hangs upon the grand Massacre of the Innocents, perpetrated in the +fifth act. One of the chief characters is Jean le Précurseur, who threatens woe +to Herod and his race, and is beheaded by orders of that sovereign. +</p> + +<p> +In the Festin de Balthazar, we are similarly introduced to Daniel, and the +first scene is laid by the waters of Babylon, where a certain number of captive +Jews are seated in melancholy postures; a Babylonian officer enters, +exclaiming, “Chantez nous quelques chansons de Jerusalem,” and the +request is refused in the language of the Psalm. Belshazzar’s Feast is +given in a grand tableau, after Martin’s picture. That painter, in like +manner, furnished scenes for the Deluge. Vast numbers of schoolboys and +children are brought to see these pieces; the lower classes delight in them. +The famous Juif Errant, at the theatre of the Porte St. Martin, was the first +of the kind, and its prodigious success, no doubt, occasioned the number of +imitations which the other theatres have produced. +</p> + +<p> +The taste of such exhibitions, of course, every English person will question; +but we must remember the manners of the people among whom they are popular; +and, if I may be allowed to hazard such an opinion, there is in every one of +these Boulevard mysteries, a kind of rude moral. The Boulevard writers +don’t pretend to “tabernacles” and divine gifts, like Madame +Sand and Dumas before mentioned. If they take a story from the sacred books, +they garble it without mercy, and take sad liberties with the text; but they do +not deal in descriptions of the agreeably wicked, or ask pity and admiration +for tender-hearted criminals and philanthropic murderers, as their betters do. +Vice is vice on the Boulevard; and it is fine to hear the audience, as a tyrant +king roars out cruel sentences of death, or a bereaved mother pleads for the +life of her child, making their remarks on the circumstances of the scene. +“Ah, le gredin!” growls an indignant countryman. “Quel +monstre!” says a grisette, in a fury. You see very fat old men crying +like babies, and, like babies, sucking enormous sticks of barley-sugar. Actors +and audience enter warmly into the illusion of the piece; and so especially are +the former affected, that at Franconi’s, where the battles of the Empire +are represented, there is as regular gradation in the ranks of the mimic army +as in the real imperial legions. After a man has served, with credit, for a +certain number of years in the line, he is promoted to be an officer—an +acting officer. If he conducts himself well, he may rise to be a Colonel or a +General of Division; if ill, he is degraded to the ranks again; or, worst +degradation of all, drafted into a regiment of Cossacks or Austrians. Cossacks +is the lowest depth, however; nay, it is said that the men who perform these +Cossack parts receive higher wages than the mimic grenadiers and old guard. +They will not consent to be beaten every night, even in play; to be pursued in +hundreds, by a handful of French; to fight against their beloved Emperor. +Surely there is fine hearty virtue in this, and pleasant child-like simplicity. +</p> + +<p> +So that while the drama of Victor Hugo, Dumas, and the enlightened classes, is +profoundly immoral and absurd, the DRAMA of the common people is absurd, if you +will, but good and right-hearted. I have made notes of one or two of these +pieces, which all have good feeling and kindness in them, and which turn, as +the reader will see, upon one or two favorite points of popular morality. A +drama that obtained a vast success at the Porte Saint Martin was “La +Duchesse de la Vauballière.” The Duchess is the daughter of a poor +farmer, who was carried off in the first place, and then married by M. le Duc +de la Vauballière, a terrible roué, the farmer’s landlord, and the +intimate friend of Philippe d’Orléans, the Regent of France. +</p> + +<p> +Now the Duke, in running away with the lady, intended to dispense altogether +with ceremony, and make of Julie anything but his wife; but Georges, her +father, and one Morisseau, a notary, discovered him in his dastardly act, and +pursued him to the very feet of the Regent, who compelled the pair to marry and +make it up. +</p> + +<p> +Julie complies; but though she becomes a Duchess, her heart remains faithful to +her old flame, Adrian, the doctor; and she declares that, beyond the ceremony, +no sort of intimacy shall take place between her husband and herself. +</p> + +<p> +Then the Duke begins to treat her in the most ungentleman-like manner: he +abuses her in every possible way; he introduces improper characters into her +house; and, finally, becomes so disgusted with her, that he determines to make +away with her altogether. +</p> + +<p> +For this purpose, he sends forth into the highways and seizes a doctor, bidding +him, on pain of death, to write a poisonous prescription for Madame la +Duchesse. She swallows the potion; and O horror! the doctor turns out to be Dr. +Adrian; whose woe may be imagined, upon finding that he has been thus +committing murder on his true love! +</p> + +<p> +Let not the reader, however, be alarmed as to the fate of the heroine; no +heroine of a tragedy ever yet died in the third act; and, accordingly, the +Duchess gets up perfectly well again in the fourth, through the instrumentality +of Morisseau, the good lawyer. +</p> + +<p> +And now it is that vice begins to be really punished. The Duke, who, after +killing his wife, thinks it necessary to retreat, and take refuge in Spain, is +tracked to the borders of that country by the virtuous notary, and there +receives such a lesson as he will never forget to his dying day. +</p> + +<p> +Morisseau, in the first instance, produces a deed (signed by his Holiness the +Pope), which annuls the marriage of the Duke de la Vauballière; then another +deed, by which it is proved that he was not the eldest son of old La +Vauballière, the former Duke; then another deed, by which he shows that old La +Vauballière (who seems to have been a disreputable old fellow) was a bigamist, +and that, in consequence, the present man, styling himself Duke, is +illegitimate; and finally, Morisseau brings forward another document, which +proves that the REG’LAR Duke is no other than Adrian, the doctor! +</p> + +<p> +Thus it is that love, law, and physic combined, triumph over the horrid +machinations of this star-and-gartered libertine. +</p> + +<p> +“Hermann l’Ivrogne” is another piece of the same order; and +though not very refined, yet possesses considerable merit. As in the case of +the celebrated Captain Smith of Halifax, who “took to drinking ratafia, +and thought of poor Miss Bailey,”—a woman and the bottle have been +the cause of Hermann’s ruin. Deserted by his mistress, who has been +seduced from him by a base Italian Count, Hermann, a German artist, gives +himself entirely up to liquor and revenge: but when he finds that force, and +not infidelity, have been the cause of his mistress’s ruin, the reader +can fancy the indignant ferocity with which he pursues the infame ravisseur. A +scene, which is really full of spirit, and excellently well acted, here ensues! +Hermann proposes to the Count, on the eve of their duel, that the survivor +should bind himself to espouse the unhappy Marie; but the Count declares +himself to be already married, and the student, finding a duel impossible (for +his object was to restore, at all events, the honor of Marie), now only thinks +of his revenge, and murders the Count. Presently, two parties of men enter +Hermann’s apartment: one is a company of students, who bring him the news +that he has obtained the prize of painting; the other the policemen, who carry +him to prison, to suffer the penalty of murder. +</p> + +<p> +I could mention many more plays in which the popular morality is similiarly +expressed. The seducer, or rascal of the piece, is always an +aristocrat,—a wicked count, or licentious marquis, who is brought to +condign punishment just before the fall of the curtain. And too good reason +have the French people had to lay such crimes to the charge of the aristocracy, +who are expiating now, on the stage, the wrongs which they did a hundred years +since. The aristocracy is dead now; but the theatre lives upon traditions: and +don’t let us be too scornful at such simple legends as are handed down by +the people from race to race. Vulgar prejudice against the great it may be; but +prejudice against the great is only a rude expression of sympathy with the +poor; long, therefore, may fat épiciers blubber over mimic woes, and honest +prolétaires shake their fists, shouting—“Gredin, scélérat, monstre +de marquis!” and such republican cries. +</p> + +<p> +Remark, too, another development of this same popular feeling of dislike +against men in power. What a number of plays and legends have we (the writer +has submitted to the public, in the preeeding pages, a couple of specimens; one +of French, and the other of Polish origin,) in which that great and powerful +aristocrat, the Devil, is made to be miserably tricked, humiliated, and +disappointed? A play of this class, which, in the midst of all its absurdities +and claptraps, had much of good in it, was called “Le Maudit des +Mers.” Le Maudit is a Dutch captain, who, in the midst of a storm, while +his crew were on their knees at prayers, blasphemed and drank punch; but what +was his astonishment at beholding an archangel with a sword all covered with +flaming resin, who told him that as he, in this hour of danger, was too daring, +or too wicked, to utter a prayer, he never should cease roaming the seas until +he could find some being who would pray to heaven for him! +</p> + +<p> +Once only, in a hundred years, was the skipper allowed to land for this +purpose; and this piece runs through four centuries, in as many acts, +describing the agonies and unavailing attempts of the miserable Dutchman. +Willing to go any lengths in order to obtain his prayer, he, in the second act, +betrays a Virgin of the Sun to a follower of Pizarro: and, in the third, +assassinates the heroic William of Nassau; but ever before the dropping of the +curtain, the angel and sword make their +appearance—“Treachery,” says the spirit, “cannot lessen +thy punishment;—crime will not obtain thy release—A la mer! à la +mer!” and the poor devil returns to the ocean, to be lonely, and +tempest-tossed, and sea-sick for a hundred years more. +</p> + +<p> +But his woes are destined to end with the fourth act. Having landed in America, +where the peasants on the sea-shore, all dressed in Italian costumes, are +celebrating, in a quadrille, the victories of Washington, he is there lucky +enough to find a young girl to pray for him. Then the curse is removed, the +punishment is over, and a celestial vessel, with angels on the decks and +“sweet little cherubs” fluttering about the shrouds and the poop, +appear to receive him. +</p> + +<p> +This piece was acted at Franconi’s, where, for once, an angel-ship was +introduced in place of the usual horsemanship. +</p> + +<p> +One must not forget to mention here, how the English nation is satirized by our +neighbors; who have some droll traditions regarding us. In one of the little +Christmas pieces produced at the Palais Royal (satires upon the follies of the +past twelve months, on which all the small theatres exhaust their wit), the +celebrated flight of Messrs. Green and Monck Mason was parodied, and created a +good deal of laughter at the expense of John Bull. Two English noblemen, Milor +Cricri and Milor Hanneton, appear as descending from a balloon, and one of them +communicates to the public the philosophic observations which were made in the +course of his aërial tour. +</p> + +<p> +“On leaving Vauxhall,” says his lordship, “we drank a bottle +of Madeira, as a health to the friends from whom we parted, and crunched a few +biscuits to support nature during the hours before lunch. In two hours we +arrived at Canterbury, enveloped in clouds: lunch, bottled porter: at Dover, +carried several miles in a tide of air, bitter cold, cherry-brandy; crossed +over the Channel safely, and thought with pity of the poor people who were +sickening in the steamboats below: more bottled porter: over Calais, dinner, +roast-beef of Old England; near Dunkirk,—night falling, lunar rainbow, +brandy-and-water; night confoundedly thick; supper, nightcap of rum-punch, and +so to bed. The sun broke beautifully through the morning mist, as we boiled the +kettle and took our breakfast over Cologne. In a few more hours we concluded +this memorable voyage, and landed safely at Weilburg, in good time for +dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +The joke here is smart enough; but our honest neighbors make many better, when +they are quite unconscious of the fun. Let us leave plays, for a moment, for +poetry, and take an instance of French criticism, concerning England, from the +works of a famous French exquisite and man of letters. The hero of the poem +addresses his mistress— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Londres, tu le sais trop, en fait de capitale,<br/> +Est-ce que fit le ciel de plus froid et plus pâle,<br/> +C’est la ville du gaz, des marins, du brouillard;<br/> +On s’y couche à minuit, et l’on s’y lève tard;<br/> +Ses raouts tant vantés ne sont qu’une boxade,<br/> +Sur ses grands quais jamais échelle ou sérénade,<br/> +Mais de volumineux bourgeois pris de porter<br/> +Qui passent sans lever le front à Westminster;<br/> +Et n’était sa forêt de mâts perçant la brume,<br/> +Sa tour dont à minuit le vieil oeil s’allume,<br/> +Et tes deux yeux, Zerline, illuminés bien plus,<br/> +Je dirais que, ma foi, des romans que j’ai lus,<br/> +Il n’en est pas un seul, plus lourd, plus léthargique<br/> +Que cette nation qu’on nomme Britannique! +</p> + +<p> +The writer of the above lines (which let any man who can translate) is Monsieur +Roger de Beauvoir, a gentleman who actually lived many months in England, as an +attaché to the embassy of M. de Polignac. He places the heroine of his tale in +a petit réduit près le Strand, “with a green and fresh jalousie, and a +large blind, let down all day; you fancied you were entering a bath of Asia, as +soon as you had passed the perfumed threshold of this charming retreat!” +He next places her— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Dans un square écarté, morne et couverte de givre,<br/> +Où se cache un hôtel, aux vieux lions de cuivre; +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and the hero of the tale, a young French poet, who is in London, is truly +unhappy in that village. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Arthur dessèche et meurt. Dans la ville de Sterne,<br/> +Rien qu’en voyant le peuple il a le mal de mer<br/> +Il n’aime ni le Parc, gai comme une citerne,<br/> +Ni le tir au pigeon, ni le soda-water.<br/> +<br/> +Liston ne le fait plus sourciller! Il rumine<br/> +Sur les trottoirs du Strand, droit comme un échiquier,<br/> +Contre le peuple anglais, les nègres, la vermine,<br/> +Et les mille cokneys du peuple boutiquier,<br/> +<br/> +Contre tous les bas-bleus, contre les pâtissières,<br/> +Les parieurs d’Epsom, le gin, le parlement,<br/> +La quaterly, le roi, la pluie et les libraires,<br/> +Dont il ne touche plus, hélas! un sou d’argent!<br/> +<br/> +Et chaque gentleman lui dit: L’heureux poète! +</p> + +<p> +“L’heureux poète” indeed! I question if a poet in this wide +world is so happy as M. de Beauvoir, or has made such wonderful discoveries. +“The bath of Asia, with green jalousies,” in which the lady dwells; +“the old hotel, with copper lions, in a lonely square;”—were +ever such things heard of, or imagined, but by a Frenchman? The sailors, the +negroes, the vermin, whom he meets in the street,—how great and happy are +all these discoveries! Liston no longer makes the happy poet frown; and +“gin,” “cokneys,” and the “quaterly” have +not the least effect upon him! And this gentleman has lived many months amongst +us; admires Williams Shakspear, the “grave et vieux prophète,” as +he calls him, and never, for an instant, doubts that his description contains +anything absurd! +</p> + +<p> +I don’t know whether the great Dumas has passed any time in England; but +his plays show a similar intimate knowledge of our habits. Thus in Kean, the +stage-manager is made to come forward and address the pit, with a speech +beginning, “My Lords and Gentlemen;” and a company of Englishwomen +are introduced (at the memorable “Coal hole”), and they all wear +PINAFORES; as if the British female were in the invariable habit of wearing +this outer garment, or slobbering her gown without it. There was another +celebrated piece, enacted some years since, upon the subject of Queen Caroline, +where our late adored sovereign, George, was made to play a most despicable +part; and where Signor Bergami fought a duel with Lord Londonderry. In the last +act of this play, the House of Lords was represented, and Sir Brougham made an +eloquent speech in the Queen’s favor. Presently the shouts of the mob +were heard without; from shouting they proceeded to pelting; and +pasteboard-brickbats and cabbages came flying among the representatives of our +hereditary legislature. At this unpleasant juncture, SIR HARDINGE, the +Secretary-at-War, rises and calls in the military; the act ends in a general +row, and the ignominious fall of Lord Liverpool, laid low by a brickbat from +the mob! +</p> + +<p> +The description of these scenes is, of course, quite incapable of conveying any +notion of their general effect. You must have the solemnity of the actors, as +they Meess and Milor one another, and the perfect gravity and good faith with +which the audience listen to them. Our stage Frenchman is the old Marquis, with +sword, and pigtail, and spangled court coat. The Englishman of the French +theatre has, invariably, a red wig, and almost always leather gaiters, and a +long white upper Benjamin: he remains as he was represented in the old +caricatures after the peace, when Vernet designed him. +</p> + +<p> +And to conclude this catalogue of blunders: in the famous piece of the +“Naufrage de la Meduse,” the first act is laid on board an English +ship-of-war, all the officers of which appeared in light blue or green coats +(the lamp-light prevented our distinguishing the color accurately), and +TOP-BOOTS! +</p> + +<p> +Let us not attempt to deaden the force of this tremendous blow by any more +remarks. The force of blundering can go no further. Would a Chinese playwright +or painter have stranger notions about the barbarians than our neighbors, who +are separated from us but by two hours of salt water? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"></a> MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES. +</h2> + +<p> +The palace of Versailles has been turned into a bricabrac shop of late years, +and its time-honored walls have been covered with many thousand yards of the +worst pictures that eye ever looked on. I don’t know how many leagues of +battles and sieges the unhappy visitor is now obliged to march through, amidst +a crowd of chattering Paris cockneys, who are never tired of looking at the +glories of the Grenadier Français; to the chronicling of whose deeds this old +palace of the old kings is now altogether devoted. A whizzing, screaming +steam-engine rushes hither from Paris, bringing shoals of badauds in its wake. +The old coucous are all gone, and their place knows them no longer. Smooth +asphaltum terraces, tawdry lamps, and great hideous Egyptian obelisks, have +frightened them away from the pleasant station they used to occupy under the +trees of the Champs Elysées; and though the old coucous were just the most +uncomfortable vehicles that human ingenuity ever constructed, one can’t +help looking back to the days of their existence with a tender regret; for +there was pleasure then in the little trip of three leagues: and who ever had +pleasure in a railway journey? Does any reader of this venture to say that, on +such a voyage, he ever dared to be pleasant? Do the most hardened stokers joke +with one another? I don’t believe it. Look into every single car of the +train, and you will see that every single face is solemn. They take their seats +gravely, and are silent, for the most part, during the journey; they dare not +look out of window, for fear of being blinded by the smoke that comes whizzing +by, or of losing their heads in one of the windows of the down train; they ride +for miles in utter damp and darkness: through awful pipes of brick, that have +been run pitilessly through the bowels of gentle mother earth, the cast-iron +Frankenstein of an engine gallops on, puffing and screaming. Does any man +pretend to say that he ENJOYS the journey?—he might as well say that he +enjoyed having his hair cut; he bears it, but that is all: he will not allow +the world to laugh at him, for any exhibition of slavish fear; and pretends, +therefore, to be at his ease; but he IS afraid: nay, ought to be, under the +circumstances. I am sure Hannibal or Napoleon would, were they locked suddenly +into a car; there kept close prisoners for a certain number of hours, and +whirled along at this dizzy pace. You can’t stop, if you would:—you +may die, but you can’t stop; the engine may explode upon the road, and up +you go along with it; or, may be a bolter and take a fancy to go down a hill, +or into a river: all this you must bear, for the privilege of travelling twenty +miles an hour. +</p> + +<p> +This little journey, then, from Paris to Versailles, that used to be so merry +of old, has lost its pleasures since the disappearance of the coucous; and I +would as lief have for companions the statues that lately took a coach from the +bridge opposite the Chamber of Deputies, and stepped out in the court of +Versailles, as the most part of the people who now travel on the railroad. The +stone figures are not a whit more cold and silent than these persons, who used +to be, in the old coucous, so talkative and merry. The prattling grisette and +her swain from the Ecole de Droit; the huge Alsacian carabineer, grimly smiling +under his sandy moustaches and glittering brass helmet; the jolly nurse, in red +calico, who had been to Paris to show mamma her darling Lolo, or +Auguste;—what merry companions used one to find squeezed into the crazy +old vehicles that formerly performed the journey! But the age of horseflesh is +gone—that of engineers, economists, and calculators has succeeded; and +the pleasure of coucoudom is extinguished for ever. Why not mourn over it, as +Mr. Burke did over his cheap defence of nations and unbought grace of life; +that age of chivalry, which he lamented, àpropos of a trip to Versailles, some +half a century back? +</p> + +<p> +Without stopping to discuss (as might be done, in rather a neat and successful +manner) whether the age of chivalry was cheap or dear, and whether, in the time +of the unbought grace of life, there was not more bribery, robbery, villainy, +tyranny, and corruption, than exists even in our own happy days,—let us +make a few moral and historical remarks upon the town of Versailles; where, +between railroad and coucou, we are surely arrived by this time. +</p> + +<p> +The town is, certainly, the most moral of towns. You pass from the railroad +station through a long, lonely suburb, with dusty rows of stunted trees on +either side, and some few miserable beggars, idle boys, and ragged old women +under them. Behind the trees are gaunt, mouldy houses; palaces once, where (in +the days of the unbought grace of life) the cheap defence of nations gambled, +ogled, swindled, intrigued; whence high-born duchesses used to issue, in old +times, to act as chambermaids to lovely Du Barri; and mighty princes rolled +away, in gilt caroches, hot for the honor of lighting his Majesty to bed, or of +presenting his stockings when he rose, or of holding his napkin when he dined. +Tailors, chandlers, tinmen, wretched hucksters, and greengrocers, are now +established in the mansions of the old peers; small children are yelling at the +doors, with mouths besmeared with bread and treacle; damp rags are hanging out +of every one of the windows, steaming in the sun; oyster-shells, +cabbage-stalks, broken crockery, old papers, lie basking in the same cheerful +light. A solitary water-cart goes jingling down the wide pavement, and spirts a +feeble refreshment over the dusty, thirsty stones. +</p> + +<p> +After pacing for some time through such dismal streets, we deboucher on the +grande place; and before us lies the palace dedicated to all the glories of +France. In the midst of the great lonely plain this famous residence of King +Louis looks low and mean.—Honored pile! Time was when tall musketeers and +gilded body-guards allowed none to pass the gate. Fifty years ago, ten thousand +drunken women from Paris broke through the charm; and now a tattered +commissioner will conduct you through it for a penny, and lead you up to the +sacred entrance of the palace. +</p> + +<p> +We will not examine all the glories of France, as here they are portrayed in +pictures and marble: catalogues are written about these miles of canvas, +representing all the revolutionary battles, from Valmy to Waterloo,—all +the triumphs of Louis XIV.—all the mistresses of his successor—and +all the great men who have flourished since the French empire began. Military +heroes are most of these—fierce constables in shining steel, marshals in +voluminous wigs, and brave grenadiers in bearskin caps; some dozens of whom +gained crowns, principalities, dukedoms; some hundreds, plunder and epaulets; +some millions, death in African sands, or in icy Russian plains, under the +guidance, and for the good, of that arch-hero, Napoleon. By far the greater +part of “all the glories” of France (as of most other countries) is +made up of these military men: and a fine satire it is on the cowardice of +mankind, that they pay such an extraordinary homage to the virtue called +courage; filling their history-books with tales about it, and nothing but it. +</p> + +<p> +Let them disguise the place, however, as they will, and plaster the walls with +bad pictures as they please, it will be hard to think of any family but one, as +one traverses this vast gloomy edifice. It has not been humbled to the ground, +as a certain palace of Babel was of yore; but it is a monument of fallen pride, +not less awful, and would afford matter for a whole library of sermons. The +cheap defence of nations expended a thousand millions in the erection of this +magnificent dwelling-place. Armies were employed, in the intervals of their +warlike labors, to level hills, or pile them up; to turn rivers, and to build +aqueducts, and transplant woods, and construct smooth terraces, and long +canals. A vast garden grew up in a wilderness, and a stupendous palace in the +garden, and a stately city round the palace: the city was peopled with +parasites, who daily came to do worship before the creator of these +wonders—the Great King. “Dieu seul est grand,” said courtly +Massillon; but next to him, as the prelate thought, was certainly Louis, his +vicegerent here upon earth—God’s lieutenant-governor of the +world,—before whom courtiers used to fall on their knees, and shade their +eyes, as if the light of his countenance, like the sun, which shone supreme in +heaven, the type of him, was too dazzling to bear. +</p> + +<p> +Did ever the sun shine upon such a king before, in such a palace?—or, +rather, did such a king ever shine upon the sun? When Majesty came out of his +chamber, in the midst of his superhuman splendors, viz, in his cinnamon-colored +coat, embroidered with diamonds; his pyramid of a wig,[*] his red-heeled shoes, +that lifted him four inches from the ground, “that he scarcely seemed to +touch;” when he came out, blazing upon the dukes and duchesses that +waited his rising,—what could the latter do, but cover their eyes, and +wink, and tremble? And did he not himself believe, as he stood there, on his +high heels, under his ambrosial periwig, that there was something in him more +than man—something above Fate? +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* It is fine to think that, in the days of his youth, his Majesty Louis XIV. +used to POWDER HIS WIG WITH GOLD-DUST. +</p> + +<p> +This, doubtless, was he fain to believe; and if, on very fine days, from his +terrace before his gloomy palace of Saint Germains, he could catch a glimpse, +in the distance, of a certain white spire of St. Denis, where his race lay +buried, he would say to his courtiers, with a sublime condescension, +“Gentlemen, you must remember that I, too, am mortal.” Surely the +lords in waiting could hardly think him serious, and vowed that his Majesty +always loved a joke. However, mortal or not, the sight of that sharp spire +wounded his Majesty’s eyes; and is said, by the legend, to have caused +the building of the palace of Babel-Versailles. +</p> + +<p> +In the year 1681, then, the great king, with bag and baggage,—with +guards, cooks, chamberlains, mistresses, Jesuits, gentlemen, lackeys, Fénélons, +Molières, Lauzuns, Bossuets, Villars, Villeroys, Louvois, +Colberts,—transported himself to his new palace: the old one being left +for James of England and Jaquette his wife, when their time should come. And +when the time did come, and James sought his brother’s kingdom, it is on +record that Louis hastened to receive and console him, and promised to restore, +incontinently, those islands from which the canaille had turned him. Between +brothers such a gift was a trifle; and the courtiers said to one another +reverently:[*] “The Lord said unto my Lord, Sit thou on my right hand, +until I make thine enemies thy footstool.” There was no blasphemy in the +speech: on the contrary, it was gravely said, by a faithful believing man, who +thought it no shame to the latter, to compare his Majesty with God Almighty. +Indeed, the books of the time will give one a strong idea how general was this +Louis-worship. I have just been looking at one, which was written by an honest +Jesuit and Protégé of Père la Chaise, who dedicates a book of medals to the +august Infants of France, which does, indeed, go almost as far in print. He +calls our famous monarch “Louis le Grand:—1, l’invincible; 2, +le sage; 3, le conquérant; 4, la merveille de son siècle; 5, la terreur de ses +ennemis; 6, l’amour de ses peuples; 7, l’arbitre de la paix et de +la guerre; 8, l’admiration de l’univers; 9, et digne d’en +être le maître; 10, le modèle d’un héros achevé; 11, digne de +l’immortalité, et de la vénération de tous les siècles!” +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* I think it is in the amusing “Memoirs of Madame de Crequi” (a +forgery, but a work remarkable for its learning and accuracy) that the above +anecdote is related. +</p> + +<p> +A pretty Jesuit declaration, truly, and a good honest judgment upon the great +king! In thirty years more—1. The invincible had been beaten a vast +number of times. 2. The sage was the puppet of an artful old woman, who was the +puppet of more artful priests. 3. The conqueror had quite forgotten his early +knack of conquering. 5. The terror of his enemies (for 4, the marvel of his +age, we pretermit, it being a loose term, that may apply to any person or +thing) was now terrified by his enemies in turn. 6. The love of his people was +as heartily detested by them as scarcely any other monarch, not even his +great-grandson, has been, before or since. 7. The arbiter of peace and war was +fain to send superb ambassadors to kick their heels in Dutch shopkeepers’ +ante-chambers. 8, is again a general term. 9. The man fit to be master of the +universe, was scarcely master of his own kingdom. 10. The finished hero was all +but finished, in a very commonplace and vulgar way. And 11. The man worthy of +immortality was just at the point of death, without a friend to soothe or +deplore him; only withered old Maintenon to utter prayers at his bedside, and +croaking Jesuits to prepare him,[*] with heaven knows what wretched tricks and +mummeries, for his appearance in that Great Republic that lies on the other +side of the grave. In the course of his fourscore splendid miserable years, he +never had but one friend, and he ruined and left her. Poor La Vallière, what a +sad tale is yours! “Look at this Galerie des Glaces,” cries +Monsieur Vatout, staggering with surprise at the appearance of the room, two +hundred and forty-two feet long, and forty high. “Here it was that Louis +displayed all the grandeur of royalty; and such was the splendor of his court, +and the luxury of the times, that this immense room could hardly contain the +crowd of courtiers that pressed around the monarch.” Wonderful! +wonderful! Eight thousand four hundred and sixty square feet of courtiers! Give +a square yard to each, and you have a matter of three thousand of them. Think +of three thousand courtiers per day, and all the chopping and changing of them +for near forty years: some of them dying, some getting their wishes, and +retiring to their provinces to enjoy their plunder; some disgraced, and going +home to pine away out of the light of the sun;[**] new ones perpetually +arriving,—pushing, squeezing, for their place, in the crowded Galerie des +Glaces. A quarter of a million of noble countenances, at the very least, must +those glasses have reflected. Rouge, diamonds, ribbons, patches, upon the faces +of smiling ladies: towering periwigs, sleek shaven crowns, tufted moustaches, +scars, and grizzled whiskers, worn by ministers, priests, dandies, and grim old +commanders.—So many faces, O ye gods! and every one of them lies! So many +tongues, vowing devotion and respectful love to the great king in his six-inch +wig; and only poor La Vallière’s amongst them all which had a word of +truth for the dull ears of Louis of Bourbon. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* They made a Jesuit of him on his death-bed. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +** Saint Simon’s account of Lauzun, in disgrace, is admirably facetious +and pathetic; Lauzun’s regrets are as monstrous as those of Raleigh when +deprived of the sight of his adorable Queen and Mistress, Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Quand j’aurai de la peine aux Carmélites,” says unhappy +Louise, about to retire from these magnificent courtiers and their grand +Galerie des Glaces, “je me souviendrai de ce que ces gens là m’ont +fait souffrir!”—A troop of Bossuets inveighing against the vanities +of courts could not preach such an affecting sermon. What years of anguish and +wrong had the poor thing suffered, before these sad words came from her gentle +lips! How these courtiers have bowed and flattered, kissed the ground on which +she trod, fought to have the honor of riding by her carriage, written sonnets, +and called her goddess; who, in the days of her prosperity, was kind and +beneficent, gentle and compassionate to all; then (on a certain day, when it is +whispered that his Majesty hath cast the eyes of his gracious affection upon +another) behold three thousand courtiers are at the feet of the new +divinity.—“O divine Athenais! what blockheads have we been to +worship any but you.—THAT a goddess?—a pretty goddess +forsooth;—a witch, rather, who, for a while, kept our gracious monarch +blind! Look at her: the woman limps as she walks; and, by sacred Venus, her +mouth stretches almost to her diamond ear-rings?”[*] The same tale may be +told of many more deserted mistresses; and fair Athenais de Montespan was to +hear it of herself one day. Meantime, while La Vallière’s heart is +breaking, the model of a finished hero is yawning; as, on such paltry +occasions, a finished hero should. LET her heart break: a plague upon her tears +and repentance; what right has she to repent? Away with her to her convent. She +goes, and the finished hero never sheds a tear. What a noble pitch of stoicism +to have reached! Our Louis was so great, that the little woes of mean people +were beyond him: his friends died, his mistresses left him; his children, one +by one, were cut off before his eyes, and great Louis is not moved in the +slightest degree! As how, indeed, should a god be moved? +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* A pair of diamond ear-rings, given by the King to La Vallière, caused much +scandal; and some lampoons are extant, which impugn the taste of Louis XIV. for +loving a lady with such an enormous mouth. +</p> + +<p> +I have often liked to think about this strange character in the world, who +moved in it, bearing about a full belief in his own infallibility; teaching his +generals the art of war, his ministers the science of government, his wits +taste, his courtiers dress; ordering deserts to become gardens, turning +villages into palaces at a breath; and indeed the august figure of the man, as +he towers upon his throne, cannot fail to inspire one with respect and +awe:—how grand those flowing locks appear; how awful that sceptre; how +magnificent those flowing robes! In Louis, surely, if in any one, the majesty +of kinghood is represented. +</p> + +<p> +But a king is not every inch a king, for all the poet may say; and it is +curious to see how much precise majesty there is in that majestic figure of +Ludovicus Rex. In the Frontispiece, we have endeavored to make the exact +calculation. The idea of kingly dignity is equally strong in the two outer +figures; and you see, at once, that majesty is made out of the wig, the +high-heeled shoes, and cloak, all fleurs-de-lis bespangled. As for the little +lean, shrivelled, paunchy old man, of five feet two, in a jacket and breeches, +there is no majesty in HIM at any rate; and yet he has just stepped out of that +very suit of clothes. Put the wig and shoes on him, and he is six feet +high;—the other fripperies, and he stands before you majestic, imperial, +and heroic! Thus do barbers and cobblers make the gods that we worship: for do +we not all worship him? Yes; though we all know him to be stupid, heartless, +short, of doubtful personal courage, worship and admire him we must; and have +set up, in our hearts, a grand image of him, endowed with wit, magnanimity, +valor, and enormous heroical stature. +</p> + +<p> +And what magnanimous acts are attributed to him! or, rather, how differently do +we view the actions of heroes and common men, and find that the same thing +shall be a wonderful virtue in the former, which, in the latter, is only an +ordinary act of duty. Look at yonder window of the king’s +chamber;—one morning a royal cane was seen whirling out of it, and +plumped among the courtiers and guard of honor below. King Louis had +absolutely, and with his own hand, flung his own cane out of the window, +“because,” said he, “I won’t demean myself by striking +a gentleman!” O miracle of magnanimity! Lauzun was not caned, because he +besought majesty to keep his promise,—only imprisoned for ten years in +Pignerol, along with banished Fouquet;—and a pretty story is +Fouquet’s too. +</p> + +<p> +Out of the window the king’s august head was one day thrust, when old +Condé was painfully toiling up the steps of the court below. “Don’t +hurry yourself, my cousin,” cries magnanimity, “one who has to +carry so many laurels cannot walk fast.” At which all the courtiers, +lackeys, mistresses, chamberlains, Jesuits, and scullions, clasp their hands +and burst into tears. Men are affected by the tale to this very day. For a +century and three-quarters, have not all the books that speak of Versailles, or +Louis Quatorze, told the story?—“Don’t hurry yourself, my +cousin!” O admirable king and Christian! what a pitch of condescension is +here, that the greatest king of all the world should go for to say anything so +kind, and really tell a tottering old gentleman, worn out with gout, age, and +wounds, not to walk too fast! +</p> + +<p> +What a proper fund of slavishness is there in the composition of mankind, that +histories like these should be found to interest and awe them. Till the +world’s end, most likely, this story will have its place in the +history-books; and unborn generations will read it, and tenderly be moved by +it. I am sure that Magnanimity went to bed that night, pleased and happy, +intimately convinced that he had done an action of sublime virtue, and had easy +slumbers and sweet dreams,—especially if he had taken a light supper, and +not too vehemently attacked his en cas de nuit. +</p> + +<p> +That famous adventure, in which the en cas de nuit was brought into use, for +the sake of one Poquelin alias Molière;—how often has it been described +and admired? This Poquelin, though king’s valet-de-chambre, was by +profession a vagrant; and as such, looked coldly on by the great lords of the +palace, who refused to eat with him. Majesty hearing of this, ordered his en +cas de nuit to be placed on the table, and positively cut off a wing with his +own knife and fork for Poquelin’s use. O thrice happy Jean Baptiste! The +king has actually sat down with him cheek by jowl, had the liver-wing of a +fowl, and given Molière the gizzard; put his imperial legs under the same +mahogany (sub iisdem trabibus). A man, after such an honor, can look for little +else in this world: he has tasted the utmost conceivable earthly happiness, and +has nothing to do now but to fold his arms, look up to heaven, and sing +“Nunc dimittis” and die. +</p> + +<p> +Do not let us abuse poor old Louis on account of this monstrous pride; but only +lay it to the charge of the fools who believed and worshipped it. If, honest +man, he believed himself to be almost a god, it was only because thousands of +people had told him so—people only half liars, too; who did, in the +depths of their slavish respect, admire the man almost as much as they said +they did. If, when he appeared in his five-hundred-million coat, as he is said +to have done, before the Siamese ambassadors, the courtiers began to shade +their eyes and long for parasols, as if this Bourbonic sun was too hot for +them; indeed, it is no wonder that he should believe that there was something +dazzling about his person: he had half a million of eager testimonies to this +idea. Who was to tell him the truth?—Only in the last years of his life +did trembling courtiers dare whisper to him, after much circumlocution, that a +certain battle had been fought at a place called Blenheim, and that Eugene and +Marlborough had stopped his long career of triumphs. +</p> + +<p> +“On n’est plus heureux à notre âge,” says the old man, to one +of his old generals, welcoming Tallard after his defeat; and he rewards him +with honors, as if he had come from a victory. There is, if you will, something +magnanimous in this welcome to his conquered general, this stout protest +against Fate. Disaster succeeds disaster; armies after armies march out to meet +fiery Eugene and that dogged, fatal Englishman, and disappear in the smoke of +the enemies’ cannon. Even at Versailles you may almost hear it roaring at +last; but when courtiers, who have forgotten their god, now talk of quitting +this grand temple of his, old Louis plucks up heart and will never hear of +surrender. All the gold and silver at Versailles he melts, to find bread for +his armies: all the jewels on his five-hundred-million coat he pawns +resolutely; and, bidding Villars go and make the last struggle but one, +promises, if his general is defeated, to place himself at the head of his +nobles, and die King of France. Indeed, after a man, for sixty years, has been +performing the part of a hero, some of the real heroic stuff must have entered +into his composition, whether he would or not. When the great Elliston was +enacting the part of King George the Fourth, in the play of “The +Coronation,” at Drury Lane, the galleries applauded very loudly his +suavity and majestic demeanor, at which Elliston, inflamed by the popular +loyalty (and by some fermented liquor in which, it is said, he was in the habit +of indulging), burst into tears, and spreading out his arms, exclaimed: +“Bless ye, bless ye, my people!” Don’t let us laugh at his +Ellistonian majesty, nor at the people who clapped hands and yelled +“bravo!” in praise of him. The tipsy old manager did really feel +that he was a hero at that moment; and the people, wild with delight and +attachment for a magnificent coat and breeches, surely were uttering the true +sentiments of loyalty: which consists in reverencing these and other articles +of costume. In this fifth act, then, of his long royal drama, old Louis +performed his part excellently; and when the curtain drops upon him, he lies, +dressed majestically, in a becoming kingly attitude, as a king should. +</p> + +<p> +The king his successor has not left, at Versailles, half so much occasion for +moralizing; perhaps the neighboring Parc aux Cerfs would afford better +illustrations of his reign. The life of his great grandsire, the Grand Llama of +France, seems to have frightened Louis the well-beloved; who understood that +loneliness is one of the necessary conditions of divinity, and being of a +jovial, companionable turn, aspired not beyond manhood. Only in the matter of +ladies did he surpass his predecessor, as Solomon did David. War he eschewed, +as his grandfather bade him; and his simple taste found little in this world to +enjoy beyond the mulling of chocolate and the frying of pancakes. Look, here is +the room called Laboratoire du Roi, where, with his own hands, he made his +mistress’s breakfast:—here is the little door through which, from +her apartments in the upper story, the chaste Du Barri came stealing down to +the arms of the weary, feeble, gloomy old man. But of women he was tired long +since, and even pancake-frying had palled upon him. What had he to do, after +forty years of reign;—after having exhausted everything? Every pleasure +that Dubois could invent for his hot youth, or cunning Lebel could minister to +his old age, was flat and stale; used up to the very dregs: every shilling in +the national purse had been squeezed out, by Pompadour and Du Barri and such +brilliant ministers of state. He had found out the vanity of pleasure, as his +ancestor had discovered the vanity of glory: indeed it was high time that he +should die. And die he did; and round his tomb, as round that of his +grandfather before him, the starving people sang a dreadful chorus of curses, +which were the only epitaphs for good or for evil that were raised to his +memory. +</p> + +<p> +As for the courtiers—the knights and nobles, the unbought grace of +life—they, of course, forgot him in one minute after his death, as the +way is. When the king dies, the officer appointed opens his chamber window, and +calling out into the court below, Le Roi est mort, breaks his cane, takes +another and waves it, exclaiming, vive le Roi! Straightway all the loyal nobles +begin yelling vive le Roi! and the officer goes round solemnly and sets yonder +great clock in the Cour de Marbre to the hour of the king’s death. This +old Louis had solemnly ordained; but the Versailles clock was only set twice: +there was no shouting of Vive le Roi when the successor of Louis XV. mounted to +heaven to join his sainted family. +</p> + +<p> +Strange stories of the deaths of kings have always been very recreating and +profitable to us: what a fine one is that of the death of Louis XV., as Madame +Campan tells it. One night the gracious monarch came back ill from Trianon; the +disease turned out to be the small-pox; so violent that ten people of those who +had to enter his chamber caught the infection and died. The whole court flies +from him; only poor old fat Mesdames the King’s daughters persist in +remaining at his bedside, and praying for his soul’s welfare. +</p> + +<p> +On the 10th May, 1774, the whole court had assembled at the château; the oeil +de Boeuf was full. The Dauphin had determined to depart as soon as the king had +breathed his last. And it was agreed by the people of the stables, with those +who watched in the king’s room, that a lighted candle should be placed in +a window, and should be extinguished as soon as he had ceased to live. The +candle was put out. At that signal, guards, pages, and squires mounted on +horseback, and everything was made ready for departure. The Dauphin was with +the Dauphiness, waiting together for the news of the king’s demise. AN +IMMENSE NOISE, AS IF OF THUNDER, WAS HEARD IN THE NEXT ROOM; it was the crowd +of courtiers, who were deserting the dead king’s apartment, in order to +pay their court to the new power of Louis XVI. Madame de Noailles entered, and +was the first to salute the queen by her title of Queen of France, and begged +their Majesties to quit their apartments, to receive the princes and great +lords of the court desirous to pay their homage to the new sovereigns. Leaning +on her husband’s arm, a handkerchief to her eyes, in the most touching +attitude, Marie Antoinette received these first visits. On quitting the chamber +where the dead king lay, the Duc de Villequier bade M. Anderville, first +surgeon of the king, to open and embalm the body: it would have been certain +death to the surgeon. “I am ready, sir,” said he; “but whilst +I am operating, you must hold the head of the corpse: your charge demands +it.” The Duke went away without a word, and the body was neither opened +nor embalmed. A few humble domestics and poor workmen watched by the remains, +and performed the last offices to their master. The surgeons ordered spirits of +wine to be poured into the coffin. +</p> + +<p> +They huddled the king’s body into a post-chaise; and in this deplorable +equipage, with an escort of about forty men, Louis the well-beloved was +carried, in the dead of night, from Versailles to St. Denis, and then thrown +into the tomb of the kings of France! +</p> + +<p> +If any man is curious, and can get permission, he may mount to the roof of the +palace, and see where Louis XVI. used royally to amuse himself, by gazing upon +the doings of all the townspeople below with a telescope. Behold that balcony, +where, one morning, he, his queen, and the little Dauphin stood, with Cromwell +Grandison Lafayette by their side, who kissed her Majesty’s hand, and +protected her; and then, lovingly surrounded by his people, the king got into a +coach and came to Paris: nor did his Majesty ride much in coaches after that. +</p> + +<p> +There is a portrait of the king, in the upper galleries, clothed in red and +gold, riding a fat horse, brandishing a sword, on which the word +“Justice” is inscribed, and looking remarkably stupid and +uncomfortable. You see that the horse will throw him at the very first fling; +and as for the sword, it never was made for such hands as his, which were good +at holding a corkscrew or a carving-knife, but not clever at the management of +weapons of war. Let those pity him who will: call him saint and martyr if you +please; but a martyr to what principle was he? Did he frankly support either +party in his kingdom, or cheat and tamper with both? He might have escaped; but +he must have his supper: and so his family was butchered and his kingdom lost, +and he had his bottle of Burgundy in comfort at Varennes. A single charge upon +the fatal 10th of August, and the monarchy might have been his once more; but +he is so tender-hearted, that he lets his friends be murdered before his eyes +almost: or, at least, when he has turned his back upon his duty and his +kingdom, and has skulked for safety into the reporters’ box, at the +National Assembly. There were hundreds of brave men who died that day, and were +martyrs, if you will; poor neglected tenth-rate courtiers, for the most part, +who had forgotten old slights and disappointments, and left their places of +safety to come and die, if need were, sharing in the supreme hour of the +monarchy. Monarchy was a great deal too humane to fight along with these, and +so left them to the pikes of Santerre and the mercy of the men of the Sections. +But we are wandering a good ten miles from Versailles, and from the deeds which +Louis XVI. performed there. +</p> + +<p> +He is said to have been such a smart journeyman blacksmith, that he might, if +Fate had not perversely placed a crown on his head, have earned a couple of +louis every week by the making of locks and keys. Those who will may see the +workshop where he employed many useful hours: Madame Elizabeth was at prayers +meanwhile; the queen was making pleasant parties with her ladies. Monsieur the +Count d’Artois was learning to dance on the tight-rope; and Monsieur de +Provence was cultivating l’eloquence du billet and studying his favorite +Horace. It is said that each member of the august family succeeded remarkably +well in his or her pursuits; big Monsieur’s little notes are still cited. +At a minuet or syllabub, poor Antoinette was unrivalled; and Charles, on the +tight-rope, was so graceful and so gentil, that Madame Saqui might envy him. +The time only was out of joint. O cursed spite, that ever such harmless +creatures as these were bidden to right it! +</p> + +<p> +A walk to the little Trianon is both pleasing and moral: no doubt the reader +has seen the pretty fantastical gardens which environ it; the groves and +temples; the streams and caverns (whither, as the guide tells you, during the +heat of summer, it was the custom of Marie Antoinette to retire, with her +favorite, Madame de Lamballe): the lake and Swiss village are pretty little +toys, moreover; and the cicerone of the place does not fail to point out the +different cottages which surround the piece of water, and tell the names of the +royal masqueraders who inhabited each. In the long cottage, close upon the +lake, dwelt the Seigneur du Village, no less a personage than Louis XV.; Louis +XVI., the Dauphin, was the Bailli; near his cottage is that of Monseigneur the +Count d’Artois, who was the Miller; opposite lived the Prince de Condé, +who enacted the part of Gamekeeper (or, indeed, any other rôle, for it does not +signify much); near him was the Prince de Rohan, who was the Aumônier; and +yonder is the pretty little dairy, which was under the charge of the fair Marie +Antoinette herself. +</p> + +<p> +I forget whether Monsieur the fat Count of Provence took any share of this +royal masquerading; but look at the names of the other six actors of the +comedy, and it will be hard to find any person for whom Fate had such dreadful +visitations in store. Fancy the party, in the days of their prosperity, here +gathered at Trianon, and seated under the tall poplars by the lake, discoursing +familiarly together: suppose of a sudden some conjuring Cagliostro of the time +is introduced among them, and foretells to them the woes that are about to +come. “You, Monsieur l’Aumônier, the descendant of a long line of +princes, the passionate admirer of that fair queen who sits by your side, shall +be the cause of her ruin and your own,[*] and shall die in disgrace and exile. +You, son of the Condés, shall live long enough to see your royal race +overthrown, and shall die by the hands of a hangman.[**] You, oldest son of +Saint Louis, shall perish by the executioner’s axe; that beautiful head, +O Antoinette, the same ruthless blade shall sever.” “They shall +kill me first,” says Lamballe, at the queen’s side. “Yes, +truly,” replies the soothsayer, “for Fate prescribes ruin for your +mistress and all who love her.”[***] “And,” cries Monsieur +d’Artois, “do I not love my sister, too? I pray you not to omit me +in your prophecies.” +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +* In the diamond-necklace affair. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +** He was found hanging in his own bedroom. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +*** Among the many lovers that rumor gave to the queen, poor Ferscu is the most +remarkable. He seems to have entertained for her a high and perfectly pure +devotion. He was the chief agent in the luckless escape to Varennes; was +lurking in Paris during the time of her captivity; and was concerned in the +many fruitless plots that were made for her rescue. Ferscu lived to be an old +man, but died a dreadful and violent death. He was dragged from his carriage by +the mob, in Stockholm, and murdered by them. +</p> + +<p> +To whom Monsieur Cagliostro says, scornfully, “You may look forward to +fifty years of life, after most of these are laid in the grave. You shall be a +king, but not die one; and shall leave the crown only; not the worthless head +that shall wear it. Thrice shall you go into exile: you shall fly from the +people, first, who would have no more of you and your race; and you shall +return home over half a million of human corpses, that have been made for the +sake of you, and of a tyrant as great as the greatest of your family. Again +driven away, your bitterest enemy shall bring you back. But the strong limbs of +France are not to be chained by such a paltry yoke as you can put on her: you +shall be a tyrant, but in will only; and shall have a sceptre, but to see it +robbed from your hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“And pray, Sir Conjurer, who shall be the robber?” asked Monsieur +the Count d’Artois. +</p> + +<p> +This I cannot say, for here my dream ended. The fact is, I had fallen asleep on +one of the stone benches in the Avenue de Paris, and at this instant was +awakened by a whirling of carriages and a great clattering of national guards, +lancers and outriders, in red. His MAJESTY LOUIS PHILIPPE was going to pay a +visit to the palace; which contains several pictures of his own glorious +actions, and which has been dedicated, by him, to all the glories of France. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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