THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
FROM THE LIBRARY OF
JIM TULLY
GIFT OF
MRS. JIM TULLY
THE WORKS OF
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
CORNHILL EDITION
•VOLUME XII
Gros' Atelier in the Court- ijard of the Institute of France
From a print
THE
PARIS SKETCH BOOK
OF
MR. M. A. TITMARSH
BY
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
WITH THE AUTHOR'S ILLUSTRATIONS
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1911
Copyright, 1904, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
NOTE
The Paris Sketch Book was published in 1840, in two
volumes, by John Macrone — the publisher, four years
before, of Dickens's Sketches by Boz. It was Thack-
eray's first real publication of a book; for "Flore et
Zephyr: ballet mythologique par Theophile WagstafF,"
which sometimes so figures in the bibliographies, though
issued in book form in 1836 (by Mitchell, Bond Street),
was nothing more than a set of drawings reproduced by
lithography and without letterpress; while a book issue
of the Yellowplush Papers in America in 1838 (they had
appeared in Fraser the year before) cannot count as
put forth by the author.
Made up of papers, sketches, and stories, many of
which had already appeared and the rest of which had
been written at widely different times, the Paris Sketch
Book has of course no individual history or associations
like the novels. It was probably put together and pre-
pared for publication in London, in the house No. 13
Great Coram Street, where Thackeray lived for about
three years before it appeared, and where two of his chil-
dren were born. His own name nowhere appeared upon
V
the book, only his signature, already used in Fraser
and elsewhere, of " M. A. Titmarsh."
That residence in Paris, of which he speaks in the
" advertisement " to the first edition as the origin of most
of the sketches, had been at intervals during the thirties,
and had been entered upon by him as an art student soon
after his law studies at Taprell's in the Temple, and con-
tinued later as correspondent of the London newspaper,
the Constitutional J, of which his stepfather was a part
owner. Some of his work on an earlier journal, the
National Standard, his investment in which has been
held partly responsible for the money losses which set
him to earning his living by pen and pencil, was also
done in Paris; but his main interest at that earlier
time seems to have been in his art studies. At all events,
he wrote to his mother in December, 1833: " I spend all
day now, dear mother, at the Atelier, and am very well
satisfied with the progress I make ; " and his writing
was not a serious business until a year or two later.
Altogether Paris was as much his home as London
until his marriage there in August, 1836; and even for
a while afterward — until about the time the Constitu-
tional suspended publication in 1837— he continued to
make it his headquarters, living in the rue Neuve St.
Augustin. In that year the first period of his resi-
dence may be said to have ended; but after the begin-
ning of his wife's illness in 1840, the year of the Sketch
Book, he returned to Paris, at first with his children, and
spent much of his time there for several years more.
VI
Mr. Eyre Crowe, afterward Thackeray's secretary,
and in these early days also an art student in Paris, says
that it is not possible to identify certainly the atelier in
which Thackeray worked as described in his letter to his
mother; but that " the tradition is " that it was Gros', in
the court of the Institute. A drawing of this, from
the print furnished to Scribner's Magazine by Mr.
Crowe in 1897, is made the frontispiece to this edition.
vH
DEDICATORY LETTER TO
M. ARETZ, TAILOR, ETC.
27. rue richelieu, paris.
Sir,
It becomes every man in his station to acknowledge and
praise virtue wheresoever he may find it, and to point it out for
the admiration and example of his fellow-men.
Some months since, when you 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 credi-
tor, 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."
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 ac-
quainting 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.
Your obliged, faithful servant,
M. A. TiTMARSH.
ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST
EDITION
About half of the sketches in these volumes have al-
ready 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.
As the remaining papers relate to public events which
occurred during the same period, or to Parisian Art and
Literature, he has ventured to give his publication the
title which it bears.
London, July 1, 1840.
CONTENTS
PACiB
An Invasion of France 1
A Caution to Travellers 18
The Fetes of July 41
On the French School of Painting 53
The Painter's Bargain 79
Cartouche 98
On some French Fashionable Novels 114
A Gambler's Death 143
Napoleon and his System 157
The Story of Mary Ancel 176
Beatrice Merger 202
Caricatures and Lithography in Paris 212
Little Poinsinet 249
The Devil's Wager 268
Madame Sand and the new Apocalypse 282
The Case of Peytel 316
Four Imitations of Beranger 355
French Dramas and Melodramas 367
Meditations at Versailles 394
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Gbos' Atelier in the Court-yard of the In-
stitute OF France Frontispiece
From a print
FACING PAGE
Paris Sketches 1
Mr. Pogson's Temptation 22
A Puzzle for the Devil 96
Cartouche 112
How TO Astonish the French 116
Mary Ancel 178
The Cheap Defence of Nations 214
Poinsinet in Disguise 256
The Chaplain Puzzled 276
French Catholicism 284
The Gallery at Deburau's Theatre Sketched from
Nature 384
I/JDovicus, AN Historical Study 404
EXPLANATION OF THE ALLEGORY
Number I's an ancient Carliet, Number 3 a Paris Artist,
Gloomily there stands between them, Number 2 a Bonapartist;
In the middle la King Louis-Philip standing at his ease,
Guarded by a loyal Grocer, and a Serjeant of Police;
4'3 the people in a passion, 6 a Priest ol' pious mien,
5 A Gentlem.an ol' Fashion, copied from a Magazine.
THE
PARIS SKETCH BOOK
AN INVASION OF FRANCE
"Caesar venit in Galliam sumraa diligentia."
ABOUT twelve o'clock, just as the bell of the packet
L is tolling a farewell to London Bridge, and warn-
ing off the blackguard-boys with the newspapers, who
have been shoving Times, Herald, Penny Paul-Pry,
Penny Satirist, Flare-uj), 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.
" Elizabeth, take care of Miss Jane," screams that
worthy woman, who has been for a fortnight employed
2 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 ter-
rier, that sneaks off similarly, landward.)
As when the hawk menaces the hen-roost, in like man-
ner, when such a danger as a voyage menaces a mother,
she becomes suddenly endowed with a ferocious presence
of mind, and bristling up and screaming in the front
of her brood, and in the face of circumstances, succeeds,
by her courage, in putting her enemy to flight; in like
manner you will always, I think, find your wife (if that
lady be good for twopence) shrill, eager, and ill-hu-
moured, 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 nursemaids, 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.
I never yet knew how a steamer began to move, be-
ing 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
AN INVASION OF FRANCE 3
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-chim-
neys; the sailors are singing on board the ships, the
bargees salute you with oaths, grins, and phrases face-
tious 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.
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.
The decks have a strange look; the people on them,
that is. Wives, elderly stout husbands, nursemaids, and
children predominate, of course, in English steamboats.
Such may be considered as the distinctive marks or 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.
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 ogHng
4 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 mil-
liners 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 educa-
tion (washing included), the young gentlemen have the
benefit of learning French among tlie French tlie7ii-
selves. Accordingly, the young gentlemen are locked up
in a great rickety house, two miles from Boulogne, and
never see a soul, except the French usher and the cook.
Some few French people are there already, prepar-
ing 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, sol-
emnly 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; snuiFy, wretched, pale, and wet; and
not jabbering now, as their wont is on shore. I never
could fancy the Mounseers formidable at sea.
There are, of course, many Jews on board. Who ever
travelled by steamboat, coach, diligence, eilwagen, vet-
turino, mule-back, or sledge, without meeting some of
the wandering race?
AN INVASION OF FRANCE 5
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, givmg 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, eocpectoratoons, only these are larger.
*^ ^ ^ 4t
■I* *i* M* *l^
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 mean-
time, 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 stew-
ard (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 I'est of the voyage, heard occa-
sional faint cries, and sounds of puking woe!
Dear, dear Maria! Is this the woman who, anon,
braved the jeers and brutal wrath of swindling hackney-
coachmen; who repelled the insolence of haggling por-
6 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
ters, 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 nur-
sery, ay, and mayhap the parlour, is in order? Look at
her now, prostrate, prostrate — no strength has she to
speak, scarce power to push to her youngest one— her
suffering, struggling Rosa,— to push to her the— the
instrumentoon !
In the midst of all these throes and agonies, at which
all the passengers, who have their own woes (you your-
self—for how can you help them?— yon are on your
back on a bench, and if you move all is up with you),
are looking on indilFerent- one man there is who has
been watching you with the utmost care, and bestowing
on your lielpless family the tenderness that a father
denies them. He is a foreigner, and you have been con-
versing with him, in the course of the morning, in French
—which, he says, you speak remarkably well, like a
native in fact, and then in English (which, after all,
you find is more convenient). What can express your
gratitude to this 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 country-
men almost with contempt, and readily admits the su-
periority 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
AN INVASION OF FRANCE 7
you the monstrous trouble of unpacking that which has
taken you weeks to put up. Nine, ten, eleven, the dis-
tinguished foreigner is ever at your side; you find him
now, perhaps, (with characteristic ingratitude,) some-
thing 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 harbour is in sight, and the foreigner
says,—
The distinguished foreigner says, says he—" Sare, eef
you af no 'otel, I sail recommend you, milor, to ze 'Otel
Betfort, in ze Quay, sare, close to the bathing-machines
and custom-ha-oose. Good bets and fine garten, sare;
table-d'hote, sare, a cinq heures; breakfast, sare, in
French or English style; — I am the commissionnaire,
sare, and vill see to your loggish."
* * * Curse the fellow, for an impudent, swin-
dling, 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, some-
how, in the Hotel Bedford (and you can't be better),
and smiling chambermaids carry off your children to
snug beds ; while smart waiters produce for your honour
— a cold fowl, say, and a salad, and a bottle of Bordeaux
and Seltzer-water.
* * ^ ^
The morning comes — I don't know a pleasanter feel-
ing than that of waking with the sun shining on objects
quite new, and (although you have made the voyage a
8 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
dozen times,) quite strange. Mrs. X. and you occupy
a very light bed, which has a tall canopy of red " yer-
cale; " the windows are smartly draped with cheap gaudy
calicoes and muslins; there are little mean strips of car-
pet 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 yoste, 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 done. Monsieur Pierre! "
(what can they be about?)— a fat Englishman has
opened his window violently, and says, " Dee dong, gar-
song, vooly voo me donny lo sho, ou vooly voc pah? " He
has been ringing for half an hour — the last energetic
appeal succeeds, and shortly he is enabled to descend
to the coffee-room, where, with three hot rolls, grilled
ham, cold fowl, and four boiled eggs, he makes what he
calls his first French breakfast.
It is a strange, mongrel, merry place, this town of
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 little-
ness, 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
AN INVASION OF FRANCE 9
is screaming " Fleuve du Tage," at an inn-window, to
a harp, and there are the Httle gamins mocking him.
Lo! these seven young ladies, with red hair and green
veils, they are from neighbouring Albion, and going to
bathe. Here come three Englishmen, habitues evidently
of the place,— dandy specimens of our countrymen: one
wears a marine dress, another has a shooting dress, a
third has a blouse and a pair of guiltless spurs — all have
as much hair on the face as nature or art can supply, and
all wear their hats very much on one side. Believe me,
there is on the face of this world no scamp like an
English one, no blackguard like one of these half-
gentlemen, so mean, so low, so vulgar, — so ludicrously
ignorant and conceited, so desperately heartless and
depraved.
But why, my dear sir, get into a passion? — Take
things coolly. As the poet has observed, " Those only
is gentlemen who behave as sich; " with such, then, con-
sort, be they cobblers or dukes. Don't give us, cries
the patriotic reader, any abuse of our fellow-country-
men (anybody else can do that), but rather continue
in that good-humoured, facetious, descriptive style, with
which your letter has commenced. — Your remark, sir,
is perfectly just, and does honour to your head and ex-
cellent heart.
There is little need to give a description of the good
town of Boulogne; which, haute and basse, with the
new light-house and the new harbour, and the gas-lamps,
and the manufactures, and the convents, and the number
of English and French residents, and the pillar erected
in honour of the grand Armee d'Angleterre, so called
because it didnt go to England, have all been excellently
described by the facetious Coglan, the learned Dr. ]Mil-
10 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
lingen, and by innumerable guide-books besides. A fine
thing it is to hear tlie 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
BiograpJiie des Hommes du Jour, article " Soult," you
will fancy that, with the exception of the disaster at Vit-
toria, 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 Tou-
louse for the purpose of beating the English there, to be
sure; — a known fact, on which comment would be super-
fluous. However, we shall never get to Paris at this rate ;
let us break off further palaver, and away at once. * *
(During this pause, the ingenious reader is kindly re-
quested 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.)
**if, ^ ^f, *^
vjv >jv y^ 'I*
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,
AN INVASION OF FRANCE 11
has hung from the Dihgence 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 bas-
ket of abominations which all old women carry in their
laps. She rubs her mouth and eyes with her dusty cam-
bric 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 cinampled
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, w^hich 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 atten-
tive 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 com-
ing 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 neighbour, yawn-
ing, and inserting an elbow into the mouth of his right
and left hand companion, '' nous voila."
Nous Voila!— We are at Paris! This must account
for the removal of the milliner's curl-papers, and the
fixing of the old lady's teeth. — Since the last relais, the
Diligence has been travelling with extraordinary speed.
The postilion cracks his terrible whip, and screams
12 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 Dili-
gence, 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!
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 pack-
ages 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 vou
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.
AN INVASION OF FRANCE 13
have already enlightened the public. In the present in-
stance, after a momentary pause, one of the men in green
mounts by the side of the conductor, and the ponderous
vehicle pursues its journey.
The street which we enter, that of the Faubourg St.
Denis, presents a strange contrast to the dark uniformity
of a London street, where everything, in the dingy and
smoky atmosphere, looks as though it were painted in
India-ink— black houses, black passengers, and black
sky. Here, on the contrary, is a thousand times more life
and colour. 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
storey; some as high as the tower of Babel. From these
the haberdashers ( and this is their favourite street ) flaunt
long strips of gaudy calicoes, which give a strange air
of rude gaiety to the street. Milk-women, with a little
crowd of gossips round each, are, at this early hour of
morning, selling the chief material of the Parisian cafe-
au-lait. Gay wine shops, painted red, and smartly dec-
orated 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 unfor-
tunate 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,
14 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
and thus keep these poor creatures continually mend-
ing?— But we have passed the prison long ago, and are
at the Porte St. Denis itself.
There is only time to take a hasty glance as we pass :
it commemorates some of the wonderful feats of arms of
Ludovicus ^lagnus, 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 over-
came 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 its journey
is destined to conclude.
If there was a noise before of screaming postilions and
cracked horns, it was nothing to the Babel-like clatter
which greets us now. We are in a great court, which
Haj ji 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 ma-
chines, 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 commis-
sionnaires. These latter seize you as you descend from
your place,— twenty cards are thrust into your hand, and
AN INVASION OF FRANCE
15
as many voices, jabbering with inconceivable swiftness,
shriek into your ear, " Dis way, sare; are you for ze
"Otel of Rhin?' 'Hotel de V Amir ante !'-' Hotel
Bristol,' sare I— Monsieur, ' VHoiel de Lille? ' Sacr-rrre
'nom de Dieu, laissez passer ce petit. Monsieur! Ow
mosh loggish ave you, sare? "
And now, if you are a stranger in Paris, listen to the
words of Titmarsh. — If you cannot speak a syllable of
French, and love English comfort, clean rooms, break-
fasts, and waiters; if you would have plentiful dinners,
and are not particular (as how should you be?) concern-
ing 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 com-
missioner 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.
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 nonde-
16 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
script 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 bailiif 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 !
It is, as you will perceive, an admirable way to see
Paris, especially if you spend your days reading the
English papers at Galignani's, as many of our foreign
tourists do.
But all this is promiscuous, and not to the purpose.
If, — to continue on the subject of hotel choosing, — if
you love quiet, heavy bills, and the best table-d'hote
in the city, go, O stranger! to the " Hotel des Princes; "
it is close to the Boulevard, and convenient for Fras-
cati's. The " Hotel Mirabeau " possesses scarcely less
attraction; but of this you will find, in Mr. Bulwer's
" Autobiography of Pelham," a faithful and complete
account. " Lawson's Hotel " has likewise its merits, as
also the " Hotel de Lille," which may be described as a
" second chop " Meurice.
If you are a poor student come to study the human-
ities, or the pleasant art of amputation, cross the water
forthwith, and proceed to the " Hotel Corneille," near
the Odeon, or others of its species; there are many
where you can live royally (until you economize by go-
ing into lodgings) on four francs a day; and wliere, if by
any strange chance you are desirous for a while to get
AN INVASION OF FRANCE 17
rid of your countrymen, you will find that they scarcely
ever penetrate.
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 com-
pany. If you play cards, you are very likely playing
with a swindler; if you dance, you dance with a — per-
son with whom you had better have nothing to do.
Note (which ladies are requested not to read). —In one of these establishments,
daily advertised as most eligible for English, a friendof 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 salut-
ing her by her new title.
A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS
A MILLION dangers and snares await the travel-
ler, 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.
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 gaieties 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?
My friend Pogson is a young fellow, not much worse,
although perhaps a little weaker and simpler than his
neighbours; 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
18
A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS 19
are strictly true, and shall here be narrated, by way
of warning to all.
Pog, it must be premised, is a city man, who travels
in drugs for a couple of the best London houses, blows
the flute, has an album, drives his own gig, and is con-
sidered, both on the road and in the metropolis, a re-
markably nice, intelligent, thriving young man. Pog-
son's only fault is too great an attachment to the fair:
— " the sex," as he says often, " will be his ruin: " the
fact is, that Pog never travels without a " Don Juan "
under his driving-cushion, and is a pretty-looking young
fellow enough.
Sam Pogson had occasion to visit Paris, last October;
and it was in that city that his love of the sex had liked
to have cost him dear. He worked his way down to
Dover; placing, right and left, at the towns on his
route, rhubarb, sodas, and other such delectable wares
as his masters dealt in (" the sweetest sample of castor
oil, smelt like a nosegay — went off like wildfire — hogs-
head 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 coupe of the Diligence.
He paid for two places, too, although a single man, and
the reason shall now be made known.
Dining at the tahle-d-hote 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 nobil-
ity. A large lady, in black satin, with eyes and hair as
black as sloes, with gold chains, scent-bottles, sable tip-
pet, 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
^0 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
them. Pog knew the article: he travelled in it. Her
lips were as red as the ruby lip salve: she used the very-
best, that was clear.
She was a fine-looking woman, certainly (holding
down her eyes, and talking perpetually of " 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 Jiis 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.
During dinner-time, Mr. Pogson was profoundly po-
lite 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 con-
fidential communication with the commissionnaire , 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 ex-
pressed 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
A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS 21
JNIonsieur must not be too hard upon the French; " her
father was a general of the Emperor."
Pogson felt a tremendous respect for himself at the
notion that he was dining with a General's daughter, and
instantly ordered a bottle of champagne to keep up
his consequence.
" ]\Irs. 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 Aonour; they say it's very good, and
a precious sight cheaper than it is on our side of the way,
too — not that I care for money. Mrs. Bironn, ma'am,
your health, ma'am."
The lady smiled very graciously, and drank the wine.
" Har you any relation, ma'am, if I may make so
bold ; har you anyways connected with the family of our
immortal bard? "
" Sir, I beg your pardon."
" Don't mention it, ma'am: but ^Bironn and Byron are
hevidently the same names, only you pronounce in the
French way; and I thought you might be related to his
lordship: his horigin, ma'am, was of French extraction: "
and here Pogson began to repeat, —
" Hare thy heyes like thy mother's, my fair child,
Hada ! sole daughter of my 'ouse and 'art? "
" Oh! " said the lady, laughing, " you speak of Lor
Byron?"
" Hauthor of ' Don Juan,' ' Child ' Arold,' and ' Cain,
a Mystery,'" said Pogson:— "I do; and hearing the
waiter calling you Madam la Bironn, took the liberty of
basking whether you were connected with his lordship;
that's hall: " and my friend here grew dreadfully red,
22 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
«
and began twiddling his long ringlets in his fingers, and
examining very eagerly the contents of his plate.
" Oh, no: Madame la Baronne means Mistress Baron-
ess; my husband was Baron, and I am Baroness."
" What! 'ave I the honour — I beg your pardon, ma'am
—is your ladyship a Baroness, and I not know it? pray
excuse me for calling you ma'am."
The Baroness smiled most graciously — with such a
look as Juno cast upon unfortunate Jupiter when she
wished to gain her wicked ends upon him — the Baroness
smiled; and, stealing her hand into a black velvet bag,
drew from it an ivory card-case, and from the ivory card-
case extracted a glazed card, printed in gold; on it
was engraved a coronet, and under the coronet the words
BARONNE DE FLORVAL-DELVAL,
NEE DE MELVAL-NORVAL.
Rue Taitbout,
The grand Pitt diamond— the Queen's own star of
the garter — a sample of otto-of -roses at a guinea a drop,
would not be handled more curiously, or more respect-
fully, than this porcelain card of the Baroness. Trem-
bling he put it into his little Russia-leather pocketbook :
and when he ventured to look up, and saw the eyes of the
Baroness de Florval-Delval, nee de Melval-Norval, gaz-
ing upon him with friendly and serene glances, a thrill of
pride tingled through Pogson's blood : he felt himself to
be the very happiest fellow " on the Continent."
But Pogson did not, for some time, venture to resume
that sprightly and elegant familiarity which generally
forms the great charm of his conversation: he w;as too
Mr. Pogson's Temptation
A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS 23
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."
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 bag-
man had the delight of a tete-a-tete. The Baroness did
not appear inclined to move : it was cold ; a fire was com-
fortable, 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 !
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. —
" Qu'dlacq^s Hotel {pronounced Kilhjax), Calais.
"Dear Tit, — I arrived at Cally, as they call it, this day, or,
rather, yesterday; for it is past midnight, as I sit thinking
of a wonderful 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-Dclvals, beautiful as an angel, and no more caring for
money than I do for split peas.
" I'll tell you how it occurred. Everybody in France, 3'ou
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
24 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
a gent, who never spoke a word; and we didn't want him to,
neither: do you mark that?
" You know my way with the women : champagne's the thing ;
make 'em drink, make 'em talk; — make 'em talk,^ make 'cm do
anything. So I orders a bottle, as if for myself; and, ' Ma'am,'
says I, ' will you take a glass of Sham — just one? ' Take it she
did — for you know it's quite distangy here: everybody dines at
the table de hole, and everybody accepts everybody's wine. Bob
Irons, who travels in linen on our circuit, told me that he had
made some slap-up acquaintances among the genteelest people
at Paris, nothing but by offering them Sham.
" Well, my Baroness takes one glass, two glasses, three glasses
— the old fellow goes — we have a deal of chat (she took me for a
military man, she said : is it not singular that so many people
should?), and by ten o'clock we had grown so intimate, that I had
from her her whole history, knew where she came from, and where
she was going. Leave me alone with 'em: I can find out any
woman's history in half an hour.
" And where do you think she is going? to Paris to be sure: she
has her seat in what 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.
" 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 vivc Ic joy, as they say.
The Baroness says I speak French charmingly, she talks English
as well as you or I.
" Your affectionate friend,
" S. Pogson."
A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS 25
This letter reached us duly, in our garrets, and we
engaged such an apartment for ISIr. Pogson, as be-
seemed 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.
Those who have much frequented the society of gen-
tlemen 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-coloured pantaloons, and a
neat mackintosh, presented, altogether, as elegant and
distingue an appearance as any one could desire. He
had put on a clean collar at breakfast, and a pair of white
kids as he entered the barrier, and looked, as he rushed
into my arms, more like a man stepping out of a band-
box, than one descending from a vehicle that has just
performed one of the laziest, dullest, flattest, stalest, dir-
tiest journeys in Europe.
To my surprise, there were trco 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, evi-
dently. I could see a gleam of curl-papers over a sal-
26 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
low face, — of a dusky night-cap flapping over the
curl-papers,— but these were hidden by a lace veil and a
huge velvet bonnet, of which the crowning birds of para-
dise were evidently in a moulting state. She was en-
cased in many shawls and wrappers; she put, hesitat-
ingly, 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 interest-
ing creature to descend. I saw, by her walk, that
she was five-and-forty, and that my little Pogson was a
lost man.
After some brief parley between them — in which it
was charming to hear how my friend Samuel 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 curtsey, ^^^^you!"
said Samuel, and waved his lily hand. " Adijou-ad-
dimang."
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
cojiimissionnaires, who would fain have spared him the
trouble.
" Do you know that chap? " says Pogson; " surly fel-
low, ain't he ? "
" The kindest man in existence," answered I; " all the
world knows little Major British."
" He's a Major, is he? — why, that's the fellow that
dined with us as Killyax's; it's lucky I did not call mv-
self Captain before him, he mightn't have liked it, you
A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS 27
know:" and then Sam fell into a reverie; — what was
the subject of his thoughts soon appeared.
" Did you ever see such a foot and ankle? " said Sam,
after sitting for some time, regardless of the novelty of
the scene, his hands in his pockets, plunged in the deep-
est thought.
''Isn't she a slap-up woman, eh, now? " pursued he;
and began enumerating her attractions, as a horse- jockey
would the points of a favourite animal.
" You seem to have gone a pretty length already,"
said I, " by promising to visit her to-morrow."
"A good length?— I believe you. Leave ?7ie alone
for that."
" But I thought you were only to be two in the coupe,
you wicked rogue."
" Two in the cooyy? 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 with-
out one!) and couldn't, in course, refuse, when she asked
me to let the maid in."
" Of course not."
" Couldn't, you know, as a man of honour; but I made
up for all that," said Pogson, winking slily, and putting
his hand to his little bunch of a nose, in a very knowing
way.
"You did, and how?"
" Why, you dog, I sat next to her; sat in the middle
the whole way, and my back's half broke, 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.
The next day, at five, we met; Mr. Pogson had seen
his Baroness, and described her lodgings, in his own ex-
28 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
pressive way, as " slap-up." She had received him quite
like an old friend; treated him to eau sucree, of which
beverage he expressed himself a great admirer; and ac-
tually asked him to dine the next day. But there was
a cloud over the ingenuous youth's brow, and I inquired
still farther.
" Why," said he, with a sigh, " I thought she was a
widow ; and, hang it ! who should come in but her husband
the Baron: a big fellow, sir, with a blue coat, a red rib-
bing, and such a pair of mustachios! "
" Well," said I, " he didn't turn you out, I suppose? "
" Oh, no ! on the contrary, as kind as possible ; his lord-
ship said that he respected the English army; asked me
what corps I was in,— said he had fought in Spain
against us, — and made me welcome."
" What could you want more? "
Mr. Pogson at this only whistled; and if some very
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.
I live up a hundred and thirty-seven steps in the re-
mote quarter of the Luxembourg, and it is not to be ex-
pected that such a fashionable fellow as Sam Pogson,
with his pockets full of money, and a new city to see,
should be always wandering to my dull quarters ; so that,
although he did not make his appearance for some time,
he must not be accused of any lukewarmness of friend-
ship on that score.
He was out, too, when I called at his hotel ; but once,
I had the good fortune to see him, with his hat curiously
on one side, looking as pleased as Punch, and being
A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS 29
driven, in an open cab, in the Champs Elysees. " That's
another tip-top chap," said he, when we met, at length.
" What do you think of an Earl's son, my boy? Hon-
ourable Tom Ringwood, son of the Earl of Cinqbars:
what do you think of that, eh? "
I thought he was getting into very good society. Sam
was a dashing fellow, and was 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 honourable
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 dis-
tangy 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 Bar-
oness.
" 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 ad-
vantages.
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 rela-
tions 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 tooth-pick 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
30 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
time; but Sam was stretched on a sofa, very pale and
dismal.
I saw how it had been.—" A little too much of Mr.
Ringwood's claret, I suppose?"
He only gave a sickly stare.
" Where does the Honourable Tom live? " says I.
" Honourable! " says Sam, with a hollow, horrid
laugh ; " I tell you. Tit, he's no more Honourable than
you are."
" What, an impostor? "
" No, no; not that. He is a real Honourable, only — "
" Oh, ho! I smell a rat— a little jealous, eh? "
"Jealousy be hanged! I tell you he's a thief; and
the Baron's a thief; and, hang me, if I think his wife is
any better. Eight-and-thirty pounds he won of me be-
fore supper; and made me drunk, and sent me home: —
is thai honourable? How can I afford to lose forty
'pounds? It's took me two years to save it up: — if my
old aunt gets wind of it, she'll cut me off with a shilling :
hang me!" — and here Sam, in an agony, tore his fair
hair.
While bewailing his lot in this lamentable strain, his
bell was rung, which signal being answered by a surly
" Come in," a tall, very fashionable gentleman, with
a fur coat, and a fierce tuft to his chin, entered the
room. " Pogson, my buck, how goes it? " said he,
familiarly, and gave a stare at me : I was making for my
hat.
" Don't go," said Sam, rather eagerly; and I sat down
again.
The Honourable Mr. Ringwood hummed and ha'd:
and, at last, said he wished to speak to Mr. Pogson on
business, in private, if possible.
A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS 31
" There's no secrets betwixt me and my friend," cried
Sam.
]Mr. Ring wood paused a little: — " An awkward busi-
ness that of last night," at length exclaimed he.
" I believe it was an awkward business," said Sam,
drily.
" I really am very soriy for your losses."
" Thank you: and so am I, I can tell you," said Sam.
" You must mind, my good fellow, and not drink;
for, when you drink, you will play high : by Gad, you led
us in, and not we you."
" I dare say," answered Sam, with something of pee-
vishness; " losses is losses: there's no use talking about
'em when they're over and paid."
"And paid?" here wonderingly spoke Mr. Ring-
wood; " why, my dear f el— what the deuce— has Florval
been with you? "
" D— Florval! " growled Sam, " I've never set eyes
on his face since last night; and never wish to see him
again."
" Come, come, enough of this talk; how do you intend
to settle the bills which you gave him last night ? "
" Bills! what do you mean? "
" I mean, sir, these bills," said the Honourable Tom,
producing two out of his pocket-book, and looking as
stern as a lion. " ' I promise to pay, on demand, to the
Baron de Florval, the sum of four hundred pounds.
October 20, 1838.' ' Ten days after date I promise to
pay the Baron de et csetera, et ceetera, one hundred and
ninety-eight pounds. Samuel Pogson.' You didn't say
what regiment you were in."
" AVhat! " shouted poor Sam, as from a dream, start-
ing up and looking preternaturally pale and hideous.
32 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
"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 ^ladame
de Florval, at your own request, and lost to her husband ?
You don't suppose, sir, that I shall be such an infernal
idiot as to believe you, or such a coward as to put up
with a mean subterfuge of this sort. Will you, or will
you not, pay the money, sir? "
" I will not," said Sam, stoutly; " it's a d— d swin— "
Here Mr. Ringwood sprung up, clenching his riding-
whip, and looking so fierce that Sam and I bounded back
to the other end of the room. " Utter that word again,
and, by heaven, I'll murder you!" shouted Mr. Ring-
wood, and looked as if he would, too: " once more, will
you, or will you not, pay this money? "
" I can't," said Sam, faintly.
" I'll call again, Captain Pogson," said Mr. Ring-
wood, " 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 gen-
tlemen look over a steam-vessel off Ramsgate, the wind
blowing remarkably fresh: at last he fairly burst out
crying.
" If Mrs. Pogson heard of this," said I, " what would
become of the ' Three Tuns?' " (for I wished to give him
a lesson). " If your Ma, who took you every Sunday
to meeting, sliould know that her boy was paying atten-
tion to married women;— if Drench, Glauber and Co.,
A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS 33
your employers, were to know that their confiden-
tial agent was a gambler, and unfit to be trusted with
their money, how long do you think your connexion
would last with them, and who would afterwards employ
you?"
To this poor Pog had not a word of answer; but sat
on his sofa whimpering so bitterly, that the sternest of
moralists would have relented towards him, and would
have been touched by the little wretch's tears. Every-
thing, too, must be pleaded in excuse for this unfor-
tunate 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 exam-
ple 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 !
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 coun-
sel to no less a person than Major British.
A blessing it is to be acquainted with my worthy
friend, little Major British; and heaven, sure, it was that
put the Major into my head, when I heard of this awk-
ward scrape of poor Pog's. The Major is on half -pay,
and occupies a modest apartment au quatrieme, in the
very hotel which Pogson had patronized at my sugges-
34 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
tion; indeed, I had chosen it from Major British's own
pecuhar recommendation.
There is no better guide to follow than such a char-
acter as the honest Major, of whom there are many like-
nesses 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 accompa-
nied one to yonder black louring towers of London — so
busy, so dismal, and so vast.
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 head-
quarters at Paris (the garrets before alluded to), and
only went to England for the month's shooting, on
the grounds of his old colonel, now an old lord, of
whose acquaintance the Major was passably inclined to
boast.
He loved and respected, like a good staunch Tory as he
is, every one of the English nobility; gave himself cer-
tain 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,
A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS 35
the dresses, and the scandal which had there fallen under
his observation.
He is, moreover, one of the most useful persons in
society that can possibly be ; for besides being incorrigi-
bly 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 bache-
lor's supper at the " Cafe Anglais," as at a staid dow-
ager's dinner-table in the Faubourg St. Honore. Such
pleasant old boys are very profitable acquaintances, let
me tell you ; and lucky is the young man who has one or
two such friends in his list.
Hurrying on Pogson in his dress, I conducted him,
panting, up to the JMajor's quatrieme, 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 biTished, 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 com-
panion, but gave me a kind shake of the hand, and we
36 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
proceeded at once to business. " Major British," said I,
" we want your advice in regard to an unpleasant affair
which has just occurred to my friend Pogson."
" Pogson, take a chair."
" You must know, sir, that Mr. Pogson, coming from
Calais the other day, encountered, in the diligence, a
very handsome woman."
British winked at Pogson, who, wretched as he was,
could not help feeling pleased.
" Mr. Pogson was not more pleased with this lovely
creature than was she with him ; for, it appears, she gave
him her card, invited him to her house, where he has
been constantly, and has been received with much kind-
ness."
" I see," says British.
"Her husband the Baron—"
" Now it's coming," said the Major, with a grin: " her
husband is jealous, I suppose, and there is a talk of the
Bois de Boulogne: my dear sir, you can't refuse — can't
refuse."
" It's not that," said Pogson, wagging his head pas-
sionately.
" Her husband the Baron seemed quite as much taken
with Pogson as his lady was, and has introduced him
to some very distingue friends of his own set. Last
night one of the Baron's friends gave a party in honour
of my friend Pogson, who lost forty-eight pounds at
cards before he was made drunk, and heaven knows how
much after."
" Not a shilling, by sacred heaven!— not a shilling! "
yelled out Pogson. " After the supper I 'ad such an
'eadach', I couldn't do anything but fall asleep on the
sofa."
A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS 37
" You 'ad such an 'eadach', sir," saj^s British sternly,
who piques himself on his grammar and pronunciation,
and scorns a cockney.
" Such a /i-eadache, sir," replied Pogson, with much
meekness.
" The unfortunate man is brought home at two o'clock,
as tipsy as possible, dragged upstairs, senseless, to bed,
and, on waking, receives a visit from his entertainer of
the night before — a lord's son, JNIajor, a tip-top fellow,
who brings a couple of bills that my friend Pogson is
said to have signed."
" Well, my dear fellow, the thing's quite simple,— he
must pay them."
" I can't pay them."
" He can't pay them," said we both in a breath: " Pog-
son is a commercial traveller, with thirty shillings a week,
and how the deuce is he to pay five hundred pounds? "
"A bagman, sir! and what right has a bagman to
gamble? Gentlemen gamble, sir; tradesmen, sir, have
no business with the amusements of the gentry. What
business had you with barons and lords' sons, sir? — serve
you right, sir."
" Sir," says Pogson, with some dignity, " merit, and
not birth, is the criterion of a man: I despise an heredi-
tary aristocracy, and admire only Nature's gentlemen.
For my part, I think that a British merch— "
" Hold your tongue, sir," bounced out the INIajor,
" 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.
38 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
Mr. Pogson, and your bagmen, and leave barons and
their like to their own ways."
" Yes, but, Major," here cried that faithful friend,
who has always stood by Pogson; " they won't leave him
alone."
" The honourable gent says I must fight if I don't
pay," whimpered Sam.
" What ! fight you? Do you mean that the honourable
gent, as you call him, will go out with a bagman? "
" He doesn't know I'm a— I'm a commercial man,"
blushingly said Sam: " he fancies I'm a military gent."
The Major's gravity was 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."
" A pretty pickle you have put yourself in, Mr. Pog-
son, by making love to other men's wives, and calling
yourself names," said the Major, who was restored to
good humour. " And pray, who is the honourable
gent.? "
" The Earl of Cinqbars' son," says Pogson, " the
Honourable Tom Ringwood."
" I thought it was some such character: and the Baron
is the Baron de Florval-Delval? "
" The very same."
" And his wife a black -haired woman, with a pretty
foot and ankle; calls herself Athenais; and is always
A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS 39
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 travellmg between Lon-
don and Paris : I saw she was hooking you at Calais ; she
has hooked ten men, in the course of the last two years,
in this very way. She lent you money, didn't she?"
" Yes." " And she leans on your shoulder and whispers,
' Play half for me,' and somebody wins it, and the poor
thing is as sorry as you are, and her husband storms
and rages, and insists on double stakes; and she leans
over your shoulder again, and tells every card in your
hand to your adversary, and that's the way it's done,
Mr. Pogson."
" I've been 'ad, I see I 'ave," said Pogson, very
humbly.
" Well, sir," said the Major, " in consideration, not of
you, sir— for, give me leave to tell you, Mr. Pogson,
that you are a pitiful little scoundrel — in consideration
for my 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 peer-
age,) " 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 of my friend, Lord Cinqbars, to prevent the mat-
ter going any farther; and I recommend you to leave
Paris without delay. Now let me wish you a good morn-
40 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
ing." — Wherewith British made a majestic bow, and be-
gan giving the last touch to liis varnished boots.
We departed: poor Sam perfectly silent and chap-
fallen ; and I meditating on the wisdom of the half -pay
philosopher, and wondering what means he would em-
ploy to rescue Pogson from liis fate.
What these means were I know not; but Mr. Ring-
wood did 7iot 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 Vi-
enna; nor did the Major explain the circumstances which
caused his departure; but he muttered something about
" knew some of his old tricks," " threatened police, and
made him disgorge directly."
Mr. Ringwood is, as yet, young at his trade; and I
have often thought it was very green of him to give up
the bills to the JMajor, who, certainly, would never have
pressed the matter before the police, out of respect for his
friend. Lord Cinqbars.
THE FETES OF JULY
IN A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE " BUNGAY BEACON "
Paris, July 30th, 1839.
WE have arrived here just in time for the fetes of
July. — You have read, no doubt, of that glori-
ous revolution which took place here nine years ago, and
which is now commemorated annually, in a pretty face-
tious manner, by gun-firing, student-processions, pole-
climbing-for-silver-spoons, gold-watches and legs-of-
mutton, monarchical orations, and what not, and sanc-
tioned, moreover, by Chamber-of-Deputies, with a grant
of a couple of hundred thousand francs to defray the
expenses of all the crackers, gun-firings, and legs-of-
mutton aforesaid. There is a new fountain in the Place
Louis Quinze, otherwise called the Place Louis Seize, or
else the Place de la Revolution, or else the Place de la
Concorde (who can say why?) — wliich, 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 dis-
continued.
Do you not laugh, O Pharos of Bungay, at the
continuance of a humbug such as this? — at the humbug-
ging anniversary of a humbug? The King of the Bar-
ricades is, next to the Emperor Nicholas, the most abso-
lute Sovereign in Europe; yet there is not in the whole
of this fair kingdom of France a single man who cares
41
42 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
sixpence about him, or his dynasty: except, mayhap, a
few hangers-on at the Chateau, who eat his dinners, and
put their hands in his purse. The feehng 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 crack-
ers to blaze and fizz, fountains to run wine, kings to
make speeches, and subjects to crawl up greasy mats-
de-cocagne in token of gratitude and rejouissance pub-
lique! — 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 pre-
serve a grave countenance ; instead of having Carlyle to
write a History of the French Revolution, I often think
it should be handed over to Dickens or Theodore Hook:
and oh ! where is the Rabelais to be the faithful historian
of the last phase of the Revolution — the last glorious
nine years of which we are now commemorating the last
glorious three days?
I had made a vow not to say a syllable on the subject,
although I have seen, with my neighbours, all the ginger-
bread stills down the Champs Elysees, and some of the
" catafalques " erected to the memor}'" of the heroes of
July, where the students and others, not connected per-
sonally with the victims, and not having in the least prof-
ited 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 ad-
THE FETES OF JULY 48
mits of much wholesome reflection and food for mirth;
and, besides, is so richly treated by the French them-
selves, that it would be a sin and a shame to pass it over.
Allow me to have the honour of translating, for your
edification, an account of the first day's proceedings — it
is mighty amusing, to my thinking.
CELEBRATION OF THE DAYS OF JULY
"To-day (Saturday), funeral ceremonies, in honour
of the victims of July, were held in the various edifices
consecrated to public worship.
" These edifices, with the exception of some churches
(especially that of the Petits-Peres), 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.
" In the interior of the Catholic churches, it had only
been thought proper to dress little catafalques, as for
burials of the third and fourth class. Very few clergy
attended; but a considerable number of the National
Guard.
" The Synagogue of the Israelites was entirely hung
with black; and a great concourse of people attended.
The service was performed with the greatest pomp.
" In the Protestant temples there was likewise a very
full attendance: apologetical discourses on the Revolu-
tion of July were pronounced by the pastors.
" The absence of M. de Quelen (Archbishop of
Paris), and of many members of the superior clergy,
was remarked at Notre Dame.
" The civil authorities attended serv^ice in their several
districts.
44 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
" The poles, ornamented with tri-coloured flags, which
formerly were placed on Notre Dame, were, it was re-
marked, suppressed. The flags on the Pont Neuf were,
during the ceremony, only half-mast high, and covered
with crape."
Et c^etera, et c^etera, et ca^tera.
" The tombs of the Louvre were covered with black
hangings, and adorned with tri-coloured flags. In front
and in the middle was erected an expiatory monument
of a pyramidical shape, and surmounted by a funeral
vase.
" These tombs were guarded by the Municipal
Guard, the Troops of the Line, the Sergens de
ViLLE {town patrol), and a Brigade of Agents of
Police in plain clothes, under the orders of peace-
officer Vassal.
" Between eleven and twelve o'clock, some young men,
to the number of 400 or 500, assembled on the Place de
la Bourse, one of them bearing a tri-coloured banner with
an inscription, ' To the Manes of July: ' ranging
themselves in order, they marched five abreast to the
INIarchedes Innocens. On their arrival, the JNIunicipal
Guards of the Halle aux Draps, where the post had been
doubled, issued out without arms, and the town-ser-
geants placed themselves before the market to prevent
the entry of the procession. The young men passed in
perfect order, and without sajang 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.
" After the passage of the procession, the Garden was
again open to the public."
And the evening and the morning were the first day.
THE FETES OF JULY 45
There's nothing serious in mortahty : is there, from the
beginning of this account to the end thereof, aught but
sheer, open, monstrous, undisguised humbug? I said,
before, that you should have a history of these people by
Dickens or Theodore Hook, but there is little need of
professed wags; — do not the men write their own tale
with an admirable Sancho-like gravity and naivete
which one could not desire improved? How good is that
touch of sly indignation about the little catafalques!
how rich the contrast presented by the economy of the
Catholics to the splendid disregard of expense exhibited
by the devout Jews ! and how touching the '' apologetical
discourses on the Revolution," delivered by the Protes-
tant pastors! Fancy the profound affliction of the
Gardes Municipaux, the Sergens de Ville, the police
agents in plain clothes, and the troops with fixed bayo-
nets, 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
facade, and, braving cannon, musket, sabre, perspective
guillotine, burst 3^onder bronze gates, rush through that
peaceful picture-gallery, and hurl royalty, loyalty, and a
thousand years of Kings, head-over-heels out of yonder
Tuileries' windows?
It is, you will allow, a little difficult to say: — there is,
however, one benefit that the country has gained (as for
liberty of press, or person, diminished taxation, a juster
representation, who ever thinks of them?) — one benefit
they have gained, or nearly — abolition de la peine-de-
mort pour delit politique: no more wicked guillotining
46 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 baulk it. Did not the King send off Revolutionary
Prince Napoleon in a coach-and-f our ? Did not the jury,
before the face of God and Justice, proclaim Revolu-
tionary Colonel Vaudrey not guilty?— One may hope,
soon, that if a man shows decent courage and energy in
half-a-dozen emeutes, he will get promotion and a pre-
mium.
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 Barbes, who, on his trial, seemed
to invite the penalty which has just been remitted to him.
You recollect the braggart's speech: " When the Indian
falls into the power of the enemy, he knows the fate that
awaits him, and submits his head to the knife:— J am the
Indian!"
" Well-"
" M. Hugo was at the Opera on the night the sen-
tence of the Court of Peers, condemning Barbes to
death, was published. The great poet composed the fol-
lowing verses: —
' Par votre ange envolee, ainsi qu'une colombe,
Par le royal enfant, doux et frele roseau,
Grace encore une f ois ! Grace au nom de la tombe !
Grace au nom du ber^eau ! ' ^
^ Translated for the benefit of country gentlemen: —
" By your angel flown away just like a dove.
By the royal infant, that frail and tender reed,
Pardon yet once more ! Pardon in the name of the tomb !
Pardon in the name of the cradle ! "
THE FETES OF JULY 47
" M. Victor Hugo wrote the lines out instantly on a
sheet of paper, which he folded, and simply despatched
them to the King of the French by the penny-post.
" That truly is a noble 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.
" But the clemency of the King had anticipated the
letter of the Poet. His Majesty had signed the commu-
tation of Barbes, while the poet was still writing.
" Louis Philippe replied to the author of ' Ruy Bias '
most graciously, that he had already subscribed to a wish
so noble, and that the verses had only confirmed his pre-
vious disposition to mercy."
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 magis-
trate, 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 non-
sense? 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 oc-
casion, however sacred or solemn: in the face of death,
as by Barbes with his hideous Indian metaphor; in the
teeth of reason, as by M. Victor Hugo with his two-
penny-post poetry; and of justice, as by the King's ab-
48 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
surd reply to this absurd demand ! Suppose the Count
of Paris to be twenty times a reed, and the Princess
JNIary 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 Jus-
tice ! I will trouble you to listen to the following trifling
efl'usion of mine: —
" Par voire ange envolee, ainsi qu'une," Sfc.
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, ravis-
sans, delicieuoD, and, coming from such a celehrite lit-
teraire as yourself, shall meet with every possible atten-
tion — 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 ofl* his hat and bowing,
and the Author of " Ruy Bias " quite convinced that he
has been treating with him cVcgal en egal. I can hardly
bring my mind to fancy that anything is serious in
France — it seems to be all rant, tinsel, and stage-play.
Sham liberty, sham monarchy, sham glory, sham justice,
— oil diahle done la verite va-t-elle se nieher?
* * ^ *
The last rocket of the fete of July has just mounted,
exploded, made a portentous bang, and emitted a gor-
geous show of blue-lights, and then (like many reputa-
THE FETES OF JULY 49
tions) disappeared totally: the hundredth gun on the
Invalid terrace has uttered its last roar — and a great
comfort it is for eyes and ears that the festival is over.
We shall be able to go about our every-day business
again, and not be hustled by the gendarmes or the
crowd.
The sight which I have just come away from is as
brilliant, happy, and beautiful as can be conceived; and
if you want to see French people to the greatest ad-
vantage, you should go to a festival like this, where their
manners, and innocent gaiety, show a very pleasing con-
trast to the coarse and vulgar hilarity which the same
class would exhibit in our own country — at Epsom race-
course, for instance, or Greenwich Fair. The greatest
noise that I heard was that of a company of jolly vil-
lagers from a place in the neighbourhood 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 extraor-
dinary care and kindness of the parents towards these
little creatures. It does one good to see honest, heavy
epiciers, fathers of families, playing with them in the
Tuileries, or, as to-night, bearing them stoutly on their
shoulders, through many long hours, in order that the lit-
tle ones, too, may have their share of the fun. John Bull,
I fear, is more selfish : he does not take Mrs. Bull to the
public-house; but leaves her, for the most part, to take
care of the children at home.
The fete, then, is over; the pompous black pyramid
at the Louvre is only a skeleton now; all the flags have
50 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
been miraculously whisked away during the night, and
the fine chandeliers which glittered down the Champs
Elysees for full half a mile, have been consigned to their
dens and darkness. Will they ever be reproduced for
other celebrations of the glorious 29th of July?— I think
not; the Government which vowed that there should be
no more persecutions of the press, was, on that very
29th, seizing a Legitimist paper, for some real or
fancied offence against it : it had seized, and was seizing
daily, numbers of persons merely suspected of being
disaffected (and you may fancy how liberty is under-
stood, when some of these prisoners, the other day, on
coming to trial, were found guilty and sentenced to one
day's imprisonment, after thirty -sia^ days' detention on
susincion) . I think the Government which follows such
a system, cannot be very anxious about any farther revo-
lutionary fetes, and that the Chamber may reasonably
refuse to vote more money for them. Why should men
be so mighty proud of having, on a certain day, cut a
certain number of their fellow-countrymen's throats?
The Guards and the Line employed this time nine years
did no more than those who cannonaded the starving
Lyonnese, or bayoneted the luckless inhabitants of the
Rue Transnounain:— they did not fulfil the soldier's
honourable duty: — his superiors bid him kill and he kill-
eth:— 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
THE FETES OF JULY 51
would allow the people to go about their business, as on
the other 362 days of the year, and leave the Champs
Elysees free for the omnibuses to run, and the Tuileries
in quiet, so that the nursemaids might come as usual, and
the newspapers be read for a halfpenny apiece.
Shall I trouble you with an account of the speculations
of these latter, and the state of the parties which they
represent? The complication is not a little curious, and
may form, perhaps, a subject of graver disquisition.
The July fetes occupy, as you may imagine, a consid-
erable 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 Dehats,
how the King was received with shouts and loyal vivats
—in the Nation, how not a tongue was wagged in his
praise, but, on the instant of his departure, how the
people called for the " Marseillaise " and applauded
that.—^\i\ best say no more about the fete. The Legiti-
mists were always indignant at it. The high Philippist
party sneers at and despises it; the Republicans hate it:
it seems a joke against them. Why continue it?— If
there be anything sacred in the name and idea of loyalty,
why renew this fete? It only shows how a rightful
monarch was hurled from his throne, and a dexterous
usurper stole his precious diadem. If there be anything
noble in the memory of a day, when 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
52 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 —
7|r '^ '^' ^ ^rf*
[The Editor of the Bungay Beacon would insert no
more of this letter, which is, therefore, for ever lost to
the public]
ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTINC
WITH APPROPRIATE ANECDOTES, ILLUSTRATIONS,
AND PHILOSOPHICAL DISQUISITIONS
IN A LETTER TO MR. MACGILP, OF LONDON
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 flour-
ishing 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 ac-
curately; sketch with cleverness; and paint portraits,
churches or restaurateurs' shops, in a decent manner.
To account for a superiority over England— which,
I think, as regards art, is incontestable— it must be re-
membered 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 in which a lad may enter here,
and, under the eye of a practised master, learn the ap-
^3
54 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
prenticeship 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 in-
citements 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 hand-
somely; for five hundred a year is much where all are
poor; and has a rank in society rather above his merits
than below them, being caressed by hosts and hostesses
in places where titles are laughed at and a baron is
thought of no more account than a banker's clerk.
The life of the young artist here is the easiest, merri-
est, dirtiest existence possible. He comes to Paris, prob-
ably 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 labours among a score of companions as merry
and poor as himself. Each gentleman has his favourite
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
THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING 55
can form an idea who has not been present at such an
assembly.
You see here every variety of coiffure that has ever
been known. Some young men of genius have ringlets
hanging over their shoulders— you may smell the tobacco
with which they are scented across the street; some have
straight locks, black, oily, and redundant; some have
toupets in the famous Louis-Philippe fashion ; some are
cropped close; some have adopted the present mode —
which he who would follow must, in order to do so, part
his hair in the middle, grease it with grease, and gum it
with gum, and iron it flat down over his ears; when
arrived at the ears, you take the tongs and make a couple
of ranges of curls close round the whole head, — such
curls as you may see under a gilt three-cornered hat, and
in her Britannic Majesty's coachman's state wig.
This is the last fashion. As for the beards, there is no
end to them ; all my friends the artists have beards who
can raise them ; and Nature, though she has rather stinted
56 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
the bodies and limbs of the French nation, has been very
hberal to them of hair, as you may see by the following
specimen. Fancy these heads and beards under all sorts
of caps — Chinese caps, JMandarin 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 night-
caps. 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.
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.
These young men (together with the students of sci-
ences) 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
pekin:— from the height of their poverty they look down
vipon him with the greatest imaginable scorn— a scorn,
I think, by which the citizen seems dazzled, for his re-
spect for the arts is intense. The case is very different
in England, where a grocer's daughter would think she
made a mesalliance by marrying a painter, and where a
literary man (in spite of all we can say against it) ranks
below that class of gentry composed of the apothecary,
the attorney, the wine-merchant, whose positions, in
country towns at least, are so equivocal. As for instance,
my friend the Rev. James Asterisk, who has an unde-
THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING 57
niable pedigree, a paternal estate, and a living to boot,
once dined in Warwickshire, in company with several
squires and parsons of that enlightened county. Aster-
isk, 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 an-
other. " 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 lit-
erary man! I thought he had been a gentleman! "
Another instance: M. Guizot, w^ien he was Minister
here, had the grand hotel of the IMinistry, and gave en-
tertainments to all the great de yar le rnonde, as Bran-
tome 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 re-
spects to ]\I. 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
w^hich he possesses, and of which he lets the greater
portion. A friend of mine was present at one of the ex-
Minister's soirees, where the Duchess of Dash made her
appearance. He says the Duchess, at her entrance,
seemed quite astounded, and examined the premises with
a most curious wonder. Two or three shabby little
rooms, with ordinary furniture, and a Minister en re-
traite, who lives by letting lodgings! In our country
was ever such a thing heard of? No, thank heaven!
and a Briton ought to be proud of the difference.
But to our muttons. This country is surely the para-
58 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
dise 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, Na-
poleon, and Anacharsis Clootz? Noble people! they
made Tom Paine a deputy; and as for Tom Macaulay,
they would make a dynasty of him.
Well, this being the case, no wonder there are so many
painters in France; and here, at least, we are back to
them. At the Ecole Royale des Beaux Arts, you see
two or three hundred specimens of their performances;
all the prize-men, since 1750, I think, being bound to
leave their 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 neigh-
bourhood of Suffolk Street especially). The hundi'eds
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 Androm-
aches in a complication of parting embraces, and so
forth; for it was the absurd maxim of our forefathers,
THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING 59
that because these subjects had been the fashion twenty
centuries ago, they must remain so in scecula sceculorum;
because to these lofty heights giants had scaled, behold
the race of pigmies must get upon stilts and jump at
them likewise ! and on the canvas, and in the theatre, the
French frogs (excuse the pleasantry) were instructed
to swell out and roar as much as possible like bulls.
What was the consequence, my dear friend? In try-
ing to make themselves into bulls, the frogs make them-
selves into jackasses, as might be expected. For a hun-
dred and ten years the classical humbug oppressed the
nation; and you may see, in this gallery of the Beaux
Arts, seventy years' specimens of the dulness which it
engendered.
Now, as Nature made every man with a nose and eyes
of his own, she gave him a character of his own too ; and
yet we, O foolish race! must try our verj^ best to ape
some one or two of our neighbours, 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 ^schylus, is
God's work, and good to read, as all works of Nature
are : but the silly animal is never content ; is ever trying to
fit itself into another shape ; wants to deny its own iden-
tity, 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 quar-
relled with his victuals, and thus, naturally, grew ill-
humoured, did not half Europe grow ill-humoured 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
60 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
beauty but classical beauty?— must not every little whip-
ster of a French poet chalk you out plays, " Henriades,"
and such-like, and vow that here was the real thing, the
undeniable Kalon?
The undeniable fiddlestick ! For a hundred years, my
dear sir, the world was humbugged by the so-called classi-
cal artists, as they now are by what is called the Christian
art (of which anon) ; and it is curious to look at the pic-
torial traditions as here handed down. The consequence
of them is, that scarce one of the classical pictures ex-
hibited is worth much more than two-and-sixpence. Bor-
rowed from statuary, in the first place, the colour 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 colour
was. In every picture there are, of course, white man-
tles, white urns, white columns, white statues — those
oblige accomplishments of the sublime. There are the
endless straight noses, long eyes, round chins, short upper
lips, just as they 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 stan-
dard of beauty, or the Greek tragedies to bound our
notions of the sublime? There was no reason why Aga-
memnon should set the fashions, and remain dva| avSpcav
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 Agamenmon, may not unreasonably
induce us to conclude that similar heroes were to succeed
him. Shakspeare made a better man when his imagina-
THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING 61
tion moulded the mighty figure of Macbeth. And if you
will measure Satan by Prometheus, the blind old Puri-
tan's work by that of the fiery Grecian poet, does not
JNIilton's angel surpass ^schylus's— surpass him by
" many a rood? "
In the same school of the Beaux Arts, where are to be
found such a number of pale imitations of the antique.
Monsieur Thiers (and he ought to be thanked for it)
has caused to be placed a full-sized copy of " The Last
Judgment " of ]\Iichel 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 sub-
lime — quite as sublime as the Greek sublime. See yon-
der, 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 examin-
ing this, and the astonishing picture of " The Judg-
ment," 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 labour of invention ? One fancies that he would
have been scorched up, like Semele, by sights too tre-
mendous for his vision to bear. One cannot imagine
him, with our small physical endowments and weak-
nesses, a man like ourselves.
As for the Ecole Roy ale 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.
62 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
There is only one picture among the many hundreds
that has, to my idea, much merit (a charming composi-
tion 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 imagina-
tions; 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.
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 Kenaissance, and fragments
of sculpture, you can hardly see, on a fine day, a place
more riant and pleasing.
Passing from thence up the picturesque Rue de Seine,
let us walk to the Luxembourg, where bonnes, students,
grisettes, and old gentlemen with pigtails, love to wander
in the melancholy, quaint old gardens; where the peers
have a new and comfortable court of justice, to judge all
the emeutes which are to take place ; and where, as every-
body knows, is the picture-gallery of modern French
artists, whom government thinks worthy of patronage.
A very great proportion of the pictures, as we see by
the catalogue, are by the students whose works we have
just been to visit at the Beaux Arts, and who, having
performed their pilgrimage to Rome, have taken rank
THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING 63
among the professors of the art. I don't know a more
pleasing exhibition ; for there are not a dozen really bad
pictures in the collection, some very good, and the rest
showing great skill and smartness of execution.
In the same way, however, that it has been supposed
that no man could be a great poet unless he wrote a very
big poem, the tradition is kept up among the painters,
and we have here a vast number of large canvases, with
figures of the proper heroical length and nakedness.
The 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 vigour. There is Bru-
tus, having chopped his son's head off, with all the agony
of a father, and then, calling for number two; there is
^neas carrying off old Anchises; there are Paris and
Venus, as naked as two Hottentots, and many more such
choice subjects from Lempriere.
But the chief specimens of the sublime are in the way
of murders, with which the catalogue swarms. Here are
a few extracts from it: —
7. Beaume, Chevalier de la Legion d'Honneur, " The Grand
Dauphiness Dying."
18. Blondcl, Chevalier dc la. Sic. " Zenobia found Dead."
36. Debay, Chevalier. " The Death of Lucretia."
38. Dejuinne. '' The Death of Hector."
34. Court, Chevalier de la, &c. " The Death of Cssar."
39, 40, 41. Delacroix, Chevalier. "Dante and Virgil in the
Infernal Lake," " The Massacre of Scio," and " Medea going to
Murder her Children."
43. Delaroche, Chevalier. " Joas taken from among the
Dead."
44. " The Death of Queen Elizabeth."
45. " Edward V. and his Brother " (preparing for death).
64 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
50. " Hecuba going to be Sacrificed." Drolling, Chevalier.
51. Dubois. " Young Clovis found Dead."
56. Henry, Chevalier. " The Massacre of St. Bartholomew."
75. Guerin, Chevalier. " Cain, after the Death of Abel."
83. Jacquand. " Death of Adelaide de Comminges."
88. " The Death of Eudamidas."
93. " The Death of Hjmetto."
103. " The Death of Philip of Austria."-And so on.
You see what woeful subjects they take, and how pro-
fusely 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 them-
selves 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 pre-
pared 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 sub-
lime, that our teachers have believed and tried to pass off
as real, and which your humble servant and other anti-
humbuggists should heartily, according to the strength
that is in them, endeavour to pull down. What, for in-
stance, could Monsieur Lafond care about the death
of Eudamidas? What was Hecuba to Chevalier Droll-
ing, or Chevalier Drolling to Hecuba? I would lay a
wager that neither of them ever conjugated totttw, 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
THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF FAINTING 65
and Mademoiselle Georges flaunting in sham Greek
costumes, and having read up the articles Eudamidas,
Hecuba, in the " Mythological Dictionary." What a
classicism, inspired by rouge, gas-lamps, and a few lines
in Lempriere, and copied, half from ancient statues,
and half from a naked guardsman at one shilling and
sixpence the hour!
Delacroix is a man of a very different genius, and his
" Medea " is a genuine creation of a noble fancy. For
most of the others, Mrs. Brownrigg, and her two female
'prentices, would have done as well as the desperate Col-
chian with her xexva cptXraxa. M. Delacroix has pro-
duced 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 draughts-
man, and an excellent arranger of his subject. " The
Death of Elizabeth " is a raw young performance seem-
ingly—not, at least, to my taste. The " Enfans
d'Edouard " is renowned over Europe, and has appeared
in a hundred different ways in print. It is properly
pathetic and gloomy, and merits fully its high reputa-
tion. 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 honour of seeing him,
— a little, keen-looking man, some five feet in height.
He wore, on this important occasion, a bandanna round
his head, and was in the act of smoking a cigar,
Horace Vernet, whose beautiful daughter Delaroche
66 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
married, is the king of French battle-painters— an amaz-
ingly rapid and dexterous draughtsman, who has Napo-
leon and all the campaigns by heart, and has painted the
Grenadier Fran9ais under all sorts of attitudes. His
pictures on such subjects are spirited, natural, and ex-
cellent ; 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 An-
gelo " is as clever a picture as can be — clever is just the
word — the groups and drawing excellent, the colouring
pleasantly bright and gaudy; and the French students
study it incessantly; there are a dozen who copy it for
one who copies Delacroix. His little scraps of wood-
cuts, in the now publishing " Life of Napoleon," are
perfect gems in their way, and the noble price paid for
them not a penny more than he merits.
The picture, by Court, of " The Death of Csesar," 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 colour in the picture. Jac-
quand'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 bv 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 rep-
resented ; and the tone and colour very good. Decaisne's
" Guardian Angel " is not so good in colour, but is
THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING 67
equally beautiful in expression and grace. A little child
and a nurse are asleep: an angel watches the infant.
You see women look very wistfully at this sweet picture ;
and what triumph would a painter have more?
We must not quit the Luxembourg without noticing
the dashing sea-pieces of Gudin, and one or two land-
scapes 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 marvel-
lous composition) has, perhaps, suggested the first-
named ]3icture ; and the latter has been inspired by a good
enthusiastic study of the Roman schools.
Of this revolution, Monsieur Ingres has been one of
the chief instruments. He was, before Horace Vernet,
president of the French Academy at Rome, and is fa-
mous as a chief of a school. When he broke up his atelier
here, to set out for his presidency, many of his pupils at-
tended 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 pil-
grimage 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 honours to be acquired by art are only in-
ferior 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' individual merit as a painter, the writer of this is
68 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
not a fair judge, having seen but three pictures by him;
one being a jjlafond in the Louvre, which his disciples
much admire.
Ingres stands between the Imperio-Davido-classical
school of French art, and the namby-pamby mystical
German school, which is for carrying us back to Cranach
and Diirer, and which is making progress here.
For everything here finds imitation: the French have
the genius of imitation and caricature. This absurd
humbug, called the Christian or Catholic art, is sure to
tickle our neighbours, and will be a favourite 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 eyeing his paint-brush
with an intense ominous mystical look. They call this
Catholic art. There is nothing, my dear friend, more
easy in life. First, take your colours, and rub them
down clean,— bright carmine, bright yellow, bright si-
enna, bright ultramarine, bright green. Make the cos-
tumes of your figures as much as possible like the cos-
tumes of the early part of the fifteenth century. Paint
them in with the above colours ; and if on a gold ground,
the more " Catholic " your art is. Dress your apostles
like priests before the altar; and remember to have a
good commodity of crosiers, censers, and other such gim-
THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING 69
cracks, as you may see in the Catholic chapels, in Sut-
ton 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 crache,
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 atti-
tudes are precisely similar to those which figure in the
catholicities of the school of Overbeck and Cornelius.
Before you take your cane at the door, look for one
instant at the statue-room. Yonder is Jouffley's " Jeune
Fille confiant son premier secret a Venus." Charming,
charming! It is from the exhibition of this year only;
and, I think, the best sculpture in the gallery — pretty,
fanciful, naive; admirable in workmanship and imitation
of Nature. I have seldom seen flesh better represented
in marble. Examine, also, Jaley's " Pudeur," 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 vou not,
and half the painters in London, panting for an oppor-
tunity to show your genius in a great " historical pic-
ture ? " O blind race ! Have you wings ? Not a feather :
70 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 hum-
ble, and take your share of the good cheer.
While we have been indulging in this discussion, the
omnibus has gaily conducted us across the water; and
le garde qui veille a la porte du Louvre ne defend pas
our entry.
What a paradise this gallery is for French students,
or foreigners who sojourn in the capital! It is hardly
necessary to say that the brethren of the brush are not
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 Roths-
childs 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 par-
ticular 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
THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING 71
is to select the one he shall begin upon, and keep his eyes
away from the rest.
Fontaine's grand staircase, with its arches, and painted
ceilings and shining Doric columns, leads directly to
the gallery ; but it is thought too fine for working days,
and is only opened for the public entrance on Sabbath.
A little back stair (leading from a court, in which stand
numerous bas-reliefs, and a solemn sphinx, of polished
granite,) is the common entry for students and others,
who, during the week, enter the gallery.
Hither have lately been transported a number of the
works 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 our-
selves to the Frenchmen only, for the space of this letter.
I have seen, in a fine private collection at St. Germain,
one or two admirable single figures of David, full of
life, truth, and gaiety. The colour is not good, but all
the rest excellent ; and one of these so much-lauded pic-
tures is the portrait of a washerwoman. " Pope Pius,"
at the Louvre, is as bad in colour as remarkable for its
vigour and look of life. The man had a genius for paint-
ing portraits and common life, but must attempt the
heroic; — failed signally; and what is worse, carried a
whole nation blundering after him. Had you told a
Frenchman so, twenty years ago, he would have thrown
the dementi in your 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 Tou-
louse was a lost battle. Old-fashioned people, who be-
72 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
lieve in the Emperor, believe in the Theatre Fran^ais,
and beheve 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 favourite painters and authors.
Nevertheless, Jacques Louis David is dead. He died
about a year after his bodily demise in 1825. The roman-
ticism killed him. Walter Scott, from his Castle of
Abbotsford, sent out a troop of gallant young Scotch
adventurers, merry outlaws, valiant knights, and savage
Highlanders, who, with trunk hosen and buff jerkins,
fierce two-handed swords, and harness on their back, did
challenge, combat, and overcome the heroes and demi-
gods of Greece and Rome. Notre Dame a la rescousse!
Sir Brian de Bois Guilbert has borne Hector of Troy
clear out of his saddle. Andromache may weep: but
her spouse is beyond the reach of physic. See! 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 beg-
ging their lives of Rob Roy Macgregor. Classicism is
dead. Sir John Froissart has taken Dr. Lempriere by
the nose, and reigns sovereign.
Of the great pictures of David the defunct, we need
not, then, say much. 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 ad-
vantage. 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
THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING 73
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,—
Romulus. The HoratiL
Romulus's is the exact action of a telegraph; and the
Horatii are all in the position of the lunge. Is this the
sublime? Mr. Angelo, of Bond Street, might admire
the attitude ; his namesake, IVIichel, I don't think would.
The little picture of " Paris and Helen," one of the
master's earliest, I believe, is likewise one of his best:
the details are exquisitely painted. Helen looks need-
lessly 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 per-
formance inspired on its first appearance before the
public.
In the same room with it is Girodet's ghastly " Del-
uge," 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
74. THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
have a grand cachet: he never did anything mean.
When he painted the " Raft of the Medusa," it is said he
hved 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 f amihar, 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, be-
cause more natural, than Girodet's green " Deluge," for
instance: or his livid " Orestes," or red-hot " Clytem-
nestra."
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 at-
mosphere 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 epi-
grams 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 lugu-
brious good things— melancholy antitheses— sparkling
undertakers' wit; but this is heresy, and had better be
spoken discreetly.
The gallery contains a vast number of Poussin's pic-
THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING 75
tures; they put me in mind of the colour of objects in
dreams, — a strange, hazy, lurid hue. How noble are
some of his landscapes ! What a depth of solemn shadow
is in yonder wood, near which, by the side of a black
water, halts Diogenes. The air is thunder-laden, and
breathes heavily. You hear ominous whispers in the
vast forest gloom.
Near it is a landscape, by Carel Dujardin, I believe,
conceived in quite a different mood, but exquisitely poet-
ical too. A horseman is riding up a hill, and giving
money to a blowsy beggar-wench. O matutini rores
aurceque saluhres! 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
vapours 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 brisk-
ness 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 imita-
tion 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 compan-
76 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
ions 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!
There is a little Watteau here, and a rare piece of
fantastical brightness and gaiety it is. What a delight-
ful affectation about yonder ladies flirting their fans,
and trailing about in their long brocades! What splen-
did 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 clus-
ters 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
flavour,— should be likened to a bottle of Chateau Mar-
gaux. And what is the Poussin before spoken of but
Romance Gelee? — heavy, sluggish, — the luscious odour
almost sickens you; a sultry sort of drink; your limbs
sink under it; you feel as if you had been drinking hot
blood.
An ordinary man would be whirled away in a fever,
or would hobble off this mortal stage, in a premature
gout-fit, if he too early or too often indulged in such
tremendous drink. I think in my heart I am fonder of
pretty third-rate pictures than of your great thundering
first-rates. Confess how many times you have read
THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING 77
Beranger, and hov/ many JNIilton? If you go to the
Star and Garter, don't you grow sick of that vast, lus-
cious landscape, and long for the sight of a couple of
cows, or a donkey, and a few yards of common? Don-
keys, my dear MacGilp, since we have come to this sub-
ject, 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 aerias tentdsse domos along with
them, let us thankfully remain below, being merry and
humble.
I have now only to mention the charming " Cruche
Cassee " of Greuze, which all the young ladies delight
to copy; and of which the colour (a thought too blue,
perhaps) is marvellously graceful and delicate. There
are three more pictures by the artist, containing exquisite
female heads and colour; 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 BoUongue, " Saint Benedict
resuscitating a Child," deserves particular attention, and
is superb in vigour and richness of colour. You must
look, too, at the large, noble, melancholy landscapes of
Philippe de Champagne; and the two magnificent
Italian pictures of Leopold Robert: they are, perhaps,
the very finest pictures that the French school has pro-
duced, — as deep as Poussin, of a better colour, and of a
wonderful minuteness and veracity in the representation
of objects.
78 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
Every one of Lesueur's church-pictures are worth ex-
amining 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 simper-
ing Madonnas. I declare that the " Jardiniere " is a
puking, smirking miss, with nothing heavenly about her.
I vow that the " Saint Elizabeth " is a bad picture,— a
bad composition, badly drawn, badly coloured, 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! !
There,— the murder is out! My paper is filled to the
brim, and there is no time to speak of Lesueur's " Cruci-
fixion," which is odiously coloured, 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 colours are reflected
duly in the little camera obscura of the brain, and the
whole picture lies there complete; but can you describe
it? No, not if pens were fitch-brushes, and words were
bladders of paint. With which, for the present, adieu.
Your faithful
M. A. T.
To Mr. Robert MacGilp,
Newman Street, London,
THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN
SIMON GAMBOUGE was the son of Solomon
Gambouge; and as all the world knows, both
father and son were astonishingly clever fellows at their
profession. Solomon painted landscapes, which nobody-
bought ; and Simon took a higher line, and painted por-
traits to admiration, only nobody came to sit to him.
As he was not gaining five pounds a year by his pro-
fession, 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 simi-
lar 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. Griskin-
issa — 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 Gam-
bouge, who was by this time the offspring of their affec-
tions.
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
79
80 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 sup-
plies 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 Gris-
kinissa grew peckish, and poor Simon pawned his best
coat.
When this habit of pawning is discovered, it appears
to the poor a kind of Eldorado. Gambouge and his wife
were so delighted, that they, in the course of a month,
made away with her gold chain, her great warming-pan,
his best crimson plush inexpressibles, two wigs, a wash-
hand basin and ewer, fire-irons, window-curtains, crock-
ery, and arm-chairs. Griskinissa said, smiling, that she
had found a second father in her uncle,— 3b base pun,
which showed that her mind was corrupted, and that she
was no longer the tender, simple Griskinissa of other
days.
I am sorry to say that she had taken to drinking; she
swallowed the warming-pan in the course of three daj^s,
and fuddled herself one whole evening with the crimson
plush breeches.
Drinking is the devil— the father, that is to say, of all
vices. Griskinissa's face and her mind grew ugly to-
gether; her good humour changed to bilious, bitter dis-
content; her pretty, fond epithets, to foul abuse and
swearing; her tender blue eyes grew watery and blear,
and the peach-colour on her cheeks fled from its old hab-
itation, and crowded up into her nose, where, with a
THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN 81
number of pimples, it stuck fast. Add to this a dirty,
draggle-tailed chintz; long, matted hair, wandering into
her eyes, and over her lean shoulders, which were once
so snowy, and you have the picture of drunkenness and
Mrs. Simon Gambouge.
Poor Simon, w^ho 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 neighbours
could hear this woman's tongue, and understand her do-
ings ; 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 JNIrs. Gambouge was out of the way.
One day, as he sat disconsolately at his easel, furbish-
ing 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 master-pieces neglected by the world, or sold only for
a few pieces? Cursed be the love which has misled me;
cursed be the art which is unworthy of me ! Let me dig
or steal, let me sell myself as a soldier, or sell myself to
the Devil, I should not be more wretched than I am
now ! "
" Quite the contrary," cried a small, cheery voice.
"What!" exclaimed Gambouge, trembling and sur-
prised. "Who's there?— where are you?— who are
you?"
82
THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
" You were just speaking of me," said the voice.
Gambouge held, in his left hand, his palette; in his
right, a bladder of crimson lake, which he was about to
squeeze out upon the mahogany. "Where are you?"
cried he again.
" S-q-u-e-e-z-e! " exclaimed the little voice.
Gambouge picked out the nail from the bladder, and
gave a squeeze ; when, as sure as I am living, a little imp
spurted out from the hole upon the palette, and began
laughing in the most singular and oily manner.
When first born he was little bigger than a tadpole;
then he grew to be as big as a mouse ; then he arrived at
the size of a cat ; and then he jumped off the palette, and,
THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN 83
turning head over heels, asked the poor painter what he
wanted with him.
*****
The strange httle 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 ver-
milion which had just been laid on the allegoric portrait
of Mrs. Gambouge.
" What! " exclaimed Simon, " is it the—"
" Exactly so ; talk of me, you know, and I am al-
ways at hand: besides, I am not half so black as I am
painted, as you will see when you know me a little
better."
" Upon my word," said the painter, " it is a very sin-
gular surprise which you have given me. To tell truth,
I did not even believe in your existence."
The little imp put on a theatrical air, and, with one of
Mr. Macready's best looks, said, —
" There are more things in heaven and earth, Gambogio,
Than are dreamed of in your philosophy."
Gambouge, being a Frenchman, did not understand
the quotation, but felt somehow strangely and singularly
interested in the conversation of his new friend.
Diabolus continued: " You are a man of merit, and
want 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
84 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
of yours, called, by some poet of your own, I think, an
animula, vagulaj hlandula — 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
starnp in the corner.
It is useless and tedious to describe law documents:
lawyers only love to read them ; and they have as good in
Chitty as any that are to be found in the Devil's own;
so nobly have the apprentices emulated the skill of the
master. Suffice it to say, that poor Gambouge read over
the paper, and signed it. He was to have all he wished
for seven years, and at the end of that time was to be-
come the property of the ; protJiOcD that, during the
course of the seven years, every single wish which he
might form should be gratified by the other of the con-
tracting parties ; otherwise the deed became null and non-
avenue, and Gambouge should be left "to go to the
his own way."
" You will never see me again," said Diabolus, in shak-
ing hands with poor Simon, on whose fingers he left such
a mark as is to be seen at this day—" never, at least,
unless you want me ; for everything you ask will be per-
formed in the most quiet and every-day manner: believe
me, it is best and most gentlemanlike, and avoids any-
thing 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
THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN 85
Gambouge was left in a fever of delight, as, heaven for-
give me! I believe many a worthy man would be, if he
were allowed an opportunity to make a similar bargain.
" Heigho! " said Simon. " I wonder whether this be
a reality or a dream. I am sober, I know ; for who will
give me credit for the means to be drunk? and as for
sleeping, I'm too hungry for that. I wish I could see a
capon and a bottle of white wine."
"Monsieur Simon!" cried a voice on the landing-
place.
" 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-coloured
flask of Sauterne.
" I am the new boy, sir," exclaimed this youth, on
entering; " but I believe this is the right door, and you
asked for these things."
Simon grinned, and said, " Certainly, I did ash for
these things." But such was the effect which his inter-
view with the demon had had on his innocent mind, that
he took them, although he knew that they were for old
Simon, the Jew dandy, who was mad after an opera
girl, and lived on the floor beneath.
" Go, my boy," he said ; " it is good : call in a couple
of hours, and remove the plates and glasses."
The little waiter trotted downstairs, and Simon sat
greedily down to discuss the capon and the white wine.
He bolted the legs, he devoured the wings, he cut every
morsel of flesh from the breast; — seasoning his repast
with pleasant draughts of wine, and caring nothing for
the inevitable bill, which was to follow all.
" Ye gods! " said he, as he scraped away at the back-
86 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
bone, " what a dinner! what wine!— and how gaily served
up too! " There were silver forks and spoons, and the
remnants of the fowl were upon a silver dish. " Why,
the money for this dish and these spoons," cried Simon,
" would keep me and Mrs. G. for a month! I wish "
— and here Simon whistled, and turned round to see that
nobody was peeping — " I wish the plate were mine."
Oh, the horrid progress of the Devil! "Here they
are," thought Simon to himself; "why should not I
take them? " And take them he did. " Detection," said
he, " is not so bad as starvation; and I would as soon live
at the galleys as live with Madame Gambouge."
So Gambouge shovelled dish and spoons into the flap
of his surtout, and ran downstairs as if the Devil were
behind him — as, indeed, he was.
He immediately made for the house of his old friend
the pawnbroker — that establishment which is called in
France the Mont de Piete. " I am obliged to come to
you again, my old friend," said Simon, " with some fam-
ily plate, of which I beseech you to take care."
The pawnbroker smiled as he examined the goods. " I
can give you nothing upon them," said he.
"What!" cried Simon; "not even the worth of the
silver? "
" No; I could buy them at that price at the ' Cafe
Morisot,' Rue de la Verrerie, where, I suppose, you got
them a little cheaper." And, so saying, he showed to the
guilt-stricken Gambouge how the name of that coffee-
house was inscribed upon every one of the articles which
he had wished to pawn.
The effects of conscience are dreadful indeed. Oh!
how fearful is retribution, how deep is despair, how bitter
is remorse for crime— w^e/i crime is found out!— other-
THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN 87
wise, conscience takes matters much more easily. Gam-
bouge cursed his fate, and swore henceforth to be vir-
tuous.
" But, hark ye, my friend," continued the honest
broker, " there is no reason why, because I cannot lend
upon these things, I should not buy them: they will do
to melt, if for no other purpose. Will you have half
the money! — speak, or I peach."
Simon's resolves about virtue were dissipated instan-
taneously. " Give me half," he said, " and let me go.
— What scoundrels are these pawnbrokers! " ejaculated
he, as he passed out of the accursed shop, " seeking every
wicked pretext to rob the poor man of his hard-won
gain."
When he had marched forwards for a street or two,
Gambouge counted the money which he had received,
and found that he was in possession of no less than a
hundred francs. It was night, as he reckoned out his
equivocal 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 Gam-
bouge. " I WISH I had half the money that is now on
the table, upstairs."
Pie 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 in-
significant 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.
It is a dangerous spot that 0, or double zero ; but to
Simon it was more lucky than to the rest of the world.
88 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
The ball went spinning round — in " its predestined circle
rolled," as Shelley has it, after Goethe— and plumped
down at last in the double zero. One hundred and thirty-
five gold napoleons (louis they were then) were counted
out to the delighted painter. " Oh, Diabolus! " cried he,
"now it is that I begin to believe in thee! Don't
talk about merit," he cried ; " talk about fortune.
Tell me not about heroes for the future— tell me
of zeroes." And down went twenty napoleons more
upon the 0.
The Devil was certainly in the ball: round it twirled,
and dropped into zero as naturally as a duck pops its
head into a pond. Our friend received five hundred
pounds for his stake; and the croupiers and lookers-on
began to stare at him.
There were twelve thousand pounds on the table.
Suffice it to say, that Simon won half, and retired from
the Palais Royal with a thick bundle of bank-notes
crammed into his dirty three-cornered hat. He had
been but half an hour in the place, and he had won the
revenues of a prince for half a year!
Gambouge, as soon as he felt that he was a capitalist,
and that he had a stake in the country, discovered that he
was an altered man. He repented of his foul deed, and
his base purloining of the restaurateur's plate. " O hon-
esty!" 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 imagi-
nable. " My friend," said he, " I have sinned against all
that I hold most sacred : I have forgotten my family and
my religion. Here is thy money. In the name of
heaven, restore me the plate which I have wrongfully
sold thee!"
THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN 89
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."
" Well," cried Gambouge, " thou art an inexorable
ruffian, Troisboules; but I will give thee all I am worth."
And here he produced a billet of five hundred francs.
" Look," said he, " this money is all I own; it is the pay-
ment of two years' lodging. To raise it, I have toiled
for many months; and, failing, I have been a criminal.
heaven! I stole that plate that I might pay my debt,
and keep my dear wife from wandering houseless. But
1 cannot bear this load of ignominy — I cannot suffer
the thought of this crime. I will go to the person to
whom I did wrong. I will starve, I will confess; but
I will, I will do right! "
The broker was alarmed. " Give me thy note," he
cried; "here is the plate."
" Give me an acquittal first," cried Simon, almost
broken-hearted; "sign me a paper, and the money is
yours." So Troisboules wrote according to Gambouge's
dictation: "Received, for thirteen ounces of plate,
twenty pounds."
" Monster of iniquity! " cried the painter, " fiend of
wickedness! thou art caught in thine own snares. Hast
thou not sold me five pounds' worth of plate for twenty ?
Have I it not in my pocket? Art thou not a convicted
dealer in stolen goods? Yield, scoundrel, yield thy
money, or I will bring thee to justice! "
The frightened pawnbroker bullied and battled for
a while ; but he gave up his money at last, and the dispute
ended. Thus it will be seen that Diabolus had rather a
hard bargain in the wily Gambouge. He had taken a
victim prisoner, but he had assuredly caught a Tartar.
90 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
Simon now returned home, and, to do him justice, paid
the bill for his dinner, and restored the plate.
*jte ^£ Jig, jijf,
'^V rj% ¥^ V|^
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 circum-
stances, would have acted like the worthy Simon Gam-
bouge.
There was but one blot upon his character— he hated
Mrs. Gam. worse than ever. As he grew more benevo-
lent, she grew more vimlent : when he went to plaj^s, she
went to Bible societies, and vice versa: in fact, she led
him such a life as Xantippe led Socrates, or as a dog
leads a cat in the same kitchen. With all his fortune
— for, as may be supposed, Simon prospered in all
worldly things — he was the most miserable dog in the
whole city of Paris. Only in the point of drinking did
he and Mrs. Simon agree; and for many years, and
during a considerable number of hours in each day, he
thus dissipated, partially, his domestic chagrin. O phi-
losophy ! we may talk of thee ; but, except at the bottom
of the wine-cup, where thou liest like tinith in a well,
where shall we find thee ?
He lived so long, and in his worldly matters prospered
so much, there was so little sign of devilment in the ac-
complishment of his wishes, and the increase of his pros-
perity, that Simon, at the end of six years, began to doubt
whether he had made any such bargain at all, as that
which we have described at the commencement of this
THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN 91
history. He had grown, as we said, very pious and
moral. He went regularly to mass, and had a confessor
into the bargain. He resolved, therefore, to consult that
reverend gentleman, and to lay before him the whole
matter.
"I am inclined to think, holy sir," said Gambouge,
after he had concluded his history, and shown how, in
some miraculous way, all his desires were accomplished,
" that, after all, this demon was no other than the crea-
tion of my own brain, heated by the effects of that bottle
of wine, the cause of my crime and my prosperity."
The confessor agreed with him, and they walked out
of church comfortably together, and entered after-
wards a cafe, where they sat down to refresh themselves
after the fatigues of their devotion.
A respectable old gentleman, with a number of orders
at his button-hole, presently entered the room, and saun-
tered 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 read-
ing the papers of the day.
" Bah! " said he, at last,—" sont-ils grands ces jour-
naux Anglais? Look, sir," he said, handing over an
immense sheet of The Times to Mr. Gambouge, " was
ever anything so monstrous?"
Gambouge smiled politely, and examined the prof-
fered page. " It is enormous," he said; " but I do not
read English."
"Nay," said the man with the orders, "look closer at it,
Signor Gambouge; it is astonishing how easy the lan-
guage is."
Wondering, Simon took the sheet of paper. He
turned pale as he looked at it, and began to curse the
92 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
ices and the waiter. " Come, M. I'Abbe," he said; " the
heat and glare of this place are intolerable."
*****
The stranger rose with them. " Au plaisir de vous
revoir, mon cher monsieur," said he; " I do not mind
speaking before the Abbe here, who will be my very good
friend one of these days; but I thought it necessary to
refresh your memory, concerning our little business
transaction six years since ; and could not exactly talk of
it at church, as you may fancy."
Simon Gambouge had seen, in the double-sheeted
Times, the paper signed by himself, which the little Devil
had pulled out of his fob.
*****
There was no doubt on the subject; and Simon, who
had but a year to live, grew more pious, and more care-
ful than ever. He had consultations with all the doctors
of the Sorbonne and all the lawyers of the Palais. But
his magnificence grew as wearisome to him as his poverty
had been before; and not one of the doctors whom he
consulted could give him a pennyworth of consolation.
Then he grew outrageous in his demands upon the
Devil, and put him to all sorts of absurd and ridiculous
tasks; but they were all punctually performed, until
Simon could invent no new ones, and the Devil sat all
day with his hands in his pockets doing nothing.
One day, Simon's confessor came bounding into the
room, with the greatest glee. " My friend," 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 ! "
THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN 93
Gambouge caught at the notion, and hurried off a
courier to Rome ventre a terre. His HoHness agreed to
the request of the petition, and sent him an absolution,
written out with his own fist, and all in due form.
" Now," said he, " foul fiend, I defy you! arise, Di-
abolus! your contract is not worth a jot: the Pope has
absolved me, and I am safe on the road to salvation." In
a fervour of gratitude he clasped the hand of his con-
fessor, and embraced him: tears of joy ran down the
cheeks of these good men.
They heard an inordinate roar of laughter, and there
was Diabolus sitting opposite to them, holding his sides,
and lashing his tail about, as if he would have gone mad
with glee.
" Why," said he, " what nonsense is this! do you sup-
pose I care about that? " and he tossed the Pope's mis-
sive into a corner. " M. I'Abbe knows," he said,
bowing and grinning, " that though the Pope's paper
may pass current here, it is not worth twopence in
our country. What do I care about the Pope's abso-
lution? You might just as well be absolved by your
under butler."
" Egad," said the Abbe, " the rogue is right— I quite
forgot the fact, which he points out clearly enough."
" No, no, Gambouge," continued Diabolus, with hor-
rid familiarity, " go thy ways, old fellow, that cock
wont fight." And he retired up the chimney, chuckling
at his wit and his triumph. Gambouge heard his tail
scuttling all the way up, as if he had been a sweeper by
profession.
Simon was left in that condition of grief in which, ac-
cording to the newspapers, cities and nations are found
when a murder is committed, or a lord ill of the gout
94 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
— a situation, we say, more easy to imagine than to
describe.
To add to his woes, Mrs. Gambouge, who was now
first made acquainted with his compact, and its probable
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 com-
pletely knocked under to her, was worn out of his life.
He was allowed no rest, night or day: he moped about
his fine house, solitary and wretched, and cursed his stars
that he ever had married the butcher's daughter.
It wanted six months of the time.
A sudden and desperate resolution seemed all at once
to have taken possession of Simon Gambouge. He
called his family and his friends together — he gave one
of the greatest feasts that ever was known in the city
of Paris — he gaily presided at one end of his table, while
Mrs. Gam., splendidly arrayed, gave herself airs at the
other extremity.
After dinner, using the customary formula, he called
upon Diabolus to appear. The old ladies screamed, and
hoped he would not appear naked; the young ones tit-
tered, and longed to see the monster : everybody was pale
with expectation and affright.
A very quiet, gentlemanly man, neatly dressed in
black, made his appearance, to the surprise of all present,
and bowed all round to the company. " I will not show
my credentials'' he said, blushing, and pointing to his
hoofs, which were cleverly hidden by his pumps and
shoe-buckles, "unless the ladies absolutely wish it; but
I am the person you want, Mr. Gambouge ; pray tell me
what is your will."
THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN 95
" 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."
" I am," replied the new comer.
*' You are to do all that I ask, whatsoever it may be,
or you forfeit the bond which I gave you? "
" It is true."
*' You declare this before the present company? "
" Upon my honour, as a gentleman," said Diabolus,
bowing, and laying his hand upon his waistcoat.
A whisper of applause ran round the room: all were
charmed with the bland manners of the fascinating
stranger.
" My love," continued Gambouge, mildly addressing
his lady, " will you be so polite as to step this way? You
know I must go soon, and I am anxious, before this noble
company, to make a provision for one who, in sickness as
in health, in poverty as in riches, has been my truest and
fondest companion."
Gambouge mopped his eyes with his handkerchief
— all the company did likewise. Diabolus sobbed audi-
bly, and Mrs. Gambouge sidled up to her husband's side,
and took him tenderly by the hand. " Simon! " said she,
" is it true? and do you really love your Griskinissa? "
Simon continued solemnly: " Come hither, Diabolus;
you are bound to obey me in all things for the six months
during which our contract has to run; take, then, Gris-
kinissa 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 ap-
pointed time."
96 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
Not Lord G when flogged by Lord B in the
House,— not Mr. Cartlitch, of Astley's Amphitheatre,
in his most pathetic passages, could look more crest-
fallen, 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 ! "
Simon smiled sternly. " I have said it," he cried; " do
this, or our contract is at an end."
The Devil, at this, grinned so horribly that every drop
of beer in the house turned sour : he gnashed his teeth so
frightfully that every person in the company well nigh
fainted with the colic. He slapped down the great
parchment upon the floor, trampled upon it madly, and
lashed it with his hoofs and his tail : at last, spreading out
a mighty pair of wings as wide as from here to Regent
Street, he slapped Gambouge with his tail over one eye,
and vanished, abruptly, through the keyhole.
*****
Gambouge screamed with pain and started up. " You
drunken, lazy scoundrel! " cried a shrill and well-known
voice, " you have been asleep these two hours: " and here
he received another terrific box on the ear.
It was too true, he had fallen asleep at his work ; and
the beautiful vision had been dispelled by the thumps of
the tipsy Griskinissa. Nothing remained to corroborate
his story, except the bladder of lake, and this was spirted
all over his waistcoat and breeches.
" I wish," said the poor fellow, rubbing his tingling
cheeks, " that dreams were true; " and he went to work
again at his portrait.
*****
A Puzzle for the Devil
THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN 97
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 deal-
ings with soap-suds and hot water have been the only
things in life which have kept her from spontaneous
combustion.
CARTOUCHE
I HAVE been much interested with an account of the
exploits of Monsieur Louis Dominic Cartouche,
and as 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 -Eng-
land men.
Louis Dominic was born in a quarter of Paris called
the Courtille, says the historian whose work lies before
me;— born in the Courtille, and in the year 1693. An-
other 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, Tur-
pin, Boileau, Dryden, Swift, Addison, Moliere, Racine,
Jack Sheppard, and Louis Cartouche — all famous within
the same twenty years, and fighting, writing, robbing
a Venvi!
Well, Marlborough was no chicken when he began to
show his genius; Swift was but a dull, idle, college lad;
but if we read the histories of some other great men
mentioned in the above list — I mean the thieves, es-
pecially — 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 Car-
touche's knaveries begins almost with his breeches.
98
CARTOUCHE 99
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 com-
panions, 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 naivete j
a scheme, prettily conceived and smartly performed, was
rendered naught.
Cartouche had a wonderful love for good eating, and
put all the apple-women and cooks, who came to supply
the students, under contribution. Not always, however,
desirous of robbing these, he used to deal with them, oc-
casionally, on honest principles of barter; that is, when-
ever he could get hold of his schoolfellows' knives, books,
rulers, or playthings, which he used fairly to exchange
for tarts and gingerbread.
It seemed as if the presiding genius of evil was de-
termined 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
100 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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.
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 Car-
touche penetrated. These were divided from the rooms
below, according to the fashion of those days, by a set
of large beams, which reached across the whole building,
and across which rude planks were laid, which formed
the ceiling of the lower storey and the floor of the upper.
Some of these planks did young Cartouche remove ; and
having descended by means of a rope, tied a couple of
others to the neck of the honey-pots, climbed back again,
and drew up his prey in safety. He then cunningly
fixed the planks again in their old places, and retired to
gorge himself upon his booty. And, now, see the pun-
ishment 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
CARTOUCHE 101
couple of golden louis, which, with ninety-eight more of
their fellows, were comfortably hidden in the pots. Lit-
tle Dominic, who, before, had cut rather a poor figure
among his fellow-students, now appeared in as fine
clothes as any of them could boast of; and when asked
by his parents, on going home, how he came by them,
said that a young nobleman of his school-fellows had
taken a violent fancy to him, and made him a present
of a couple of his suits. Cartouche the elder, good man,
went to thank the young nobleman ; but none such could
be found, and young Cartouche disdained to give any
explanation of his manner of gaining the money.
Here, again, we have to regret and remark the inad-
vertence 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.
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.
102 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 alto-
gether, and set out upon the wide world to shift for
himself as he could.
Undoubted as his genius was, he had not arrived at
the full exercise of it, and his gains were by no means
equal to his appetite. In whatever professions he tried,
— whether he joined the gipsies, which he did, — whether
he picked pockets on the Pont Neuf, which occupa-
tion history attributes to him, — poor Cartouche was al-
ways 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
houilli at home.
Cartouche had an uncle, a kind man, who was a mer-
chant, and had dealings at Rouen. One day, walking
on the quays of that city, this gentleman saw a very
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 I
it was their runaway prodigal— it was little Louis Dom-
inic! The merchant was touched by his case; and for-
getting the nightcaps, the honey-pots, and the rags and
CARTOUCHE 103
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.
But why attempt to baulk 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 enamoured of a lovely washer-
woman. 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 handker-
chiefs and silk stockings, and a treat into the country
or to the play. Now, how are all these things to be had
without money? Cartouche saw at once that it was
impossible ; and as his father would give him none, he was
obliged to look for it elsewhere. He took to his old
courses, and lifted a purse here, and a watch there; and
found, moreover, an accommodating gentleman, who
took the wares off his hands.
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 labour.
M. Cartouche, in fact, formed part of a regular com-
pany or gang of gentlemen, who were associated to-
gether for the purpose of making war on the public and
the law.
104 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 devo-
tion 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 prop-
erty. Informations were taken, the house of the bride-
groom 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 bride-
groom kept his great chest, and set industriously to
work, filing and picking the locks which defended the
treasure.
The bridegroom slept in the next room; but however
tenderly Cartouche and his workmen handled their tools,
from fear of disturbing his slumbers, their benevolent
design was disappointed, for awaken him they did; and
quietly slipping out of bed, he came to a place where he
had a complete view of all that was going on. He did
not cry out, or frighten himself sillily; but, on the con-
trary, contented himself with watching the countenances
of the robbers, so that he might recognize them on an-
other occasion; and, though an avaricious man, he did
CARTOUCHE 105
not feel the slightest anxiety about his money-chest ; for
the fact is, he had removed all the cash and papers the
day before.
As soon, however, as they had broken all the locks,
and found the nothing which lay at the bottom of the
chest, he shouted with such a loud voice, " Here, Thomas!
— John! — officer! — keep the gate, fire at the rascals!"
that they, incontinently taking fright, skipped nimbly
out of window, and left the house free.
Cartouche, after this, did not care to meet his brother-
in-law, but eschewed all those occasions on which the
latter was to be present at his father's house. The
evening before the marriage came; and then his father
insisted upon his appearance among the other rela-
tives 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 compan-
ions, 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 mod-
estly down to a side-table, his father shouted after him,
" PIo, Dominic, come hither, and sit opposite to your
brother-in-law: " which Dominic did, his friends follow-
ing. The bridegroom pledged him very gracefully in
a bumper; and was in the act of making him a pretty
speech, on the honour 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
106 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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
bis glass down, ran quickly out of the room, for he
thought he was in company of a whole gang of rob-
bers. And when he got home, he wrote a letter to the
elder Cartouche, humbly declining any connexion with
his family.
Cartouche the elder, of course, angrily asked the
reason of such an abrupt dissolution of the engagement ;
and then, much to his horror, heard of his eldest son's
doings. " You would not have me marry into such a
family? " said the ex-bridegroom. And old Car-
touche, 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.
But how to catch the young gentleman? Old Car-
touche knew that, were he to tell his son of the scheme,
the latter would never obey, and, therefore, he deter-
mined 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
CARTOUCHE 107
way half-a-dozen men were posted, evidently with the
intention of arresting him.
Cartouche now performed a great and celebrated
stroke of genius, which, if he had not been professionally
employed in the morning, he never could have executed.
He had in his pocket a piece of linen, which he had laid
hold of at the door of some shop, and from which he
quickly tore three suitable stripes. One he tied round his
head, after the fashion of a nightcap ; a second round his
waist, like an apron ; and with the third he covered his hat,
a round one, with a large brim. His coat and his periwig
he left behind him in the carriage ; and when he stepped
out from it (which he did without asking the coachman
to let down the steps), he bore exactly the appearance
of a cook's boy carrying a dish ; and with this he slipped
through the exempts quite unsuspected, and bade adieu
to the Lazarists and his honest father, who came out
speedily to seek him, and was not a little annoyed to
find only his coat and wig.
With that coat and wig. Cartouche left home, father,
friends, conscience, remorse, society, behind him. He
discovered (like a great number of other philosophers
and poets, when they have committed rascally actions)
that the world was all going wrong, and he quar-
relled 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 occa-
sion, and how much he had improved in the course of
a very few years' experience. His courage and inge-
nuity were vastly admired by his friend; so much so,
that, one day, the captain of the band thought fit to
compliment him, and vowed that when he (the captain)
108 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
died, Cartouche should infallibly be called to the com-
mander-in-chief. This conversation, so flattering to Car-
touche, 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 favour; 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 Car-
touche? 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, precipi-
tated 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, over-
come 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 pacifi-
cator of Spain, is an amiable character, for whom history
has not been written in vain.
Being arrived at this exalted position, there is no end
of the feats which Cartouche performed; and his band
reached to such a pitch of glory, that if there had been
a hundred thousand, instead of a hundred of them, who
knows but that a new and popular dynasty might not
have been founded, and " Louis Dominic, premier Em-
CARTOUCHE 109
pereur des Fran^ais," might have performed innumer-
able glorious actions, and fixed himself ill the hearts of
his people, just as other monarchs have done, a hundred
years after Cartouche's death.
A story similar to the above, and equally moral, is that
of Cartouche, who, in company with two other gentle-
men, 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 neighbour, as the
three conquerors were making merry over their gains;
"if you were but to pull the trigger of your pistol in
the neighbourhood of your comrade's ear, perhaps it
might go oiF, 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.
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 lieu-
tenant 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
no THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
of the police; and the noble Marquess, desiring to see
Monsieur de la Reynie, on matters of the highest mo-
ment, alone, the latter introduced him into his private
cabinet; and how, when there, the Marquess drew from
his pocket a long, curiously shaped dagger: " Look at
this. Monsieur de la Reynie," said he; " this dagger is
poisoned ! "
" Is it possible? " said M. de la Reynie.
" A prick of it would do for any man," said the Mar-
quess.
" You don't say so! " said M. de la Reynie.
" I do, though ; and, what is more," says the Marquess,
in a terrible voice, " if you do not instantly lay yourself
flat on the ground, with your face towards it, and your
hands crossed over your back, or if you make the slightest
noise or cry, I will stick this poisoned dagger between
your ribs, as sure as my name is Cartouche ! "
At the sound of this dreadful name, M. de la Reynie
sunk incontinently down on his stomach, and submitted
to be carefully gagged and corded; after which Mon-
sieur Cartouche laid his hands upon all the money which
was kept in the lieutenant's cabinet. Alas! and alas!
many a stout bailiff, and many an honest fellow of a spy,
went, for that day, without his pay and his victuals.
There is a story that Cartouche once took the diligence
to Lille, and found in it a certain Abbe Potter, who was
full of indignation against this monster of a Cartouche,
and said that when he went back to Paris, which he pro-
posed to do in about a fortnight, he should give the lieu-
tenant of police some information, which would infal-
libly lead to the scoundrel's capture. But poor Potter
was disappointed in his designs ; for, before he could ful-
fil them, he was made the victim of Cartouche's cruelty.
CARTOUCHE 111
A letter came to the lieutenant of police, to state that
Cartouche had travelled to Lille, in company with the
Abbe de Potter, of that town; that, on the reverend
gentleman's return towards Paris, Cartouche had way-
laid him, murdered him, taken his papers, and would
come to Paris himself, bearing the name and clothes of
the unfortunate Abbe, by the Lille coach, on such a day.
The Lille coach arrived, was surrounded by police
agents; the monster Cartouche was there, sure enough,
in the Abbe's guise. He was seized, bound,* flung into
prison, brought out to be examined, and, on examination,
found to be no other than the Abbe Potter himself! It
is pleasant to read thus of the relaxations of great men,
and find them condescending to joke like the meanest
of us.
Another diligence adventure is recounted of the fa-
mous 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 Mar-
seilles, 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 Mont-
morency, the Commandeur de la Tremoille, with all their
interest at court, could not fail to procure for him. To
be short, in the course of the four days' journey, the
Count Louis Dominic de Grinche played his cards so
well, that the poor little widow half forgot her late
husband ; and her eyes glistened with tears as the Count
112 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
kissed her hand at parting— at parting, he hoped, only
for a few hours.
Day and night the insinuating Count followed her;
and when, at the end of a fortnight, and in the midst of a
tete-a-tete, he plunged, one morning, suddenly on his
knees, and said, " Leonora, do you love me? " the poor
thing heaved the gentlest, tenderest, sweetest sigh in the
world; and, sinking her blushing head on his shoulder,
whispered, "Oh, Dominic, je t'aime! All!" 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 Fetat^—a handsome sum,
but nothing to compare to the rent-roll of Count Dom-
inic, Count de la Grinche, Seigneur de la Haute Pigre,
Baron de la Bigorne; he had estates and wealth which
might authorize him to aspire to the hand of a duchess,
at least.
The unfortunate widow never for a moment suspected
the cruel trick that was about to be played on her; and,
at the request of her affianced husband, sold out her
money, and realized it in gold, to be made over to him
on the day when the contract was to be signed. The day
arrived ; and, according to the custom in France, the re-
lations 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
Cartouche
CARTOUCHE 113
of Montmorencies, Crequis, 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 con-
tract which was to make the widow's three hundred thou-
sand 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 Cado-
gan, when I was with Malbrook's army in Flanders."
Here the Due de la Roche Guyon came forward, very
much alarmed. " Run me through the body! " said his
Grace, " but the comptroller-general's lady, there, is
no other than that old hag of a Margoton who keeps
the — " Here the Due de la Roche Guyon's voice fell.
Cartouche smiled graciously, and walked up to the
table. He took up one of the widow's fifteen thousand
gold pieces; — it was as pretty a bit of copper as you
could wish to see. " My dear," said he, politely, " there
is some mistake here, and this business had better stop."
*' Count! " gasped the poor widow.
"Count be hanged!" answered the bridegroom,
sternly; " my name is Cartouche! "
ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE
NOVELS
WITH A PLEA FOR ROMANCES IN GENERAL
THERE is an old story of a Spanish court painter,
who, being pressed for money, and having re-
ceived 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 honour the pro-
cession was given, remarked the painter, and so his de-
ceit was found out.
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 favourite duodecimos
are as instructive as the biggest quartos in the world.
If then, ladies, the big-wigs begin to sneer at the
course of our studies, calling our darling romances fool-
ish, 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 employ-
ments, and to such dull studies as you fancy ; go and bob
lU
FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS 115
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 commodi-
ous; — be not you envious because you have no wings to
fly thither. Let the big-wigs despise us ; such contempt
of their neighbours 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.
Not so: others may be deaf; but the novelist has a
loud, eloquent, instructive language, though his enemies
may despise or deny it ever so much. What is more, one
could, perhaps, meet the stoutest historian on his own
ground, and argue with him ; showing that sham histories
were much truer than real histories; which are, in fact,
mere contemptible catalogues of names and places, that
can have no moral effect upon the reader.
As thus: —
Julius Caesar beat Pompey, at Pharsalia.
The Duke of Marlborough beat Marshal Tallard, at Blenheim.
The Constable of Bourbon beat Francis the First, at Pavia.
And what have we here? — so many names, simply. Sup-
pose Pharsalia had been, at that mysterious period when
116 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
names were given, called Pavia ; and that Julius Ceesar's
family name had been John Churchill; — the fact would
have stood, in history, thus: —
" Pompey ran away from the Duke of Marlborough at Pavia."
And why not? — we should have been just as wise. Or it
might be stated, that —
" The tenth legion charged the French infantry at Blenheim ;
and Cffisar, writing home to his mamma, said, ' Madame, tout est
perdu fors Vhonncur.^ "
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 every-
thing ; 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."
Having thus disposed of the historians, let us come to
the point in question — the novelists.
On the title-page of these volumes the reader has,
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 mu-
tilated, according to the old saying, so that their owners
should not know them) ; and, for compositions, we in-
tend to favour the public with some studies of French
modern works, that have not as yet, we believe,- attracted
the notice of the English public.
Of such works there appear many hundreds yearly,
■^ 2 x;
p >= B
<I 55 W
o w h
o
w
FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS 117
as may be seen by the French catalogues ; but the writer
has not so much to do with works poHtical, 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 hu-
miliation, that we borrow from these stories a great deal
more knowledge of French society than from our own
personal observation we ever can hope to gain: for, let
a gentleman who has dwelt two, four, or ten years in
Paris (and has not gone thither for the purpose of
making a book, when three weeks are sufficient) —let
an English gentleman say, at the end of any given
period, how much he knows of French society, how many
French houses he has entered, and how many French
friends he has made? — He has enjoyed, at the end of the
year, say—
At the English Ambassador's, so many soirees.
At houses to which he has brought letters, so many tea-parties.
At cafes, so many dinners.
At French private houses, say three dinners, and very lucky too.
He has, we say, seen an immense number of wax can-
dles, 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 grey, and see no
more. We play ecarte with Monsieur de Trefle every
night; but what know we of the heart of the man— of
the inward ways, thoughts, and customs of Trefle? If
we have good legs, and love the amusement, we dance
with Countess Flicflac, Tuesdays and Thursdays, ever
118 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
since the Peace; and how far are we advanced in ac-
quaintance 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 geiis, so many rats: but the real,
rougeless, intime Fhcflac, 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 hetise of the
Briton, who has never a word to say. We are married,
and have fourteen children, and would just as soon make
love to the Pope of Rome as to any one but our own
wife. If you do not make love to Flicflac, from the
day after her marriage to the day she reaches sixty, she
thinks you a fool. We won't play at ecarte with Trefle
on Sunday nights; and are seen walking, about one
o'clock (accompanied by fourteen red-haired children,
with fourteen gleaming prayer-books), away from the
church. "Grand Dieu!" cries Trefle, "is that man
mad? He won't play at cards on a Sunday; he goes to
church on a Sunday: he has fourteen children! "
Was ever Frenchman known to do likewise? Pass
we on to our argument, which is, that with our English
notions and moral and physical constitution, it is quite
impossible that we should become intimate with our
brisk neighbours ; and when such authors as Lady Mor-
FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS 119
gan 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 re-
spect for the talents of those ladies, we do believe their in-
formation not to be worth a sixpence; they speak to us,
not of men, but of tea-parties. Tea-parties are the same
all the world over; with the exception that, with the
French, there are more lights and prettier dresses; and
with us, a mighty deal more tea in the pot.
There is, however, a cheap and delightful way of trav-
elling, 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 Waver-
ley and the Young Pretender, along with Walter Scott ;
up to the heights of fashion with the charming enchanters
of the silver-fork school ; or, better still, to the snug inn-
parlour, or the jovial tap-room, with ]VIr. 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 au-
thentic histories.
We have, therefore, introduced into these volumes one
or two short reviews of French fiction writers, of par-
120 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
ticular 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 neighbours.
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 Ber-
nard, who has painted actual manners, without those
monstrous and terrible exaggerations in which late
French writers have indulged; and who, if he occasion-
ally 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 laboured
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 — ras-
cals 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.
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 Ber-
nard's ; but such light things are very difficult of transla-
tion, and the sparkle sadly evaporates during the process
of decanting.
FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS 121
A FRENCH FASHIONABLE LETTER
*' My dear Victor— It is six in the morning: I have
just come from the English Ambassador's ball, and
as my plans for the day do not admit of my sleeping,
I write you a line; for, at this moment, saturated as I
am with the enchantments of a fairy night, all other
pleasures would be too wearisome to keep me awake,
except that of conversing with you. Indeed, were I
not to write to you now, when should I find the possibil-
ity 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 com-
pelled to seize occasion by the forelock ; for each moment
has its imperious employ. Do not then accuse me of
negligence: if my correspondence has not always that
regularity which I would fain give it, attribute the fault
solely to the whirlwind in which I live, and which carries
me hither and thither at its will.
" However, you are not the only person with whom I
am behindhand: I assure you, on the contrary, that you
are one of a very numerous and fashionable company,
to whom, towards the discharge of my debts, I propose
to consecrate four hours to-day. I give you the prefer-
ence to all the world, even to the lovely Duchess of San
Severino, a delicious Italian, whom, for my special hap-
piness, 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 nimporte, I commence
with thee: friendship before love or money— friendship
before everything. My despatches concluded, I am en-
gaged to ride with the Marquis de Grigneure, the Comte
de Castijars, and Lord Cobham, in order that we may
122 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
recover, for a breakfast at the Rocher de Cancale that
Grigneure has lost, the appetite which we all of us so cru-
elly abused last night at the Ambassador's gala. On my
honour, my dear fellow, everybody was of a caprice pres-
tigieucc and a comfortable miroholant. Fancy, for a
banquet-hall, a royal orangery hung with white damask ;
the boxes of the shrubs transformed into so many side-
boards; 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.
" Here I pause, to call for my valet-de-chambre, and
call for tea ; for my head is heavy, and I've no time for
a headache. In serving me, this rascal of a Frederic
has broken a cup, true Japan, upon my honour— 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 Barriere du Combat, where
Lord Cobham proposes to try some bull-dogs, which he
has brought over from England— one of these, O 'Cou-
ncil, (Lord Cobham is a Tory,) has a face in which I
place much confidence: I have a bet of ten louis with
FRENCH FASHIOXABLE NOVELS 123
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 indispensa-
ble; for Coralie, a charming creature, passes this even-
ing from the rank of the rats to that of the tigers^ in a
pas-de-troiSj, and our box patronizes her. After the
Opera, I must show my face at two or three salons in
the Faubourg St. Honore; and having thus performed
mj^ duties to the world of fashion, I return to the ex-
ercise of my rights as a member of the Carnival. At
two o'clock all the world meets at the Theatre Venta-
dour: lions and tigers — the whole of our menagerie, will
be present. Evoe! off we go! roaring and bounding
Bacchanal and Saturnal; 'tis agreed that we shall be
everything that is low. To conclude, we sup with Casti-
jars, the most ' furiously dishevelled ' orgy that ever was
known."
<L' ,\l/, Ak ik Afe
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 " Cafe de Paris,"
and delirious Carnival balls : the animal goes through all
such frantic pleasures at the season that precedes Lent.
He has a wondrous respect for English " gentlemen-
sportsmen; " he imitates their clubs— their love of horse-
flesh : he calls his palef renier a groom, wears blue bird's-
eye neckcloths, sports his pink out hunting, rides
124 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
steeplechases, 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 Mon-
sieur 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 verisi-
militude of the title.
For the " rugisseinents et hondissements, hacchanale
et saturnale, galop infernalj ronde du sahhat tout le
tre7nblement'' these words give a most clear, untrans-
latable 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, reel-
ing, roaring, ovit of the ball-room in the Rue St. Honore,
and tore down to the column in the Place Vendome,
round which they went shrieking their own music, twenty
miles an hour, and so tore madly back again. Let a
man go alone to such a place of amusement, and the
sight for him is perfectly terrible: the horrid frantic
gaiety of the place puts him in mind more of the merri-
ment of demons than of men : bang, bang, drums, trum-
pets, chairs, pistol-shots, pour out of the orchestra,
which seems as mad as the dancers; whiz, a whirlwind
of paint and patches, all the costumes under the sun, all
the ranks in the empire, all the he and she scoundrels of
the capital, writhed and twisted together, rush by you;
if a man falls, woe be to him: two thousand screaming
menads go trampling over his carcass : they have neither
power nor will to stop.
A set of Malays drunk with bhang and running
FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS 125
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 neigh-
bours see little shame in them; and it is very true that
men of all classes, high and low, here congregate and
give themselves up to the disgusting worship of the
genius of the place. — From the dandy of the Boulevard
and the " Cafe Anglais," let us turn to the dandy of
" Flicoteau's " and the Pays Latin— the Paris student,
whose exploits among the grisettes are so celebrated,
and whose fierce republicanism keeps gendarmes for
ever on the alert. The following is M. de Bernard's
description of him: —
" I became acquainted with Dambergeac when we
were students at the Ecole de Droit; we lived in the
same Hotel on the Place du Pantheon. No doubt,
madam, you have occasionally met little children dedi-
cated 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 republican-
ism; 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 lib-
126 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
erality of politics, which were at their height when first
I made his acquaintance.
" 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 criticized, he had, neverthe-
less, 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 coun-
tenance bronzed by a southern sun: he wore, at one
time, enormous flowing blaclv 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.
" 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
honours, 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 lingere's,
in all our quartier Latin, which he did not industriously
frequent, and of which he was not the oracle. Nay, it
FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS 127
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 Pois-
sonniere. Such recitals were, for us less favoured mor-
tals, 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 Elysees with
such elegant assurance; no man ever made such a mas-
sacre of dolls at the shooting-gallery; or won you a
rubber at billiards with more easy grace; or thundered
out a couplet out of Beranger with such a roaring me-
lodious bass. He was the monarch of the Prado in win-
ter: in summer of the Chaumiere and Mont Parnasse.
Not a frequenter of those fashionable places of enter-
tainment 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 Gottingen and Jena, and all the eminent graces of his
own country.
" Besides dissipation and gallantry, our friend had
one other vast and absorbing occupation — politics,
namely; in which he was as turbulent and enthusiastic
as in pleasure. JLa 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 a la
Sylla; need I mention his pipe, his meerschaum pipe,
of which General Foy's head was the bowl ; his handker-
chief with the Charte printed thereon ; and his celebrated
128 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
tricolor braces, which kept the rallying sign of his coun-
try 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 associa-
tions, read the Constitutionnel (Liberals, in those days,
swore by the Constitutionnel) , harangued peers and dep-
uties who had deserved well of their country ; and if death
happened to fall on such, and the Constitutionnel de-
clared their merit, Harmodius was the very first to at-
tend their obsequies, or to set his shoulder to their coffins.
" Such were his tastes and passions: his antipathies
were not less lively. He detested three things : a Jesuit, a
gendarme, and a claqueur at a theatre. At this period,
missionaries were rife about Paris, and endeavoured to
re-illume the zeal of the faithful by public preachings in
the churches. ' Inf dines 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 ; odours of impure assafcetida 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 un-
der the reign of the Abbot of Unreason.
" His hatred of the gendarmes was equally ferocious:
and as for the claqueurs, woe be to them when Harmo-
dius 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.
FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS 129
that the '^entrepreneurs de succes draniatiques ' de-
manded 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."
This passage, with which we have taken some liberties,
will give the reader a more lively idea of the reckless, jo-
vial, turbulent Paris student, than any with which a for-
eigner could furnish him : the grisette is his heroine ; and
dear old Beranger, 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 far-
ther ; 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 conver-
sions in France — nay, in England — has reduced him to
be a pompous, quiet, loyal supporter of the juste milieu:
his former portrait was that of the student, the present
will stand for an admirable lively likeness of
THE SOUS-PREFET
" Saying that I would wait for Dambergeac in his
own study, I was introduced into that apartment, and
saw around me the usual furniture of a man in his sta-
tion. 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
130 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
department over which Dambergeac ruled; and facing
the windows, on a wooden pedestal, stood a plaster-cast
of the "^Roi des Frangais/ Recollecting my friend's
former republicanism, I smiled at this piece of furniture ;
but before I had time to carry my observations any far-
ther, 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 gentle-
man, 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 es-
cort, mounted the stair. A moment afterwards the door
of the study was opened, and I embraced my friend.
" After the first warmth and salutations, we began
to examine each other with an equal curiosity, for eight
years had elapsed since we had last met.
" ' You are grown very thin and pale,' said Harmo-
dius, after a moment.
" ' In revenge I find you fat and rosy: if I am a walk-
ing satire on celibacy, — you, at least, are a living pane-
gyric on marriage.'
" In fact a great change, and such an one as many
people would call a change for the better, had taken place
in my friend : he had grown fat, and announced a decided
disposition to become what French people call a hel
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 whis-
FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS 131
kers, cut crescent-wise from the ear to the nose, gave
my friend a regular bourgeois physiognomy, wax-doll-
hke : 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.
" ' I surprise you,' said I, ' in the midst of your
splendour: do you know that this costume and yonder
attendants have a look excessively awful and splendid?
You entered your palace just now with the air of a
pasha.'
You see me in uniform in honour of Monseigneur
the Bishop, who has just made his diocesan visit, and
whom I have just conducted to the limit of the arron-
dissement.'
What! ' said I, ' you have gendarmes for guards,
and dance attendance on bishops? There are no more
janissaries and Jesuits, I suppose? ' The sub-prefect
smiled.
" ' I assure you that 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.'
What have you done with that great Tasso beard
that poor Armandine used to love so ? '
My wife does not like a beard ; and you know that
what is permitted to a student is not very becoming to a
magistrate.'
" I began to laugh. * Harmodius and a magistrate!
— how shall I ever couple the two words together? But
tell me, in your correspondences, your audiences, your
sittings with village mayors and petty councils, how do
you manage to remain awake? '
132 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
" ' 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.'
" ' 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 odour of these piles of papers.'
" ' Impossible, my dear; I don't smoke; my wife can-
not bear a cigar.'
" His wife! thought I: always his wife; and I remem-
ber 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 compen-
sate, however, as much as possible for the loss of my
cigar, Dambergeac drew from his pocket an enormous
gold snuff-box, on which figured the selfsame head that
I had before remarked in plaster, but this time sur-
rounded 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 Roy-
alists were only supposed to be guilty of.
What! you are turned decided juste milieu? ' said
I.
" ' I am a sous-prefet,' answered Harmodius.
" I had nothing to say, but held my tongue, wonder-
ing, 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.
FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS 133
Madame is waiting for Monsieur,' said he : ' the last
bell has gone, and mass beginning.'
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-prefet 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 Sun-
day.' "
There is a great deal of curious matter for specula-
tion in the accounts here so wittily given by M. de Ber-
nard: 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 to-
gether 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 JVIon-
sieur Dambergeac the sous-prefet, and his friend, a rich
store of calm internal debauch, which does not, let us
hope and pray, exist in England. Hearken to M. de
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 remon-
strances concerning pauvre Juliette, who grew sick at
the smell of a pipe; to his naive admiration at the fact
that the sous-prefet goes to church: and we may set
134 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 pre-
vails: 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 de-
cency of secrecy, and is not made patent and notorious
to all the world. A French gentleman thinks no more
of proclaiming that he has a mistress than that he has
a tailor; and one lives the time of Boccaccio over again,
in the thousand and one French novels which depict
society in that country.
For instance, here are before us a few specimens (do
not, madam, be alarmed, you can skip the sentence if
you like,) to be found in as many admirable witty tales,
by the before-lauded Monsieur de Bernard. He is more
remarkable than any other French author, to our notion,
for writing like a gentleman: there is ease, grace and
ton, in his style, which, if we judge aright, cannot be
discovered in Balzac, or Soulie, or Dumas. We have
then — " Gerfaut," a novel: a lovely creature is married to
a brave, haughty, Alsatian 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; in-
stantly 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.
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;
FREXCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS 135
all of whom find out their mutual connexion one
starry night; for the lady of forty is of a romantic
poetical turn, and has given her three admirers a star
apiece; saying to one and the other, " Alphonse, when
yon pale orb rises in heaven, think of me; " " Isidore,
when that bright planet sparkles in the sky, remember
your Caroline," &c.
" Un Acte de Vertu," from which we have taken
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!
If we examine an author who rejoices in the aristo-
cratic name of le Comte Horace de Viel-Castel, we find,
though with infinitely less wit, exactly the same intrigues
going on. A noble Count lives in the Faubourg St.
Honore, and has a noble Duchess for a mistress: he in-
troduces 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 jJJ^^tend
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 noble-
man, 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 hus-
band (poor devil!) —but for being a flirt, and taking a
second lover, to the utter despair, confusion, and anni-
hilation of the first.
136 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
Why, ye gods, do Frenchmen marry at all? Had
Pere Enfantin (who, it is said, has shaved his ambrosial
beard, and is now a clerk in a banking-house) been al-
lowed 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 ?
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 Manage, 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 manages de convenance
take place here (as they will wherever avarice, and pov-
erty, and desire, and yearning after riches are to be
found), at least, thank God, such unions are not ar-
ranged upon a regular organized system: there is a fic-
tion 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
FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS 137
through all Ireland, with rich and rare gems, beauty,
and a gold ring on her stick, without meeting or thinking
of harm.
Now, whether INIonsieur de Viel-Castel has given a
true picture of the Faubourg St. Germain, it is impos-
sible for most foreigners to say ; but some of his descrip-
tions will not fail to astonish the English reader ; and all
are filled with that remarkable naif contempt of the
institution called marriage, which we have seen in M.
de Bernard. The romantic young nobleman of West-
phalia arrives at Paris, and is admitted into what a cele-
brated female author calls la crime de la creme de la
haute volee of Parisian society. He is a youth of about
twenty years of age. " No passion had as yet come to
move his heart, and give life to his faculties; he was
awaiting and fearing the moment of love ; calling for it,
and yet trembling at its approach ; feeling, in the depths
of his soul, that that moment would create a mighty
change in his being, and decide, perhaps, by its influence,
the whole of his future life."
Is it not remarkable, that a young nobleman, with
these ideas, should not pitch upon a demoiselle, or a
widow, at least? but no, the rogue must have a married
woman, bad luck to him ; and what his fate is to be, is thus
recounted by our author, in the shape of
A FRENCH FASHIONABLE CONVERSATION
" A lady, with a great deal of esprit, to whom forty
years' experience of the great world had given a pro-
digious perspicacity of judgment, the Duchess of Cha-
lux, arbitress of the opinion to be held on all new
comers to the Faubourg Saint Germain, and of their
138 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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, un-
less I very much deceive myself, he will, one day, be
the hero of a veritable romance.'
"'He, madame?' answered a young man, of fair
complexion and fair hair, one of the most devoted slaves
of the fashion: — ' He, INIadame la Duchesse? why, the
man is, at best, but an original, fished out of the Rhine :
a dull, heavy creature, as much capable of understand-
ing a woman's heart as I am of speaking bas-Breton.'
" ' Well, Monsieur de Belport, you will speak bas-
Breton. Monsieur de Stolberg has not your admirable
ease of manner, nor your facility of telling pretty
nothings, nor your— in a word, that particular some-
thing which makes you the most recherche man of the
Faubourg Saint Germain ; and even I avow to you that,
were I still young, and a coquette, and that I took it
into my head to have a lover, I would prefer you.'
" All this was said by the Duchess, with a certain
air of raillery and such a mixture of earnest and malice,
that Monsieur de Belport, piqued not a little, could not
help saying, as he bowed profoundly before the Duch-
ess's chair, ' And might I, madam, be permitted to ask
the reason of this preference? '
" ' O mon Dieu, oui,' said the Duchess, always in the
FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS 139
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 ci-uelly 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.'
" ' Perfectly,' murmured the gentleman, piqued more
and more.
"'Gerard de Stolberg xmll be passionate. I don't know
what woman will please him, or will be pleased by him '
(here the Duchess of Chalux spoke more gravely) ; ' but
his love will be no play, I repeat it to you once more.
All this astonishes you, because you, great leaders of
the ton that you are, never can fancy that a hero of ro-
mance should be found among your number. Gerard
de Stolberg — but look, here he comes! '
" M. de Belport rose, and quitted the Duchess, with-
out believing in her prophecy; but he could not avoid
smiling as he passed near the hero of roinance.
*' It was because M. de Stolberg had never, in all his
life, been a hero of romance, or even an apprentice-hero
of romance.
^ ik * * *
" 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 indis-
140 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
creet 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 stu-
dent 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.
"'How!' said the Viscount de Mondrage: '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 hy hrilliant veiled glances full of
coquetry and attack.
" ' Parbleu! ' said an elegant personage standing near
the Viscount de Mondrage, ' don't you see Dormilly
ranged behind the Duchess, in quality of train-bearer,
and hiding, under his long locks and his great screen of
moustaches, the blushing 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
FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS 141
him by quitting him for somebody else, the poor fellow
will turn an idiot.'
" ' Is he jealous? ' asked a young man, looking as if
he did not know what jealousy was and as if he had
no time to be jealous.
"'Jealous! — the very incarnation of jealousy; the
second edition, revised, corrected, and considerably
enlarged; as jealous as poor Gressigny, who is dying
of it.'
"'What! Gressigny too? why, 'tis growing quite
into fashion: egad! I must try and be jealous,' said
Monsieur de Beauval. ' But see ! here comes the delicious
Duchess of Bellefiore,' " &c. &c. &c.
"T» ^ ^^ *p^
Enough, enough: this kind of fashionable Parisian
conversation, which is, says our author, " a prodigious
labour 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 singu-
lar 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 incomprehen-
sible. 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
142 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
glances, full of coquetry and attack!— Parbleu, if Mon-
sieur 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.
A GAMBLER'S DEATH
A NYBODY who was at C school some twelve
±\. years since, must recollect Jack Attwood: he was
the most dashing lad in the place, with more money in his
pocket than belonged to the whole fifth form in which
we were companions.
When he was about fifteen. Jack suddenly retreated
from C , and presently we heard that he had a com-
mission 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 cordu-
roys, 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 belabouring him with his great cane.
Jack's talk was all about the regiment and the fine
fellows in it: how he had ridden a steeple-chase with
Captain Boldero, and licked him at the last hedge; and
143
144 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 fight-
ing across the mess-room table, Grig turned as pale as
a sheet, or as—"
" Or as you used to do, Attwood, when Swishtail
hauled you up," piped out little Hicks, the foundation-
boy.
It was beneath Jack's dignity to thrash anybody, now,
but a grown-up baronet; so he let off little Hicks, and
passed over the general titter which was raised at his
expense. However, he entertained us with his histories
about lords and ladies, and so-and-so " of ours," until
we thought him one of the greatest men in his Majesty's
service, and until the school-bell rung; when, with a
heavy heart, we got our books together, and 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 Coraet Attwood, of the n— th dragoons.
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 appear-
ance 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
A GAMBLER'S DEATH 145
in the class) ; but still I was rather hurt at the coolness
of my old comrade, who had forgotten all our former
intimacy, in his steeple-chases with Captain Boldero and
his duel with Sir George Grig.
Nothing more was heard of Attwood for some years ;
a tailor one day came down to C , who had made
clothes for Jack in his school-days, and furnished him
with regimentals : he produced a long bill for one hundred
and twenty pounds and upwards, and asked where news
might be had of his customer. Jack was in India, with
his regiment, shooting tigers and jackals, no doubt. Oc-
casionally, from that distant country, some magnificent
rumour 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 disapi3eared likewise, and I ceased to ask
or think about my college chum.
A year since, as I was smoking my cigar in the " Es-
taminet du Grand Balcon," an excellent smoking-shop,
Avhere 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 ex-
amine me. At last, he thrust a great greasy hand across
the table, and said, " Titmarsh, do you forget your old
friend Attwood? "
I confess my recognition of him was not so joyful as
on the daj'^ ten years earlier, when he had come, bedizened
146
THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 millionaire, or a milor, draws
instinctively back from a dirty fist, encompassed by a
ragged wristband and a tattered cuff. But Attwood
was in no wise 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.
However, the genial influence of the Hollands speed-
ily dissipated anything hke coolness between us ; and, in
A GAMBLER'S DEATH 147
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 in-
fallible 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 no-
tion 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 collec-
tion) ; but there, instead, was a strip of paper, thus in-
scribed: —
lOU
Five Pounds. John Attwood,
Late of the N — th Dragoons.
I suppose Attwood borrowed the money, from this re-
markable 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.
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
148 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 shin-
ing and imposing collection; and the passion of envy
entered my soul: I felt far more anxious now than be-
fore, although starvation was then staring me in the face ;
I hated Attwood for cheating me out of all this wealth.
Poor fellow! it had been better for him had he never
seen a shilling of it. However, a grand breakfast at the
Cafe Anglais dissipated my chagrin; and I will do my
friend the justice to say, that he nobly shared some por-
tion of his good fortune with me. As far as the creature
comforts were concerned I feasted as well as he, and
never was particular as to settling my share of the
reckoning.
Jack now changed his lodgings ; had cards, with Cap-
tain 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 Lau-
rent, and Madame la Baronne de Vaudrey, and Madame
la Comtesse de Don Jonville, ladies of the highest rank,
who keep a societe choisie and condescend to give dinners
at five francs a head, vied with each other in their atten-
tions to Jack. His was the wing of the fowl, and the
largest portion of the Charlotte-Russe ; his was the place
at the ecarte table, where the Countess would ease him
A GAMBLER'S DEATH 149
nightly of a few pieces, declaring that he was the most
charming cavalier, la fleur d' Albion. Jack's society, it
may be seen, w as not very select ; nor, in truth, were his
inclinations : he was a careless, dare-devil, JNIacheath kind
of fellow, who might be seen daily with a wife on each
arm.
It may be supposed that, with the life he led, his five
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.
Of course, such a humble fellow as I could not hope
for a continued acquaintance and intimacy with Att-
wood. 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 fa-
voured 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 med-
ical student, — all these three I met one night at Flap-
per's rooms, where Jack was invited, and a great
" spread " was laid in honour of him.
Jack arrived rather late— he looked pale and agitated;
and, though he ate no supper, he drank raw brandy in
such a manner as made Flapper's eyes wink : the poor fel-
low had but three bottles, and Jack bade fair to swallow
them all. However, the West Indian generously reme-
died the evil, and producing a napoleon, we speedily got
150 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
the change for it in the shape of four bottles of cham-
pagne.
Our supper was uproariously harmonious ; Fips sung
the good "Old Enghsh 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 hits the West Indian such a blow across his sconce,
that the other grew furious ; he seized a champagne-bot-
tle, which was, providentially, empty, and hurled it
across the room at Fips: had that celebrated barrister
not bowed his head at the moment, the Queen's Bench
would have lost one of its most eloquent practitioners.
Fips stood as straight as he could ; his cheek was pale
with wrath. " M-m-ister Go-gortz," he said, " I always
heard you were a blackguard ; now I can pr-pr-peperove
it. Flapper, your pistols! every ge-ge-genlmn knows
what I mean."
Young Mr. Flapper had a small pair of pocket-pis-
tols, which the tipsy barrister had suddenly remembered,
and with which he proposed to sacrifice the West Indian.
Gortz was nothing loth, but was quite as valorous as the
lawyer.
Attwood, who, in spite of his potations, seemed the
soberest man of the party, had much enjoyed the scene,
until this 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 forth-
A GAMBLER'S DEATH 151
with 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! "
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 eiFect produced by him,
for he blushed, and endeavoured to speak of other things,
but we could not bring our sj)irits back to the mark again,
and soon separated for the night. As we issued into the
street Jack took me aside, and whispered, " Have you a
napoleon, Titmarsh, in your purse? " Alas ! I was not so
rich. My reply was, that I was coming to Jack, only in
the morning, to borrow a similar sum.
He did not make any reply, but turned away home-
ward : I never heard him speak another word.
*****
Two mornings after (for none of our party met on the
day succeeding the supper) , I was awakened by my por-
ter, who brought a pressing letter from Mr. Gortz : —
" Dear T. — I wish you would come over here to breakfast.
There's a row about Attwood. — Yours truly,
" Solomon Gortz."
I immediately set forward to Gortz's; he lived in the
Rue du Helder, a few doors from Attwood's new lodg-
ing. 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 do\\ n 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) ,
152 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
I fouiid that gentleman in his dressing-gown, discussing,
in the company of Mr. Fips, a large plate of bifteck auoc
pommes.
" Here's a pretty row! " said Gortz, quoting from his
letter; — " Attwood's off — have a bit of beefsteak? "
" What do you mean? " exclaimed I, adopting the
familiar phraseology of my acquaintances: — " Attwood
oiF? — has he cut his stick? "
*' Not bad," said the feeling and elegant Fips — " not
such a bad guess, my boy ; but he has not exactly cut his
stick."
" What then? "
^^ Why, his throat." The man's mouth was full of
bleeding beef as he uttered this gentlemanly witticism.
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 en-
tices men and ruins them ; it is only a phantom of friend-
ship and feeling, called up by the delirious blood, and the
wicked spells of the wine.
But to drop this strain of moralizing (in which the
A GAMBLER'S DEATH 153
writer is not too anxious to proceed, for he cuts in it
a most pitiful figure) , we passed sundry criticisms upon
poor Attwood's character, expressed our horror at his
death— which sentiment was fully proved by Mr. Fips,
who declared that the notion of it made him feel quite
faint, and was obliged to drink a large glass of brandy ;
and, finally, we agreed that we would go and see the
poor fellow's corpse, and witness, if necessary, his burial.
Flapper, who had joined us, was the first to propose
this visit : he said he did not mind the fifteen francs which
Jack owed him for billiards, but he was anxious to
get hack 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 cham-
ber 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 cup-
boards 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 sin-
gle halfpenny was found in his possession.^
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
1 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 pap:e
was taken from nature. The letter was likewise a copy from one found in the
manner described.
154
THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
of blood to stain the side towards the hght. 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.
*****
" Regardez un peu," said the landlady, " messieurs,
il m'a gate trois matelas, et il me doit quarante quatre
francs."
This was all his epitaph: he had spoiled three mat-
tresses, 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.
Beside Jack's bed, on his little " table de nuit," lay
the remains of his last meal, and an open letter, which we
A GAMBLER'S DEATH 155
read. It was from one of his suspicious acquaintances
of former days, and ran thus: —
" Ou es tu, cher Jack? why you not come and see me — tu me
dois de I'argent, entends tu? — 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.
" Adieu a demain.
" Samedi." " Fifine."
^^» H^^ 1¥ *^ ^^*
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 a de-
main!" — there was a dreadful meaning in the words,
which the writer of them little knew. " Adieu a de-
main! " — 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 compan-
ions, who had shared his debauches, and marched with
him up to the very brink of the grave ?
There is but one more circumstance to relate regard-
ing poor Jack — his burial; it was of a piece with his
death.
He was nailed into a paltry coffin and buried, at the
expense of the arrondissement, in a nook of the burial-
place beyond the Barriere de I'Etoile. They buried him
at six o'clock, of a bitter winter's morning, and it was
with difficulty that an English clergyman could be found
to read a service over his grave. The three men who
have figured in this history acted as Jack's mourners;
and as the ceremony was to take place so early in the
156 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
morning, these men sat up the night through, and were
almost drunk as they followed his coffin to its resting-
place.
MORAL
" When we turned out in our great-coats," said one
of them afterwards, " reeking of cigars and brandy-and-
water, d e, sir, we quite frightened the old buck of a
parson ; he did not much like our company." After the
ceremony was concluded, these gentlemen were very
happy to get home to a warm and comfortable breakfast,
and finished the day royally at Frascati's.
NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM
ON PRINCE LOUIS NAPOLEON's WORK
ANY person who recollects the history of the ab-
xX surd outbreak of Strasburg, in which Prince
Louis Napoleon Bonaparte figured, three years ago,
must remember that, however silly the revolt was, how-
ever 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 unwill-
ing to lend the new projectors their aid. The troops who
declared against the Prince, were, it was said, all but
willing to declare for him; and it was certain that, in
many of the regiments of the army, there existed a
strong spirit of disaffection, and an eager wish for the
return of the imperial system and family.
As to the good that was to be derived from the change,
that is another question. Why the Emperor of the
French should be better than the King of the French,
or the King of the French better than the King of
France and Navarre, it is not our business to inquire;
but all the three monarchs have no lack of supporters;
republicanism has no lack of supporters; St. Simonian-
ism 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
157
158 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
certain claptraps in its vocabulary that can never fail to
inflame a vain, restless, grasping, disappointed one.
In the first place, and don't let us endeavour to dis-
guise 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 alli-
ance — 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 con-
tinually 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 jour-
nals 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 quar-
rels, 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 los-
ing party, the bitterness of past defeats, and the eager
desire to avenge them. A party which knows how to
eooploiter this hatred will always be popular to a certain
extent ; and the imperial scheme has this, at least, among
its conditions.
Then there is the favourite 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,
NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM 159
if we may credit the journal which has been estabhshed
to advocate the cause. A natural boundary— stand
among the nations— popular development— Russian al-
liance, and a reduction of la 'per fide A Ibion to its proper
insignificance. As yet we know little more of the plan :
and )^et such foundations are sufficient to build a party
upon, and with such windy weapons a substantial Gov-
ernment is to be overthrown !
In order to give these doctrines, such as they are,
a chance of finding favour 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 ex-
alts the memory of the uncle, and furthers the inter-
ests of the nephew, who attempts to show what Na-
poleon'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 favour 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 artillerj^, 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 Di-
160 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
rectory, 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 tum-
bled out of windows, and lo! three Consuls appeared to
guide the destinies of France! How much more expe-
ditious, 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.
At least this is our interpretation of the manner in
which were always propagated the Idees Naimleon-
iennes. 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 Napo-
leon " was to be the '' testamentary executor of the revo-
lution; " 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 com-
plete. 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.
In the Prince's eyes, then, his uncle is a god; of all
monarchs, the most wise, upright, and merciful. Thirty
NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM 161
years ago the opinion had niilHons 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 rap-
turous 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 hor-
ror, 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.
Then was the age when the Idees Napoleoniennes
might have passed through many editions ; for while we
were thus outrageously bitter, our neighbours 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 revolu-
tion, 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 god-like 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,
162 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
— that first, great, glorious, irresistible, cowardly, con-
temptible, bloody hero and fiend, Bonaparte, before
mentioned.
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 Rejiublicans, Pittet-
cobourg is Pittetcobourg still, — crafty, bloody, seeking
whom he may devour; and per fide Albion more perfidi-
ous than ever. This hatred is the point of union be-
tween 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.
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, bear-
ing 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 re-
members a certain consultation of politicians which is
recorded in the Spelling-book; and the opinion of that
NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM 163
patriotic sage who avowed that, for a real blameless con-
stitution, an impenetrable shield for liberty, and cheap
defence of nations, there was nothing like leather.
Let us examine some of the Prince's article. If we
may be allowed humbly to express an opinion, his leather
is not only quite insufficient for those vast public pur-
poses 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: " —
" I speak it with regret, I can see but two govern-
ments, at this day, which fulfil the mission that Provi-
dence 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 West,
march, without hesitation, towards perfection; the one
under the will of a single individual, the other under
liberty.
" 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 fa-
vour that irresistible instinct which pushes the people
of America to the west.
" In Russia it is to the imperial dynasty that is owing
164 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 centralise, as far as possible, all
the j)owers of the state in the hands of one person, in
order to destroy the abuses which the feudal and com-
munal franchises have served to perpetuate. The last
alone can hope to receive from it the improvements which
it expects.
" 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 can-
not 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."
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 be-
ginning. 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 ^pee de Brennus? and how is France
to use it? Where is the great source of political truth,
from which, flowing pure, we trace American repub-
NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM 165
licanism in one stream, Russian despotism in another?
Vastly prosperous is the great repubhc, 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 dis-
putes on the slave question, praise the Governmeiit 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 favourite gov-
ernment is a prosperous slavery. What, then, is to be the
epee 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 disorganiza-
tion." 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! "
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: —
" Napoleon, on arriving at the public stage, saw that
his part was to be the testamentary executor of the Rev-
olution. The destructive fire of parties was extinct ; and
when the Revolution, dying, but not vanquished, dele-
gated to Napoleon the accomplishment of her last will.
166 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
she said to him, ' EstabHsh upon soHd bases the principal
result of my eiForts. Unite divided Frenchmen. De-
feat feudal Europe that is leagued against me. Cica-
trize 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.'
" This grand mission Napoleon performed to the end.
His task was difficult. He had to place upon new princi-
ples a society still boiling with hatred and revenge ; and
to use, for building up, the same instruments which had
been employed for pulling down.
" The common lot of every new truth that arises, is
to wound rather than to convince — rather than to gain
proselytes, to awaken fear. For, oppressed as it long
has been, it rushes forward with additional force ; having
to encounter obstacles, it is compelled to combat them,
and overthrow them ; until, at length, comprehended and
adopted by the generality, it becomes the basis of new
social order.
" 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
NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM 167
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 every-
where in the train of our battalions. In 1815 all parties
adopted its flag, and armed themselves with its moral
force — covered themselves with its colours. The adop-
tion was not sincere, and liberty was soon obliged to re-
assume 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.
" The Emperor Napoleon contributed more than any
one else towards accelerating the reign of liberty, by
saving the moral influence of the revolution, and dimin-
ishing the fears which it imposed. Without the Con-
sulate 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 puri-
fied 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
168 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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."
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 be-
tween the Christian religion and the Imperial-revolution-
ary system. There are many blunders in the above ex-
tract 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 ad-
vance such a parallel. And what are we to say of the
legacy of the dying revolution to Napoleon? Revolu-
tions 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 Montague, disguised royalists, Paris sections,
Pittetcohourg, above all, with his money-bags, thought
that here was a fine opportunity for a revolt, and op-
posed the new constitution in arms: the new constitu-
tion had knowledge of a young officer, who would not
hesitate to defend its cause, and who effectually beat the
NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM 169
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 his-
torians in all tongues? — by memoir- writing pages, cham-
berlains, marshals, lackeys, secretaries, contemporaries,
and ladies of honour? Not a word of miracle is there in
all this narration; not a word of celestial missions, or
political Messiahs. From Napoleon's rise to his fall, the
bayonet marches alongside of him : now he points it at the
tails of the scampering " five hundred," — now he charges
with it across the bloody planks of Areola— now he flies
before it over the fatal plain of Waterloo.
Unwilling, however, as he may be to grant that there
are any spots in the character of his hero's government,
the Prince is, nevertheless, obliged to allow that such
existed; that the Emperor's manner of rule was a little
more abrupt and 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 tcould have been very liberal, but that
the people were not fit for it; or that the cursed war
prevented him^p|)r any other reason why. His fii'st
duty, however, says his apologist, was to form a general
union of Frenchmen, and he set about his plan in this
wise: —
" Let us not forget, that all which Napoleon under-
170 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
took, in order to create a general fusion, he performed
without renouncing the princi]3les of the revolution. He
recalled the emigres, without touching upon the law by
which their goods had been confiscated and sold as pub-
lic property. He re-established the Catholic religion at
the same time that he proclaimed the liberty of con-
science, 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 abandon-
ing any of the rights of France to the conquests she had
made. He re-established noble titles, without attaching
to them any privileges or prerogatives, and these titles
were conferred on all ranks, on all services, on all pro-
fessions. Under the empire all idea of caste was de-
stroyed; no man ever thought of vaunting his pedigree
— no man ever was asked how he was born, but what he
had done.
" The first quality of a people which aspires to liberal
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 neces-
sary 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 in-
tact."
NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM 171
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 king-
dom. 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' batons? We have re-
peatedly his words for it. He wanted to create an aris-
tocracy — another acknowledgment on his part of the
Republican dilemma — another apology for the revolu-
tionary 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
labouring all this while ? for what have bastiles been bat-
tered down, and kings' 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 Em-
peror 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
172 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
O'Connor, or a Cardinal Wade, or a Duke Daniel Whit-
tle Harvey? Great as those patriots are, we love them
better under their simple family names, and scorn titles
and coronets.
At present, in France, the delicate matter of titles
seems to be better arranged, any gentleman, since the
Revolution, being free to adopt any one he may fix
upon; and it appears that the Crown no longer confers
any patents of nobility, but contents itself with saying,
as in the case of M. de Pontois, the other day, " Le Roi
trouve convenable that you take the title of," &c.
To execute the legacy of the revolution, then; to
fulfil his providential mission; to keep his place, — in
other words, for the simplest are always the best,— to
keep his place, and to keep his Government in decent
order, the Emperor was obliged to establish a military
despotism, to re-establish honours and titles ; it was neces-
sary, 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 w^ho 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 Na-
poleon — the revolution becomes tyranny or freedom,
prospers or falls.
Somewhere in the St. Helena memorials, Napoleon
reports a message of his to the Pope. " Tell the Pope,"
he says to an archbishop, " to remember that I have six
NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM 173
hundred thousand armed Frenchmen, qui marcheront
avec 7Jioij pour moi, et comme moiJ" And this is the
legacy of the revolution, the advancement of free-
dom! A hundred volumes of imperial special pleading
will not avail against such a speech as this — one so in-
solent, 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 im-
perial 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 rehef of his capital, bursting through
ranks upon ranks of the enemy, and crushing or scat-
tering 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 em-
pire? Where is Maria Louisa, the Empress Eagle, with
her little callow King of Rome? Is she going to defend
hernest and her eaglet? Not she. Empress-queen, lieu-
tenant-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.
With regard to Napoleon's excellences as an admin-
istrator, a legislator, a constructor of public works.
174* THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 with-
out 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 lav-
ishly thrown away. As for the former and material im-
provements, it is not necessary to confess here that a
despotic energy can effect such far more readily than a
Government of which the strength is diffused in many
conflicting parties. No doubt, if we could create a des-
potical governing machine, a steam autocrat, — passion-
less, 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 Palmer-
ston, instead of racking his brains to write leading arti-
cles for Cupid, might crown his locks with flowers, and
sing Iptoxa [Looyov, 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 com-
pelled 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.
NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM 175
"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 I'Empe-
reur! " shouted Prince Lucien. Psha! not a soul echoed
the words : the play was played, and as for old Lafayette
and his " permanent " representatives, a corporal with
a hammer nailed up the door of their spouting-club, and
once more Louis Stanislas Xavier rolled back to the
bosom of his people.
In like manner Napoleon III. returned from exile,
and made his appearance on the frontier. His eagle ap-
peared at Strasburg, and from Strasburg advanced to
the capital ; but it arrived at Paris with a keeper, and in
a postchaise; whence, by the orders of the sovereign, it
was removed to the American shores, and there mag-
nanimously let loose. Who knows, however, how soon it
may be on the wing again, and what a flight it will take?
THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL
' /^ O, my nephew," said old Father Jacob to me, " and
VJT complete thy studies at Strasburg : Heaven surely
hath ordained thee for the ministry in these times of trou-
ble, and my excellent friend Schneider will work out the
divine intention."
Schneider was an old college friend of uncle Jacob's,
was a Benedictine monk, and a man famous for his
learning; as for me, I was at that time my uncle's cho-
rister, clerk, and sacristan; I swept the church, chanted
the prayers with my shrill treble, and swung the great
copper incense-pot on Sundays and feasts; and I toiled
over the Fathers for the other days of the week.
The old gentleman said that my progress was pro-
digious, 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.
You would hardly conceive (said the Captain, swear-
ing a great oath) how devout and how learned I was in
those days ; I talked Latin faster than my own beautiful
patois of Alsatian French ; I could utterly overthrow in
argument every Protestant (heretics we called them)
parson in the neighbourhood, and there was a con-
founded 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-
176
THE STORY OF MARY AXCEL 177
top : such was the godly life I led at my uncle Jacob's in
the village of Steinbach.
Our family had long dwelt in this place, and a large
farm and a pleasant house were then in the possession of
another uncle — uncle Edward. He was the 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.
Here she lived for about seven years, and the old
gentleman, when she died, wept over her grave a great
deal more than I did, who was then too young to mind
anything but toys or sweetmeats.
During this time my grandfather was likewise carried
off: he left, as I said, the property to his son Edward,
with a small proviso in his will that something should be
done for me, his grandson.
Edward was himself a widower, with one daughter,
Mary, 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 fif-
teen, five farmers, three lawyers, twelve Protestant par-
sons, 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
178 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
she intended to live single, turned away her lovers one
after another, and devoted herself to the care of her
father.
Uncle Jacob was as fond of her as he was of any
saint or martyr. As for me, at the mature age of twelve
I had made a kind of divinity of her, and when we sang
" Ave Maria " on Sundays I could not refrain from
turning to her, where she knelt, blushing and praying
and looking like an angel, as she was. Besides her
beauty, Mary had a thousand good qualities; she could
play better on the harpsichord, she could dance more
lightly, she could make better pickles and puddings, than
any girl in Alsace ; there was not a want or a fancy of the
old hunks her father, or a wish of mine or my uncle's,
that she would not gratify if she could; as for herself,
the sweet soul had neither wants nor wishes except to see
us happy.
I could talk to you for a year of all the pretty kind-
nesses 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.
Amongst other favours 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,
Mary Ancel
THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL 179
and take what she had now become so mighty unwill-
ing to give.
I was engaged in a contest of this sort one day with
Mary, when, just as I was about to carry off a kiss from
her cheek, I was saluted with a staggering slap on my
own, which was bestowed by uncle Edward, and sent me
reeling some yards down the garden.
The old gentleman, whose tongue was generally as
close as his purse, now poured forth a flood of eloquence
which quite astonished me. I did not think that so much
was to be said on any subject as he managed to utter
on one, and that was abuse of me ; he stamped, he swore,
he screamed; and then, from complimenting me, he
turned to Mary, and saluted her in a manner equally
forcible and significant ; she, who was very much fright-
ened at the commencement of the scene, grew very
angry at the coarse words he used, and the wicked mo-
tives he imputed to her.
"The child is but fourteen," she said; "he is your
own nephew, and a candidate for holy orders: — father,
it is a shame that you should thus speak of me, your
daughter, or of one of his holy profession."
I did not particularly admire this speech myself, but
it had an effect on my uncle, and was the cause of the
words with which this history commences. The old
gentleman persuaded his brother that I must be sent
to Strasburg, and there kept until my studies for the
church were concluded. I was furnished with a letter to
my uncle's old college chum, Professor Schneider, who
was to instruct me in theology and Greek.
I was not sorry to see Strasburg, of the wonders of
which I had heard so much ; but felt very loth as the time
drew near when I must quit my pretty cousin, and my
180 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
good old uncle. IVIary and I managed, however, a part-
ing 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 in-
cessantly: 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 J, nobody was by, and the consequence was that
the letter was half washed away with her Aveeping; if
she had used a watering-pot the thing could not have
been better done.
Well, I arrived at Strasburg— a dismal, old-fashioned,
rickety town in those days — and straightway^ presented
mvself and letter at Schneider's door; over it was
written —
COMITE DE SALUT PUBLIC
Would you believe it? I was so ignorant a young fel-
low, that I had no idea of the meaning of the words;
however, I entered the citizen's room without fear, and
sat down in his ante-chamber until I could be admitted
to see him.
Here I found very few indications of his reverence's
profession; the walls were hung round Avith portraits
of Robespierre, Marat, and the Jike; a great bust of
Mirabeau, mutilated, with the word Traitre underneath ;
lists and republican proclamations, tobacco-pipes and
THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL 181
fire-arms. At a deal-table, stained with grease and wine,
sat a gentleman, with a huge pig-tail dangling down to
that part of his person which immediately succeeds his
back, and a red nightcap, containing a tricolor cockade
as large as a pancake. He was smoking a short pipe,
reading a little book, and sobbing as if his heart would
break. Every now and then he would make brief re-
marks 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 malheu-
reuse! " " 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, whicli I dream of now at forty
years' distance.
" Father who? " said he. " Do you imagine that
citizen Schneider has not thrown off the absurd
mummery of 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.
I ,was in amazement.
" What is he? Is he not a teacher of Greek, an abbe,
a monk, until monasteries were abolished, the learned
editor of the songs of ' Anacreon?
" He was all this," replied my grim friend ; " he is now
a Member of the Committee of Public Safety, and would
think no more of ordering your head off than of drinking
this tumbler of beer."
He swallowed, himself, the frothy liquid, and then
182 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
proceeded to give me the history of the man to whom
my uncle had sent me for instruction.
Schneider was born in 1756: was a student at Wiira-
burg, and afterwards entered a convent, where he re-
mained nine years. He here became distinguished for
his learning and his talents as a preacher, and became
chaplain to Duke Charles of Wiirtemberg. The doc-
trines 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.
[" Heaven knows what would have happened to me
had I continued long under his tuition! " said the Cap-
tain. " 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 licence can
oiFend nobody."]
By the time that my friend had concluded Schneider's
biography, we had grown tolerably intimate, and I im-
parted 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 re-
ligion 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.
Then we reverted to " The Sorrows of Werter," and
THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL 183
discussed the merits of that subhme performance. Al-
though 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 ap-
pearing sublime to him, provided it correspond, in some
degree, with his own situation.
" Candid youth! " cried my unknown, " I love to hear
thy innocent story and look on thy guileless face. There
is, alas! so much of the contrary in this world, so much
terror and crime and blood, that we who mingle with it
are only too glad to forget it. Would that we could
shake off our cares as men, and be boys, as thou art,
again ! "
Here my friend began to weep once more, and fondly
shook my hand. I blessed my stars that I had, at the
very outset of my career, met with one who was so likely
to aid me. What a slanderous world it is, thought I;
the people in our village call these Republicans wicked
and bloody-minded; a lamb could not be more tender
than this sentimental bottle-nosed gentleman! The
worthy man then gave me to understand that he held a
place under Government. I was busy in endeavouring to
discover what his situation might be, when the door of
the next apartment opened, and Schneider made his
appearance.
At first he did not notice me, but he advanced to my
new acquaintance, and gave him, to my astonisliment,
something very like a blow.
" You drunken, talking fool," he said, " you are al-
ways after your time. Fourteen people are cooling their
184 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
heels yonder, waiting until you have finislied your beer
and your sentiment! "
My friend slunk muttering out of the room.
" That fellow," said Schneider, turning to me, " is
our public executioner: a capital hand too if he would
but keep decent time ; but the brute is always drunk, and
blubbering over ' The Sorrows of Werter! ' "
* * * * * .
I know not whether it was his old friendship for my
uncle, or my proper merits, which won the heart of this
the sternest ruffian of Robespierre's crew; but certain it
is, that he became strangely attached to me, and kept
me constantly about his person. As for the priesthood
and the Greek, they were of course very soon out of the
question. The Austrians were on our frontier; every
day brought us accounts of battles won; and the youth
of Strasburg, and of all France, indeed, were bursting
with military ardour. As for me, I shared the general
mania, and speedily mounted a cockade as large as that
of my friend the executioner.
The occupations of this worthy were unremitting.
Saint Just, who had come down from Paris to preside
over our town, executed the laws and the aristocrats with
terrible punctuality; and Schneider used to make coun-
try excursions in search of offenders with this fellow,
as a provost-marshal, at his back. In the meantime,
having entered my sixteenth year, and being a proper
lad of my age, I had joined a regiment of cavalry, and
was scampering now after the Austrians who menaced
us, and now threatening the Emigres, who were banded
at Coblentz. My love for my dear cousin increased as
my whiskers grew; and when I was scarcely seventeen,
I thought myself man enough to marry her, and to cut
THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL 185
the throat of any one who should venture to say me
nay.
I need not tell you that during my absence at Stras-
burg, great changes had occurred in our little village,
and somewhat of the revolutionary rage had penetrated
even to that quiet and distant place. The hideous " Fete
of the Supreme Being " had been celebrated at Paris;
the practice of our ancient religion was forbidden; its
professors were most of them in concealment, or in exile,
or had expiated on the scaffold their crime of Christian-
ity. In our poor village my uncle's church was closed,
and he, himself, an inmate in his brother's house, only
owing his safety to his great popularity among his
former flock, and the influence of Edward Ancel.
The latter had taken in the Revolution a somewhat
prominent part; that is, he had engaged in many con-
tracts for the army, attended the clubs regularly, cor-
responded with the authorities of his department, and
was loud in his denunciations of the aristocrats in the
neighbourhood. But owing, perhaps, to the German ori-
gin 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.
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 feel-
ing by his daughter.
I won't describe to you the progress of our love, or the
wrath of my uncle Edward, when he discovered that it
still continued. He swore and he stormed; he locked
186 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
Mary into her chamber, and vowed that he would with-
draw the allowance he made me, if ever I ventured near
her. His daughter, he said, should never marry a hope-
less, 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.
(Here the Captain paused a little.) You may fancy
(continued he) that it was droll advice of a reverend gen-
tleman 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 Commit-
tee of Public Safety.
He heard me with a great deal of attention. I de-
scribed to him most minutely the circumstance, expati-
ated 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! " con-
cluded I, in my wrath.
As I had been discoursing about Mary's charms
THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL 187
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 !
TfC Iff iff ^
The very same evening an officer waited upon me with
the following note from Saint Just: —
" Strasburg, Fifth Year of the Republic, one and
indivisible, 11 Ventose.
" The citizen Pierre Ancel is to leave Strasburg within two
hours, and to carry the enclosed despatches to the President of
the Committee of Public Safety at Paris. The necessary leave of
absence from his military duties has been provided. Instant pun-
ishment will follow the slightest delay on the road.
" Salut et Fraternite."
There was no choice but obedience, and off I sped on
my weary way to the capital.
As I was riding out of the Paris gate I met an equi-
page 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 guillot'me which Schneider always carried
with him on his travels. The bourreau was reading " The
Sorrows of Werter," and looked as sentimental as usual.
I will not speak of my voyage in order to relate to you
Schneider's. My story had awakened the wretch's curi-
osity and avarice, and he was determined that such a
188 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
prize as I had shown my cousin to be should fall into no
hands but his own. No sooner, in fact, had I quitted his
room than he procured the order for my absence, and was
on the way to Steinbach as I met him.
The journey is not a very long one; and on the next
day my uncle Jacob was surprised by receiving a mes-
sage 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 JNIary was summoned to give
her best dinner, and wear her best frock ; and her father
made ready to receive the new State dignitary.
Schneider's carriage speedily rolled into the court-yard,
and Schneider's caj't followed, as a matter of course. The
ex-priest only entered the house; his companion remain-
ing with the horses to dine in private. Here was a most
touching meeting between him and Jacob. They talked
over their old college pranks and successes ; they capped
Greek verses, and quoted ancient epigrams upon their
tutors, who had been dead since the Seven Years' War.
Mary declared it was quite touching to listen to the merry
friendly talk of these two old gentlemen.
After the conversation had continued for a time in this
strain, Schneider drew up all of a sudden, and said
quietly, that he had come on particular and unpleasant
business — hinting about troublesome times, spies, evil re-
ports, 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
THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL 189
returned into the house, some time after this pleasing
colloquy, he found the tone of the society strangely al-
tered. 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.
" 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 danger-
ous 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? "
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 Govern-
ment, he had taken to himself a more than patriotic share
of profit.
" 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 jus-
tice 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 hun-
dreds 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? "
190 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
Gregoire replied from the court, " I can put up the
machine in half an hour. Shall I go down to the village
and call the troops and the law people? "
" Do you hear him? " said Schneider. " The guillotine
is in the court-vard ; vour name is on mv list, and I have
witnesses to prove yom* crime. Have you a word in your
defence? "
Xot a word came ; the old gentleman was dumb; but his
daughter, who did not give way to his terror, spoke for
him.
" You cannot, sir," said she, " although you say it, feci
that mv father is guilt v ; vou 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? "
" 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?"
" Oh, no, sir, no, vou can't want monev of us," shrieked
Edward; "we are the poorest people of the village:
ruined, ^Monsieur Schneider, ruined in the cause of the
Republic."
"Silence, father," said mv brave Marv; "this man
^vants a price: he comes, with his worthy friend yonder,
to frighten us, not to kill us. If w^e 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? "
Schneider smiled, and bowed with perfect politeness.
" JNIademoiselle INIarie," he said, " is perfectly correct
in her surmise. I do not want the life of this poor drivel-
THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL 191
ling 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."
" 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."
" 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."
" It is false! — it is a base and cowardly lie! " exclaimed
she (for the young lady's courage w'as 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 honour 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."
Schneider's only reply to this was a call to liis friend
Gregoire.
" Send down to the village for the maire and some
gendarmes; and tell your people to make ready."
" Shall I put the machine up? " shouted he of the senti-
mental turn.
" You hear him," said Schneider ; " ^larie Ancel, you
192 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
may decide the fate of your father. I shall return in
a few hours," concluded he, " and will then beg to know
your decision."
The advocate of the rights of man then left the apart-
ment, and left the family, as you may imagine, in no very
pleasant mood.
Old uncle Jacob, during the few minutes which had
elapsed in the enactment of this strange scene, sat staring
wildly at Schneider, and holding 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 prep-
arations. 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 honour. " In-
deed," 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."
"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? "
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. Made-
THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL 193
moiselle," they said, " to allow no one to leave this apart-
ment until the return of the citizen Schneider."
Alas ! all hope of escape was impossible. ]Mary became
quite silent for a while; she would not speak to uncle
Jacob ; and, in reply to her father's eager questions, she
only replied, coldly, that she would answer Schneider
when he arrived.
The two dreadful hours passed away only too quickly ;
and, punctual to his appointment, the ex-monk appeared.
Directly he entered, Mary advanced to him, and said,
calmly, —
" Sir, I could not deceive 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."
Schneider bowed, and said, —
"It is bravely spoken. I like your candour — 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 favour of the
young gentleman, your cousin, have lost their present
fervour. That engaging young man has, at present, an-
other mistress— Glory. He occupies, I believe, the dis-
tinguished post of corporal in a regiment which is about
to march to— Perpignan, I believe."
It was, in fact. Monsieur Schneider's polite inten-
tion to banish me as far as possible from the place of
my birth ; and he had, accordingly, selected the Spanish
frontier as the spot where I was to display my future
military talents.
Mary gave no answer to this sneer: she seemed per-
fectly resigned and calm: she only said, —
194 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
" I must make, however, some conditions regarding
our proposed marriage, which a gentleman of Monsieur
Schneider's gallantry cannot refuse."
" Pray command me," replied the husband elect.
" Fair lady, you know I am your slave."
" You occupy a distinguished political rank, citizen
representative," said she ; " and we in our village are like-
wise known and beloved. I should be ashamed, I confess,
to wed you here ; for our people would wonder at the sud-
den 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 author-
ities of the city, with the state and solemnity which
befits the marriage of one of the chief men of the Re-
public."
"Be it so, madam," he answered, and gallantly pro-
ceeded to embrace his bride.
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, —
" O Mary, Mary, I did not think this of thee! "
" Silence, brother! " hastily said Edward; " my good
son-in-law will pardon your ill-humour."
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 obtain-
ing them.
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. Uncle Jacob and Edward
occupied the back seat of the old family carriage, and the
young bride and bridegroom (he was nearly Jacob's
THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL 195
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 mhid
was bent upon other things, and the poor girl firmly
thought that her last day was come.
In the meantime, by a blessed chance, I had not ridden
three leagues from Strasburg, when the officer of a pass-
ing 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, determin-
ing 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.
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
196 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
heard a great bustle in the court-yard of the house, and
looked out with many others at the spectacle.
A number of men and women singing epithalamiums,
and dressed in some absurd imitation of Roman cos-
tume, a troop of soldiers and gendarmerie, and an
immense crowd of the badauds of Strasburg, were sur-
rounding 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.
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 mur-
derer who stood before me.
The door of St. Just's private apartment opened, and
he took his seat at the table of mayoralty just as Schnei-
der and his cortege arrived before it.
Schneider then said that he came in before the authori-
ties of the Republic to espouse the citoyenne Marie
Ancel.
" Is she a minor? " asked St. Just.
" She is a minor, but her father is here to give her
away."
" I am here," said Uncle Edward, coming eagerly for-
ward and bowing. " Edward Ancel, so please you, citi-
THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL 197
zen representative. The worthy citizen Schneider has
done me the honour of marrying into my family."
" But my father has not told you the terms of the
marriage," said Mary, interrupting him, in a loud, clear
voice.
Here Schneider seized her hand, and endeavoured to
prevent her from speaking. Her father turned pale,
and cried, " Stop, INIary, stop! For heaven's sake, re-
member your poor old father's danger! "
" Sir, may I speak? "
" Let the young woman speak," said St. Just, " if
she have a desire to talk." He did not suspect what
would be the purport of her story.
" 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 authori-
ties of the district entirely under his orders. He threat-
ened 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."
During the delivery of this little speech, uncle Jacob
198 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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."
" The girl amazes me," said Schneider, with a look
of astonishment. " I never saw her, it is true, till yes-
terday; 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? "
" It was, indeed, by my free consent," said Edward,
trembling.
"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 Sor-
rows of Werter.' "
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."
" 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 favour the interest of the emigres"
" 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.
THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL 199
Here I came forward and said that, three days since,
I had received an order to quit Strasburg for Paris im-
mediately after a conversation with Schneider, in which
I had asked him his aid in promoting my marriage with
my cousin, INIary 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.
" You are in the uniform of a regiment in this town;
who sent you from it? " said St. Just.
I produced the order, signed by himself, and the
despatches which Schneider had sent me.
" The signature is mine, but the despatches did not
come from my office. Can you prove in any way your
conversation with Schneider? "
" Why," said my sentimental friend Gregoire, " for
the matter of that, I can answer that the lad was always
talking about this young woman: he told me the whole
story himself, and many a good laugh I had with citizen
Schneider as we talked about it."
" The charge against Edward Ancel must be exam-
ined into," said St. Just. " The marriage cannot take
place. But if I had ratified it, :Mary Ancel, what would
then have been your course? "
Mary felt for a moment in her bosom, and said—'" He
would have died to-night— I would have stabbed him
with this dagger}
*****
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
1 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.
200 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 Schnei-
der should stand for six hours in the public place of
Strasburg, and then be sent on to the capital, to be
dealt with as the authorities might think fit.
The people followed with execrations the villain to his
place of jiunishment; 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 punish-
ment so many who merited it not.
Schneider was left for several hours exposed to the
mockery and insults of the mob ; he was then, according
to his sentence, marched on to Paris, where it is probable
that he would have escaped death, but for his own fault.
He was left for some time in prison, quite unnoticed,
perhaps forgotten: day by day fresh victims were car-
ried to the scaffold, and yet the Alsatian tribune re-
mained 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 Maiy had created
a strong feeling in his favour.
"And Mary?" said I.
Here a stout and smiling old lady entered the Cap-
tain's little room : she was leaning on the arm of a mili-
tary-looking man of some forty years, and followed by
a number of noisy, rosy children.
THE STORY OF MARY AXCEL 201
" 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 fete of
little Jacob yonder, whose brothers and sisters have all
come from their schools to dance at his birthday."
BEATRICE MERGER
BEATRICE :MERGER, whose name might figure
at the head of one of Mr. Colburn's pohtest ro-
mances — 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.
She is a stout, sturdy girl of two-and-twenty, with
a face beaming with good nature, and marked dread-
fully by small-pox; and a pair of black eyes, which
might have done some execution had they been placed
in a smoother face. Beatrice's station in society is not
very exalted ; she is a servant of all work : she will dress
202
BEATRICE MERGER 203
your wife, your dinner, your children; she does beef-
steaks and plain work; she makes beds, blacks boots,
and waits at table;— such, at least, were the offices which
she performed in the fashionable establishment of the
writer of this book : perhaps her history may not inaptly
occupy a few pages of it.
" My father died," said Beatrice, " about six years
since, and left my poor mother with little else but a
small cottage and a strip of land, and four children too
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 labour?
" 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.
" 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. INIother, work as she Mould, 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
204 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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.
" 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!
" 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 laboured were hidden under the snow ; so that
when we wanted them most we had them least — warmth,
work, or food.
" I knew that, do what I would, mother would never
let me leave her, because I looked to my little brothers
and my old cripple of an aunt; but still, bread was bet-
ter 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.
" ' 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
BEATRICE MERGER 205
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.
Aunt,' said I, ' I'm going, and took this very op-
portunity 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!
" 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.
" 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.
" 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 \allage that day, ask-
206 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
ing everywhere for work in vain ; and here, at bed-time,
I found a bed and a supper!
" Here I lived very well for some months ; my master
was very good and kind to me ; but, unluckily, too poor to
give me any wages ; so that I could save nothing to send
to my poor mother. My mistress used to scold ; but I was
used to that at home, from Aunt Bridget: and she beat
me sometimes, but I did not mind it; for your hardy
country girl is not like your tender town lasses, who cry
if a pin pricks them, and give warning to their mis-
tresses at the first hard word. The only drawback to my
comfort was, that I had no news of my mother ; I could
not write to her, nor could she have read my letter,
if I had; so there I was, at only six leagues' distance
from home, as far off as if I had been to Paris or to
'Merica.
" However, in a few months I grew so listless and
homesick, that my mistress said she 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
neighbourhood.
" You may fancy what a fete it was when I came
back ; though I'm sure we cried as much as if it had been
a funeral. Mother got into a fit, 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.
BEATRICE MERGER 207
" Well, I got a little work here, and a little there ;
but still I was a burden at home rather than a bread-win-
ner; 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.
" 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
upstairs, 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.
" In the morning, before it was light, the farmer's
people came out, and saw me crouching under the cart :
tliey 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 j^urpose 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;
208 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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.
" There was an old woman among the labourers 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.
" 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 sous in my
pocket. Ah ! you may be sure, Sunday was a merry day
for us all."
This is the whole of Beatrice's history which is worthy
of publication; the rest of it only relates to her arrival
in Paris, and the various masters and mistresses whom
she there had the honour 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 MERGER 209
Beatrice has got now warm gowns, and stout shoes, and
plenty of good food. She has had her httle brother
from Picardy; clothed, fed, and educated him: that
young gentleman is now a carpenter, and an honour
to his profession. JNIadame Merger is in easy circum-
stances, and receives, yearly, fifty francs from her
daughter. To crown all, INIademoiselle 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.
God bless her! she is richer than his Grace the Duke
of Devonshire; and, I dare to say, has, in her humble
walk, been more virtuous and more happy than all the
dukes in the realm.
It is, indeed, for the benefit of dukes and such great
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
210 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 chil-
dren of your lordship's mother— the Church?
I pause for a reply. His lordship took too much tur-
tle 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.
*****
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 crea-
ture, worshipping images, without a rag to her tail, who
has as much faith, and humility, and charity, as all the
reverend bench.
*****
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.
Here is Miss Merger's last letter and autograph. The
note was evidently composed by an Ecrivain public:—
" Madame,
'' Ayant ajms par ce Monsieur, que vous vous portiez
hien, ainsi que Monsieur, ayant su aussi que vous par-
BEATRICE MERGER 211
liez de moi dans voire lettre cette nouvelle m'a fait hien
plaisir Je profile de Voccasion pour vous faire passer ce
petit billet oil Je voudrais pouvoir inenveloper pour al-
ter vous voir et pour vous dire que Je suis encore sans
place Je m'ennuye tou jours de ne pas vous voir ainsi que
Minette {Minette is a cat) qui semhle m'interroger tour
a tour et deinander ou vous etes. Je vous envoy e aussi
la note du linge a blanchir — aJi, Madame! Je vais cesser
de vous ecrire inais non de vous regretter."
^^a-^ccc me^a^
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY
IN PARIS
FIFTY years ago there lived at Munich a poor fel-
low, by name Aloys Senef elder, who was in so little
repute as an author and artist, that printers and en-
gravers 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 en-
gravers, 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.
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 hav-
ing alluded to the origin of the art, we shall not follow
the stream through its windings and enlargement after
212
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 213
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 cultiva-
tion of art "emollit mores nee sinit esse"— (it is need-
less 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 (with-
out trusting to the tedious and expensive assistance of
the engraver) ; and the best friend to the people like-
wise, who have means of purchasing these cheap and
beautiful productions, and thus having their ideas " mol-
lified " and their manners " feros " no more.
With ourselves, among whom money is plenty, en-
terprise 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 con-
fess to a prejudice in favour 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.
The theory will possibly be objected to by many of
our readers: the best proof in its favour, we think, is,
214 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
that the state of art amongst the people in France and
Germany, where pubhshers are not so wealthy or enter-
prising 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 ren-
dered completely, nay, improved, by the engraver's con-
ventional manner of copying the artist's performances.
But to copy fine expression and fine drawing, the en-
graver 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.
Take the standard " Album " for instance— that un-
fortunate collection of deformed Zuleikas and Medoras
(from the "Byron Beauties"), the Flowers, Gems,
Souvenirs, Caskets of Loveliness, Beauty, as they may
be called; glaring caricatures of flowers, singly, in
1 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.
The Cheap Defence of Nations
A NATIONAL GUARD ON DOTY
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 215
groups, in flower-pots, or with hideous deformed Httle
Cupids sporting among them; of what are called " mez-
zotinto " 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 mantelpiece; and of the mistress over the
piano upstairs; 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 por-
traits of public characters; and you will see them in-
fallibly wondering over No. 2645 in the catalogue, rep-
resenting " The Portrait of a Lady," or of the " First
Mayor of Little Pedlington since the passing of the
Reform Bill; " or else bustling and squeezing among the
miniatures, where lies the chief attraction of the Gallery.
England has produced, owing to the eff*ects 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.
If, from this examination of our own worthy middle
classes, we look to the same class in France, what a
diff'erence do we find ! Humble cafes in country towns
have their walls covered with pleasing picture papers,
216 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
representing '^Les Gloires de I'Armee Franfaise/' the
" Seasons," the " Four Quarters of the World," " Cupid
and Psyche," or some other allegory, landscape or his-
, tory, 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 un-
deniable. In Paris, the manner in which the cafes and
houses of the restaurateurs are ornamented, is, of course,
a thousand times richer, and nothing can be more beauti-
ful, or more exquisitely finished and correct, than the de-
signs which adorn many of them. We are not prepared
to say what sums were expended upon the painting of
" Very's " or " Vefour'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 tol-
erable 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, in-
odorous shop of a marchand de vin.
These, however, serve only to educate the public taste,
and are ornaments for the most part much too costly for
the people. But the same love of ornament which is
shown in their public places of resort, appears in their
houses likewise; and 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 sixihne 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 Gran-
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 217
ville or jMonnier: 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 litho-
graphic artists in Paris; and those — as doubtless there
are many — of our readers who have looked over iSIon-
sieur Aubert's portfolios, or gazed at that famous cari-
cature-shop window in the Rue de Coq, or are even
acquainted with the exterior of JMonsieur 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 la-
boured 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 en-
treaty of any publisher or for the pages of any Book
of Beauty, Royalty, or Loveliness whatever.
Can there be a more pleasing walk in the whole world
than a stroll through the Gallery of the Louvre on a
fete-day; not to look so much at the pictures as at the
lookers-on? Thousands of the poorer classes are there:
mechanics in their Sunday clothes, smiling grisettes,
218 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
smart dapper soldiers of the line, with bronzed wonder-
ing 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 ex-
cept such as can be built upon the politics or the police re-
ports 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 im-
agination of men, for which God has made another world
(which certain statesmen take but too little into account)
—that fair and beautiful world of art, in which there
can be nothing selfish or sordid, of which Dulness has
forgotten the existence, and which Bigotry has endea-
voured to shut out from sight—
" On a banni les demons et les fees,
Le raisonner tristement s'accredite :
On court, helas ! apres la verite :
Ah ! croyez moi, I'erreur a son merite ! "
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 well nigh
smothered poor Fancy among us. We boast of our
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 219
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 labour
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 the annoyance of
the legislative restrictions on the Sabbath, and eagerly
seized upon that happy invention for dissipating the
gloom and eniiui ordered by Act of Parliament to pre-
vail 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
cofl'ee. 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 Gros-
venor Square it spread all the town through ; so that now
the lower classes have their scandal and ribaldry organs,
as well as their betters (the rogues, they will imitate
them!) ; and as their tastes are somewhat coarser than my
lord's, and their numbers a thousand to one, why of
220 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
course the prints have increased, and the profligacy has
been diifused 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 Abbe Dubois to the blush, or made Louis XV. cry
shame. Talk of English morality!— the worst licen-
tiousness, in the worst period of the French monarchy,
scarcely equalled the wickedness of this Sabbath -keeping
country of ours.
The reader will be glad, at last, to come to the con-
clusion that we would fain draw from all these descrip-
tions — why does this immorality exist? Because the
people 7nust 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.
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 draw^ings : 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
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 221
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 con-
sideration ; each might have ten times the wit, and would
be quite unsuccessful without their substantial points
of popularity.
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 be-
tween rich and poor in our own country, with all our
superior wealth, instruction, and political freedom!
There is, amongst the humblest, a gaiety, 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.
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— litho-
graphic designs, and those chiefly of a humorous char-
acter. 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
222 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
own day. We can only speak of this work from memory,
having been miable, in London, to procure the sight of a
copy; but our impression, at the time we saw the col-
lection, was as unfavourable 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 some-
thing 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 Mounte-
bank Murat, with his irresistible bravery and horseman-
ship, who was a kind of mixture of Duguesclin and
Ducrow, and JVIountebank 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.
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 Carica-
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 223
ture, he was gagged, and put out of the way altogether :
imprisoned as completely as ever Asmodeus was in his
phial.
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 endeavouring 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.
About this time there lived at Paris (if our informa-
tion be correct) a certain M. Philipon, an indiflPerent
artist (painting was his profession) , a tolerable designer,
and an admirable wit. M. Philipon designed many cari-
catures himself, married the sister of an eminent pub-
lisher 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 pub-
lished once a week; and the Charivari afterwards, a daily
paper, in which a design also appears daily.
At first the caricatures inserted in the Charivari were
chiefly political ; and a most curious contest speedily com-
menced between the State and M. Philipon's little army
in the Galerie Vero-Dodat. Half-a-dozen poor artists
on the one side, and his Majesty Louis Philippe, his au-
gust family, and the numberless placemen and support-
ers of the monarchy, on the other ; it was something like
Thersites girding at Ajax,and piercing through the folds
224 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 diminu-
tive opponent! — not one of these told in a hundred;
when they did tell, it may be imagined that they were
fierce enough in all conscience, and served almost to
annihilate the adversary.
To speak more plainly, and to drop the metaphor of
giant and dwarf, the King of the French suffered so
much, his JNIinisters 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 de-
scend 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. Phillpon 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;
Phillpon 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 sym-
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 225
pathy. 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 i)oire 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 at least 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 ludi-
crous resemblance to the eyes, nose, and mouth of a cele-
brated 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 im-
mortal.
At last came the famous September laws : the freedom
of the Press, which, from August, 1830, was to be
" desormais une verite," 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
226 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
constitution of French elections, will generally vote, un-
vote, revote in any way the Government wishes. With
a wondrous union, and happy forgetfulness of princi-
ple, monarch, ministers, and deputies issued the restric-
tion laws ; the Press was sent to prison ; as for the poor
dear Caricature, it was fairly murdered. No more polit-
ical satires appear now, and " through the eye, correct
the heart ; " no more poire s ripen on the walls of the
metropolis; Philipon's political occupation is gone.
But there is always food for satire; and the French
caricaturists, being no longer allowed to hold up to ridi-
cule 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 neighbours are not our equals. The proces
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 con-
tracts, of ministers dabbling with the funds, or extract-
ing 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
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 227
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.
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 JNIr. 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 Pas-
quin, all the reflections on the prevailing cant, knavery,
quackery, humbug, are put into the mouth of JMonsieur
Robert jNIacaire.
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 JNIacaire's exaggerated
style of conversation, a farrago of all sorts of high-flown
sentiments such as the French love to indulge in— con-
trasted with his actions, which were philosophically un-
scrupulous, and his appearance, which was most pictur-
esquely sordid. The play had been acted, we believe, and
forgotten, when a very clever actor, M. Frederick Lemai-
tre, took upon himself the performance of tlie character
of Robert JNIacaire, and looked, spoke, and acted it to such
admirable perfection, that the whole town rung with
228 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
applauses of the performance, and the caricaturists de-
hghted 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 crim-
son 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 gaily cocked over one eye, and a patch
to take away somewhat from the brightness of the other
— these are the principal pieces of his costume — a snuff-
box like a creaking warming-pan, a handkerchief hang-
ing 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 imperturbabil-
ity, and accompanies his actions with such philosophical
remarks as may be expected from a person of his talents,
his energies, his amiable life and character.
Bertrand is the simple recipient of Macaire's jokes,
and makes vicarious atonement for his crimes, acting,
in fact, the part which pantaloon performs in the pan-
tomime, 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 panto-
mimes, (it may, doubtless, have been remarked by the
reader,) clown always leaps first, pantaloon following
after, more clumsily and timidly than his bold and ac-
complished friend and guide. Whatever blows are des-
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 229
tined 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 JNIacaire and his companion
Bertrand are made to go through the world ; both swin-
dlers, 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 faith-
fully in the lurch. There is, in the two characters, some
grotesque good for the spectator — a kind of " Beggars'
Opera " moral.
Ever since Robert, with his dandified rags and airs,
his cane and snufF-box, and Bertrand with torn surtout
and all-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. Phili-
pon and his companion Daumier have created a world of
pleasant satire upon all the prevailing abuses of the
day.
Almost the first figure that these audacious caricatur-
ists dared to depict was a political one: in INIacaire's
red breeches and tattered coat appeared no less a per-
sonage than the King himself —the old Poire— in a coun-
try of humbugs and swindlers the facile prince ps; fit to
govern, as he is deeper than all the rogues in his domin-
ions. 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 blagueur!
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 epi-
gram so wonderfully just, a little word so curiously
230 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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.
Not long, however, was French caricature allowed to
attack personages so illustrious: the September laws
came, and henceforth no more epigrams were launched
against jDolitics; 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 Lobau's squirt was hung up in peace, and M.
Thiers' 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.
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 roguisli practitioners, rascally at-
torneys, stupid juries, and forsworn judges; there was
the Bourse, with all its gambling, swindling, and hoax-
ing, its cheats and its dupes ; the Medical Profession, and
the quacks who ruled it, alternately; the Stage, and the
^ Almost all the principal public men had been most ludicrously caricatured
in the Charivari : those mentioned above were usually depicted with the dis-
tinctive attributes mentioned by us.
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 231
cant that was prevalent there; the Fashion, and its
thousand foHies and extravagances. Robert Macaire
^ had all these to exploiter. Of all the empire, through
all the ranks, professions, the lies, crimes, and absurdi-
ties 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
f- that it would cost him his head to enter it. Robert, there-
fore, 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.
In the meantime Robert and his friend have been fur-
nishing 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 his-
tory. 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
232 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
him — we mean Fielding's " History of Jonathan Wild
the Great " — does seem to us to give a more curious pic-
ture 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 " Le-
onidas," Gibber'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 them-
selves by their taste and ingenuity. Miss Carter rivalled
the celebrated Dacier in learning and critical knowledge ;
Mrs. Lennox signalized herself by many successful ef-
forts 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, humour, and propri-
ety. The field of history and biography was cultivated
by many writers of ability, among whom we distinguish
the copious Guthrie, the circumstantial Ralph, the la-
borious 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 humour sit down to write a
graver satire ? Who cares for the tender muse of Lyttel-
ton? 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,
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 233
and copious Guthrie, where are they, their works, and
their reputation? Mrs. Lennox's name is just as clean
wiped out of the hst 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 circum-
stantial 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 circum-
stantial Ralph sent forth, after much labour 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 spung-
ing-house, fuddled most likely, in the blandest, easiest,
and most good-humoured 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-heen per-
sonage now?— more real than Reid or Ralph? For our
234 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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."
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 cir-
cumstances 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.
Let the reality of M. Robert JNIacaire and his friend
M. Bertrand be granted, if but to gratify our own fond-
ness for those exquisite characters: we find the worthy
pair in the French capital, mingling with all grades of
its society, imrs magna in the intrigues, pleasures, per-
plexities, 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 co? Tua-
vxayoO ys izaz^lc, ri (36a7,ouaa y^jis a citizen of all countries
where the quarters are good; among our merry neigh-
bours it finds itself very much at its ease.
Not being endowed, then, with patrimonial wealth,
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 235
but compelled to exercise their genius to obtain distinc-
tion, or even subsistence, we see JVIessrs. 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 appear-
ance in one or two important characters, and stated
that the Government grew fairly jealous of them, ex-
cluding them from office, as the Whigs did Lord Brou-
gham. As private individuals, they are made to distin-
guish themselves as the founders of journals, societes en
commandite (companies of which the members are irre-
sponsible 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.
These are, among the French, so numerous, and have
been of late years (in the shape of Newspaper Compa-
nies, Bitumen Companies, Galvanized-Iron Companies,
Railroad Companies, &c.) pursued with such a blind
furor and lust of gain, by that easily excited and imagi-
native people that, as may be imagined, the satirist has
found plenty of occasion for remark, and INI. INIacaire
and his friend innumerable opportunities for exercising
their talents.
We know nothing of ]M. Emile de Girardin, except
that, in a duel, he shot the best man in France, Armand
Carrel ; and in Girardin's favour 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 cham-
pion, as it were. We know nothing of INI. Girardin's
private character; but, as far as we can judge from the
French public prints, he seems to be the most speculative
236 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 propri-
etors, was, that Girardin set up a journal, as he called it,
" franchement monarcJiique/'—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 shed-
ding 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 gaily, is, or was, a member of the Chamber of
Deputies, has money, goes to Court, and possesses a cer-
tain kind of reputation. He invented, we believe, the " In-
stitution Agronome de Coetbo," ^ the " Physionotype,"
the " Journal des Connoissances Utiles," the " Pantheon
Litteraire," 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?
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 Ber-
^ It is not necessary to enter into descriptions of these various inventions.
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 237
trand of his projects. " Bertrand," says the disinterested
admirer of talent and enterprise, " j 'adore Tindustrie.
Si tu veux nous creons une banque, mais la, une vraie
banque: capital cent millions de millions, cent milliards
de milliards d'actions. Nous enfon9ons la banque de
France, les banquiers, les banquistes; nous enf onions
tout le monde." " Oui," says Bertrand, very calm and
stupid, " mais les gendarmes? " " Que tu es bete, Ber-
trand: est-ce qu'on arrete un millionnaire? " Such is the
key to M. Macaire's philosophy ; and a wise creed too, as
times go.
Acting on these principles, Robert appears soon after ;
he hajs 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 9a,
et je vous fais en faveur de la loi un article mousseux"
Can such things be? Is it possible that French jour-
nalists 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
238 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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
temporal O mores! as Robert Macaire says, this would
be carrying the joke too far.
When he has done with newspapers, Robert Macaire
begins to distinguish himself on 'Change,^ as a creator of
companies, a vendor 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 prop-
erty 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 honour of immediately giv-
ing you notice. I am, sir, yours, &c., the Director, Robert
Macaire."—" Print 300,000 of these," he says to Ber-
trand, " 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."
^ We have given a description of a jyenteel Macaire in
the account of M. de Bernard's novels.
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 239
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 re-
fer the reader to the newspapers; or if he be connected
with the city, and acquainted w^ith commercial men, he
will be able to say whether all the persons whose names
figure at the head of announcements of projected com-
panies are as rich as Rothschild, or quite as honest as
heart could desire.
When Macaire has sufficiently eocploite the Bourse,
whether as a gambler in the public funds or other com-
panies, 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, 7nais les hadauds ne
passeront pas." (O rare sentence! it should be written
in letters of gold ! ) " Occupons nous de ce qui est eter-
nel. Si nous fassions une religion? " On which M. Ber-
trand remarks, " A religion! what the devil — a religion
is not an easy thing to make." But INIacaire's receipt is
easy. " Get a gown, take a shop," he says, " borrow
some chairs, preach about Napoleon, or the discovery
of America, or INIoliere — and there's a religion for
you."
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 eternel," 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 Pere
240 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 reHgion in Paris; even
clever M. Phihpon, who satirizes everything, and must
know, therefore, some Httle 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 con-
trary, true religion, has disappeared altogether ; and hav-
ing 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 pro-
miscuous Dissenting hypocrites, the No Popery hypo-
crites — 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 un-
affectedly 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 mi-
nority'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 carica-
ture has a spice of Goethe's Devil in it, and is "der
Geist der stets verneint," the Spirit that is always
denying.
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 241
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. Fi-
garo, 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
honour, and a man must fight as well as apostatize.
A very curious table might be made, signalizing the dif-
ference of the moral standard betw-een us and the
French. Why is the grossness and indelicacy, publicly
permitted in England, unknown in France, where pri-
vate morality is certainly at a lower ebb? Why is the
point of private honour 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 dis-
grace 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?
The above is the Reverend M. Macaire's solitary ex-
ploit as a spiritual swindler: as Maitre INIacaire in the
courts of law, as avocat, avoue—'m. 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
detenu— wo other person, in fact, than his friend ^I.
Bertrand, who has fallen into some trouble, and is await-
ing the sentence of the law. He begins—
242 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
" Mon cher Bertrand, donne moi cent ecus, je te fais
acquitter d'emblee."
" J'ai pas d'argent."
" He bien, donne moi cent francs."
" Pas le sou."
" Tu n'as pas dix francs? "
" Pas un Hard."
" Alors donne moi tes bottes, je plaiderai la circon- •
stance attenuante."
The manner in which Maitre Macaire soars from the
cent ecus (a high point ah*eady) to the subhme 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 testi-
mony 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. JNIacaire 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 in-
famies 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.
M. Macaire is more skilful in love than in law, and ap-
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 243
pears 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 INIariage: 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 ans, jolie,
d'une famille tres distinguee, qui possede 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 agreable, — des talens de
societe " — 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-INIal-
thusian at the head of an establishment of this kind, in-
troducing a very meek, simple-looking bachelor to some
distinguished ladies of his comioissance. " Let me pre-
sent you, sir, to Madame de St. Bertrand " (it is our old
friend), " veuve de la grande armee, et jSIdlle. Eloa de
Wormspire. Ces dames bmlent de I'envie de faire votre
connoissance. Je les ai invitees a diner chez vous ce soir :
vous nous menerez a I'opera, et nous ferons une petite
partie d'ecarte. Tenez vous bien, M. Gobard! ces dames
ont des pro jets sur vous! "
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 armee "
—is very happy. '' La grande armee " has been a father
to more orphans, and a husband to more widows, than it
ever made. Mistresses of cafes, old governesses, keepers
of boarding-houses, genteel beggars, and ladies of lower
rank still, have this favourite pedigree. They have all
244 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
had malheurs (what kind it is needless to particularize),
they are all connected with the grand liomme, 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 be-
nevolent. — 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.
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 favourable (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 repre-
sents him, snuff-box in hand, advancing to an old gentle-
man, whom, by his poodle, his powdered head, and his
drivelling, stupid look one knows to be a Carlist of the
old regime. " I beg pardon," says Robert: " is it really
yourself to whom I have the honour of speaking? "
-"It is." "Do you take snufF? "-" I thank you."
CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY 245
" Sir, I have had misfortunes— I want assistance. I am
a Vendean of illustrious birth. You know the family of
Macairhec — we are of Brest. JNIy 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 succour of ten francs." — " Sir, I never give to those
I don't know."—" Right, sir, perfectly right. Perhaps
you will liave the kindness to lend me ten francs? "
The adventures of Doctor Macaire need not be de-
scribed, 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 neighbours know
nothing about. We have not Hahnemann, but we have
his disciples; we have not Broussais, but we have the Col-
lege of Health; and surely a dose of JNIorrison'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 Abbe Paris are about to be
acted over again.
In speaking of M. INIacaire 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 w^e never recollect to have seen a series of sketches
246 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
possessing more extraordinary cleverness and variety.
The countenance and figure of Macaire and the dear stu-
pid Bertrand are preserved, of course, with great fidehty
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 w^e have been
while compiling this notice of them, we have grown to
believe that the personages are real, and the scenes re-
main imprinted on the brain as if we had absolutely been
present at their acting. Perhaps the clever way in which
the plates are coloured, and the excellent effect which is
put into each, may add to this illusion. Now, in looking,
for instance, at H. B.'s slim vapoury 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 humourist, 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, before-
CARICATURES AXD LITHOGRAPHY 247
hand, 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 repu-
tation.
Having pursued, all through these remarks, the com-
parison between English art and French art, English
and French humour, manners, and morals, perhaps we
should endeavour, 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.
We shall, therefore, say no more of French and Eng-
lish caricatures generally, or of M. 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 insti-uctive commentary
upon the present state of society in Paris, and a hundred
years hence, when the whole of this strugghng, noisy,
busy, merry race shall have exchanged their pleasures
or occupations for a quiet coffin (and a tawdry lying
epitaph) at Montmartre, or Pere la Chaise; when the
follies here recorded shall have been superseded by new
ones, and the fools now so active shall have given up
248 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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, blink-
ing 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-humoured superiority, and
thanking heaven for his increased lights, he will shut the
book, and be a fool as his fathers were before him.
It runs in the blood. Well hast thou said, O ragged
Macaire,— " Le jour va passer, mais les badauds ne
PASSERONT PAS."
LITTLE POINSINET
ABOUT the year 1760, there hved, at Paris, a little
L 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
249
250 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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.
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 smit-
ten 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 happi-
ness, 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. " O
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
LITTLE POIXSINET 251
his moiisquetaireSj or die, if need be, by the side of
Poinsinet.
The httle fellow was obliged to lug out his sword too,
and went shuddering downstairs, heartily repenting of
his passion for marchionesses. When the party arrived
in the street, they found, sure enough, a dreadful com-
pany of mousqxietaires, as they seemed, ready to oppose
their passage. Swords crossed, — torches blazed; and,
with the most dreadful shouts and imprecations, the con-
tending parties rushed upon one another; the friends of
Poinsinet surrounding and supporting that little war-
rior, as the French knights did King Francis at Pavia,
otherwise the poor fellow certainly would have fallen
down in the gutter from fright.
But the combat was suddenly interrupted; for the
neighbours, 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.
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 valour.
" Egad, how he pinked that great red-haired fellow! "
said one.
" No; did I? " said Poinsinet.
" 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
252 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
with Cartentierce himself, the most dreadful swordsman
of the army."
" Why, you see," says Poinsinet, quite delighted, " it
was so dark that I did not know with whom I was en-
gaged; although, corhleu, 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 de-
stroying monsters, like a second Amadis de Gaul.
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 Poin-
sinet'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 sur-
geon to your wounds? "
"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 exam-
ination, he discovered he was not.
" 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 gar-
ments of that individual) , " if you have escaped, it is by
a miracle. Alas ! alas ! all your enemies have not been so
lucky."
" How! is anybody wounded? " said Poinsinet.
" My dearest friend, prepare yourself ; that unhappy
LITTLE POINSINET 253
man who came to revenge his menaced honour — that gal-
lant officer— that injured husband, Colonel Count de
Cartentierce — "
"Well?"
" Is NO more! he died this morning, pierced through
with nineteen wounds from your hand, and calling upon
his country to revenge his murder."
When this awful sentence was pronounced, all the
auditory gave a pathetic and simultaneous sob; and as
for Poinsinet, he sank back on his bed with a howl of ter-
ror, 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, Amer-
ica, or Russia, not knowing exactly which.
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 en-
tered the apartment where Poinsinet and his friend were
seated, and, drawing from his pocket a paper, with " Au
NOM DU Roy " flourished on the top, read from it, or
rather from Poinsinet's own figure, his exact signale-
ment, laid his hand on his shoulder, and arrested him in
the name of the King, and of the provost-marshal of
Paris. " I arrest you, sir," said he, gravely, " with re-
gret; you have slain with seventeen wounds, in single
combat, Colonel Count de Cartentierce, one of his Maj-
254 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
esty's household; and, as his murderer, you fall under
the immediate authority of the provost-marshal, and die
without trial or benefit of clergy."
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? "
" 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 per-
formed a most affecting scene of friendship.
" This may be of some service to you," whispered Du-
rand to Poinsinet; and, after some further parley, he
asked the officer when he was bound to deliver up his pris-
oner ; 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 im-
possible to undeceive him; and he went from house to
house bewailing his fate, and followed by the complaisant
marshal's officer.
The news of his death he received with much more
meekness than could have been expected; but what he
LITTLE POINSINET 255
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 candour. " 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 nmch
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.
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 pro-
foundest fatigue; and Poinsinet was persuaded, after
much hesitation on his part, to take leave of him.
And now, this danger overcome, another was to be
avoided. Beyond a doubt the police 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.
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,
256 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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.
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.
Poinsinet was one day invited to dine with one of the
servants of the Tuileries; and, before his arrival, a per-
son in company had been decorated with a knot of lace
and a gold key, such as chamberlains wear; he was in-
troduced to Poinsinet as the Count de Truchses, cham-
berlain to the King of Prussia. After dinner the con-
versation fell upon the Count's visit to Paris; when his
Poinsinet in Disguise
LITTLE POINSINET 257
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 sol-
emnly agreed ; and, indeed, it was borne out by a subse-
quent 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 aston-
ished 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 honourable friend, M.
Poinsinet, was the individual to whom he alluded.
"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 introduc-
tion immediately took place.
The Count protested to him that the King would be
charmed to know him ; and added, that one of his operas
(for it must be told that our little friend was a vaude-
ville-maker by trade) had been acted seven-and-twenty
times at the theatre at Potsdam. His Excellency then
detailed to him all the honours and privileges which the
governor of the Prince Royal might expect ; and all the
258 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
guests encouraged the little man's vanity, by asking him
for his protection and favour. 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.
Poinsinet, delighted, was ordered to kneel down ; and
the Count produced a large yellow riband, 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 flar-
ing yellow riband; and he was not undeceived until his
friends had another trick in store for him.
He dined one day in the company of a man who un-
derstood a little of the noble art of conjuring, and per-
formed some clever tricks on the cards. Poinsinet's or-
gan 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.
" Who is this wonderful man? " said he to his neigh-
bour.
" 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
LITTLE POIXSIXET 259
first order, and compelled to leave Lisbon for fear of the
Inquisition. He performs here, as you see, some ex-
traordinary things, occasionally; but the master of the
house, who loves him excessively, would not, for the
world, that his name should be made public."
"Ah, bah!" said Poinsinet, who affected the bel es-
prit; " you don't mean to say that you believe in magic,
and cabalas, and such trash? "
"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.
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 oc-
casion, ventured to cut a single joke against poor Poin-
sinet; nor could he fancy that any trick was intended
against him, for the demeanour of the society towards
him was perfectly grave and respectful, and the conver-
sation serious. On a sudden, however, somebody ex-
claimed, " Where is Poinsinet? Did any one see him
leave the room? "
All the company exclaimed how singular the disap-
pearance was; and Poinsinet himself, growing alarmed,
turned round to his neighbour, and was about to explain.
" 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."
Poinsinet remained then silent, and listened to his
260 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
neighbours, who agreed at last, that he was a quiet, or-
derly personage, and had left the table early, being un-
willing to drink too much. Presently they ceased to talk
about him, and resumed their conversation upon other
matters.
At first it was very quiet and grave, but the master of
the house brought back the talk to the subject of Poin-
sinet, 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 de-
fence ; declared that he was a man of the greatest merit,
frequenting the best society, and remarkable for his
talents as well as his virtues.
" All! " 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? "
The magician promised him still further favours 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.
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.
" Ah! " said he, " these fellows are prettily punished
for their rascally backbiting of me! "
" Gentlemen," said the host, " I shall now give you
LITTLE POINSIXET 261
some celebrated champagne," and he poured out to each
a glass of water.
"Good heavens!" said one, spitting it out, with the
most horrible grimace, " where did you get this detesta-
ble claret?"
" 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.
The fame of this adventure spread quickly over Paris,
and all the world longed to have at their houses the rep-
resentation 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 pro-
tector 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
262 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
of window, he would have done so, without the slightest
trepidation.
Among other mystifications in which the Portuguese
enchanter plunged him, was one which used to afford
always a good deal of amusement. He informed Poin-
sinet, with great mystery, that he was not Minself ; 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 like-
wise spirited away.
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 pos-
sible; 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 stiiick with astonishment and
envy, the ladies clasped their hands, and some of them
kissed his. Everybody declared his beauty to be super-
natural.
Poinsinet, enchanted, rushed to a glass. " Fool ! "
said the magician; " do you suppose that you can see the
LITTLE POINSINET 263
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 dis-
guised 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."
" Oh, my benefactor!— my great master!— for
heaven's sake tell it! " gasped Poinsinet.
" 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!"
"Is it? " whispered Poinsinet. " Indeed and indeed
I didn't think it so bad ! "
"He acknowledges it ! he acknowledges it ! " roared the
magician. " Wretch, dotard, owl, mole, miserable buz-
zard ! I have no reason to tell thee now that thv 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
264 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
which the enchanters have wrapped thee with the strong-
est hatred and scorn, so long art thou destined to wear it."
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, Poinsi-
net;" "that buiFoon, 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 epi-
thet that he uttered.
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 INIrs. Poinsinet; or
to speak more correctly, Mrs. Polycarte.
I am sorry to say, however, that, on the score of gal-
lantry, Poinsinet was never quite convinced of the hide-
ousness of his appearance. He had a number of adven-
tures, 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
" dans le simple appareil
D'une beaute, qu'on vient d'arracher au sommeil,"
LITTLE POINSINET 2Go
spent a number of hours contemijlating the beauty of
the moon on the tiles. These adventures are pretty nu-
merous in the memoirs of INI. Poinsinet; but the fact is,
that people in France were a great deal more philosoph-
ical 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 de-
scription, Poinsinet used to dip, and dip, but he never
was known to make any mermaid acquaintances, al-
though he fully believed that one day he should find
such.
The invisible joke was brought to an end by Poin-
sinet'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.
A vast number of pages might be filled with narratives
of the tricks that were played upon him; but they re-
semble each other a good deal, as may be imagined, and
the chief point remarkable about them is the wondrous
266 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
faith of Poinsinet. After being introduced to the Prus-
sian ambassador at the Tuileries, he was presented to the
Turkish envoy at the Place Vendome, who received him
in state, surrounded by the officers of his estabhshment,
all dressed in the smartest dresses that the wardrobe of
the Opera Comique could furnish.
As the greatest honour that could be done to him, Poin-
sinet was invited to eat, and a tray was produced, on
which was a delicate dish prepared in the Turkish man-
ner. 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 flavour; and Poinsinet's countenance may
be imagined when he introduced into his mouth a quan-
tity of this exquisite compound.
" The best of the joke was," says the author who re-
cords so many of the pitiless tricks practised upon poor
Poinsinet, " that the little man used to laugh at them
afterwards himself with perfect good humour ; and lived
in the daily hope that, from being the sufl'erer, 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 great-
est performers, the latter said to him, " Poinsinet, my
good fellow, thou hast suffered enough, and thy suffer-
ings 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 mo-
ment would suffice, and that the ceremony might be per-
formed on the spot. At this news, and according to or-
der, Poinsinet flung himself straightway on his knees in
LITTLE rOINSINET 267
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.
THE DEVIL'S WAGER
IT was the hour of the night when there be none stir-
ring save churchyard ghosts — when all doors are
closed except the gates of graves, and all eyes shut but
the eyes of wicked men.
When there is no sound on the earth except the ticking
of the grasshopper, or the croaking of obscene frogs in
the poole.
And no light except that of the blinking starres, and
the wicked and devilish wills-o'-the-wisp, as they gambol
among the marshes, and lead good men astraye.
When there is nothing moving in heaven except the
owle, as he flappeth along lazily ; or the magician, as he
rides on his infernal broomsticke, whistling through the
aire like the arrowes of a Yorkshire archere.
It was at this hour (namely, at twelve o'clock of the
268
THE DEVIL'S WAGER 269
night,) that two beings went winging through the
black clouds, and holding converse with each other.
Now the first was JNIercurius, the messenger, not of
gods (as the heathens feigned), but of deemons; 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 San-
terre, Villacerf and aultre lieux. But the great die as
well as the humble; and nothing remained of brave
Roger now, but his coffin and his deathless soul.
And ]Mercurius, in order to keep fast the soul, his
companion, had bound him round the neck with his tail ;
which, when the soul was stubborn, he would draw so
tight as to strangle him well nigh, sticking into him the
barbed point thereof; whereat the poor soul, Sir Rollo,
w ould groan and roar lustily.
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 specula saecu-
lorum.
" It is hard," said the poor Sir Rollo, as they went
gliding through the clouds, " that I should thus be con-
demned for ever, and all for want of a single ave."
" How, Sir Soul? " said the deemon. " 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 ad-
vanced to posts of honour, as am I also: " and to show
his authoritie, he lashed with his tail the ribbes of the
wretched Rollo.
*' Nevertheless, sinner as I am, one more ave would
have saved me; for my sister, who was Abbess of St.
270 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 dis-
continued; only a certain warmth was kept up, to re-
mind me of my situation."
" A gentle stewe," said the daemon.
" Yea, truly, I was but in a stew, and all from the
effects of the prayers of my blessed sister. But yester-
day, 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."
" And the other ave? " said the daemon.
" She died, sir — my sister died— death choked her in
the middle of the prayer." And hereat the wretched
spirit began to weepe and whine piteously; his salt tears
falling over his beard, and scalding the tail of JNIercurius
the devil.
" 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."
" But I have relations," said the Earl; " my kinsman
Randal, who has inherited my lands, will he not say a
prayer for his uncle? "
" Thou didst hate and oppress him when living."
" It is true ; but an ave is not much ; his sister, my niece,
Matilda-"
*' You shut her in a convent, and hanged her lover."
*' Had I not reason? besides, has she not others? "
*' A dozen, without doubt."
THE DEVIL'S WAGER 271
" And my brother, the prior? "
" 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."
*' And yet, if but one of these would but say an ave
for me, I should be saved."
" Aves with them are rarie aves," replied Mercurius,
wagging his tail right waggishly; " and, what is more,
I w ill lay thee any wager that not one of these will say
a prayer to save thee."
" I would wager willingly," responded he of Chau-
chigny; " but what has a poor soul like me to stake? "
" 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."
"Done!" said Rollo.
" Done ! " said the daemon ; " and here, if I mistake not,
is thy castle of Chauchigny."
Indeed, it w^as true. The soul, on looking down, per-
ceived the tall towers, the courts, the stables, and the fair
gardens of the castle. Although it w^as past midnight,
there was a blaze of light in the banqueting-hall, and a
lamp burning in the open window of the Lady Matilda.
" With whom shall we begin? " said the daemon: " with
the baron or the lady? "
" With the lady, if you will."
" Be it so; her window is open, let us enter."
So they descended, and entered silently into Matilda's
chamber.
The young lady's eyes were fixed so intently on a little
clock, that it was no wonder that she did not perceive
272 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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!"
At this the soul of the Baron was wroth. " The jade
is at her old pranks," said he to the devil; and then
addressing Matilda: " I pray thee, sweet niece,
turn thy thoughts for a moment from that villanous
page, Edward, and give them to thine affectionate
uncle."
When she heard the voice, and saw the awful appari-
tion 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.
But the devil Mercurius soon restored her to herself.
" What's o'clock? " said she, as soon as she had recovered
from her fit: " is he come? "
" Not 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."
*' I will say it for thee to-morrow, uncle."
" To-night, or never."
"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
THE DEVIL'S WAGER 273
pitchfork." And the lady was forced to begin her ave
without the aid of her missal.
At the commencement of her devotions the daemon
retired, and carried with him the anxious soul of poor
Sir Roger de Rollo.
The lady knelt down— she sighed deeply; she looked
again at the clock, and began—
" Ave JMaria."
When a lute was heard under the window, and a
sweet voice singing —
"Hark! "said Matilda.
" Now the toils of day are over,
And the sun hath sunk to rest,
Seeking, like a fiery lover,
The bosom of the blushing west —
*' The faithful night keeps watch and ward,
Raising the moon, her silver shield,
And summoning the stars to guard
The slumbers of my fair Mathilde ! "
" For mercy's sake! " said Sir Rollo, " the ave first,
and next the song."
So Matilda again dutifully betook her to her devo-
tions, and began —
"Ave Maria gratia plena!" but the music began
again, and the prayer ceased of course.
" The faithful night ! Now all things lie
Hid by her mantle dark and dim.
In pious hope I hither hie.
And humbly chaunt mine ev'ning hymn.
274 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
" Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine !
(For never holy pilgrim kneel'd,
Or wept at feet more pure than thine),
My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde ! "
" 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.
But she only thought of him who stood singing at her
window.
" 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? "
At this Matilda grew angry: " Edward is neither im-
pudent nor a liar. Sir Uncle, and I will listen to the end
of the song."
"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."
So the poor soul was obliged to go ; while the lady lis-
tened, and the page sung away till morning.
^ ^ r^ ^ ^
" 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."
" He is reserved for wiser purposes," responded the
devil: " he will assassinate your successor, the lady Ma-
thilde'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 pedlar, who shall,
THE DEVIL'S WAGER 275
finally, yield to a noble earl, the future husband of the
fair Mathilde. So that, you see, instead of having one
poor soul a-f rying, we may now look forward to a goodly
harvest for our lord the Devil."
The soul of the Baron began to think that his com-
panion 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.
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 be-
came him wonderfully.
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 con-
fessor, incontinently paused in the midst of a profane
song, with which he was amusing the society.
" Holy Mother! " cried he, " it is Sir Roger."
" Alive! " screamed Sir Randal.
" No, my lord," Mercurius said; " Sir Roger is dead,
but Cometh on a matter of business; and I have the
honour to act as his counsellor and attendant."
276 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
" Nephew," said Sir Roger, " the d£emon saith justly;
I am come on a trifling affair, in which thy service is es-
sential."
" I will do anything, uncle, in my power."
" 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.
Whilst he was telling his story, his companion Mer-
curius was playing all sorts of antics in the hall ; and, by
his wit and fun, became so poj^ular with this godless
crew, that they lost all the fear which his first aj^pearance
had given them. The friar was wonderfully taken with
him, and used his utmost eloquence and endeavours 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 in-
terrupted 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 mis-
sal 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 chaunting an hymn, sang the following irreverent
ditty:—
" Some love the matin-chimes, which tell
The hour of prayer to sinner:
But better far's the mid-day bell,
Which speaks the hour of dinner ;
The Chaplain Puzzled
THE DEVIL'S WAGER 277
For when I see a smoking fish,
Or capon drown'd in gravy,
Or noble haunch on silver dish,
Full glad I sing mine ave.
" My pulpit is an alehouse bench,
Whereon I sit so j oily ;
A smiling rosy country wench
My saint and patron holy.
I kiss her cheek so red and sleek,
I press her ringlets wavy,
And in her willing ear I speak
A most religious ave.
" And if I'm blind, yet heaven is kind.
And holy saints forgiving;
For sure he leads a right good life
Who thus admires good living.
Above, they say, our flesh is air,
Our blood celestial ichor:
Oh, grant ! mid all the changes there.
They may not change our liquor ! "
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."
" 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.
278 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
" Au revoir, gentlemen," said the devil Mercurius;
and once more fixed his tail round the neck of his dis-
appointed companion.
*^ ^ ^ ^
r{i ^JV *I* I*
The spirit of poor Rollo was sadly cast down; the
devil, on the contrary, was in high good humour. He
wagged his tail with the most satisfied air in the world,
and cut a hundred jokes at the expense of his poor asso-
ciate. On they sped, cleaving swiftly through the cold
night winds, frightening the birds that were roosting in
the woods, and the owls who were watching in the towers.
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 pas-
sage and cloister, until they reached the door of the
prior's cell.
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, scourg-
ing, and singing holy psalms : this JNIercurius knew ; and
he, therefore, was fully at ease as to the final result of
his wager with poor Sir Roger.
" You seem to be well acquainted with the road," said
the knight.
" 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."
"And why?" said Sir Rollo.
*' He is under a bond to my master, never to say a
prayer, or else his soul and his body are forfeited at
once."
THE DEVIL'S WAGER 279
" Why, tlioii false and traitorous devil! " said the en-
raged knight; "and thou knewest this when we made
our wager? "
" Undoubtedly: do you suppose I would have done so
had there been any chance of losing? "
And with this they arrived at Father Ignatius's door.
" Thy cursed presence threw a spell on my niece, and
stopped the tongue of my nephew's chaplain; I do be-
lieve that had I seen either of them alone, my wager had
been won."
" 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 jour-
ney."
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.
Father Ignatius, the prior, was absorbed in magic cal-
culations : 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.
But Sir Rollo came forward and interrupted his in-
cantation. " I am," said he, " the shade of thy brotlier
Roger de Rollo; and have come, from pure brotherly
love, to warn thee of thy fate."
" Whence camest thou? "
" 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 com-
pact with the fiend. ' Go,' said he, ' to thy miserable
280 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
brother, and tell him that there is but one way by which
he may escape from paying the awful forfeit of his
bond.' "
" 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? "
" 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.' "
" It is the express condition of the agreement," said
the unhappy monk, " I must say no prayer, or that in-
stant I become Satan's, body and soul."
" It is the express condition of the Saint," answered
Roger, fiercely: "pray, brother, pray, or thou art lost
for ever."
So the foolish monk knelt down, and devoutly sung
out an ave. " Amen! " said Sir Roger, devoutly.
"Amen!" said Mercurius, as, suddenly coming be-
hind, he seized Ignatius by his long beard, and flew up
with him to the top of the church-steeple.
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."
And he flew alongside of Mercurius to the steeple-top :
hut 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.
THE DEVIL'S WAGER 281
" I believe, my lord," said the daemon, politely, " that
our ways separate here." Sir Roger sailed gaily up-
wards; while Mercurius having bound the miserable
monk faster than ever, he sunk downwards to earth, and
perhaps lower. Ignatius was heard roaring and scream-
ing as the devil dashed him against the iron spikes and
buttresses of the church.
*****
The moral of this story will be given in the second
edition.
MADAME SAND AND THE NEW
APOCALYPSE
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 consider-
ably, and it is not a little curious to contrast the old
modes with the new. Absurd as was the literary dandy-
ism 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.
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 cari-
cature our fashions ; they read a little, very little, Shak-
speare, and caricature our poetry: and while in David's
time art and religion were only a caricature of Heathen-
ism, now, on the contrary, these two commodities are
282
MADAME SAND 283
imported from Germany ; and distorted caricatures orig-
inally, are still farther distorted on passing the fron-
tier.
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 mys-
tical doctrines mightily; and having watched the Ger-
mans, 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.
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 fol-
lowed ; 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
284 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 congrega-
tion 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 ap-
propriately asleep on his bench at the door. I am in-
clined to think the famous reaction is over: the students
have taken to their Sunday pipes and billiards again;
and one or two cafes have been established, within the
last year, that are ten times handsomer than Notre Dame
de Lorette.
However, if the immortal Gorres and the German
mystics have had their day, there is the immortal Gothe,
and the Pantheists; and I incline to think that the fashion
has set very strongly in their favour. Voltaire and the
Encyclopfedians are voted, now, harhares, 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 cprouver 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 Dehats, has divine intimations ;
and there is scarce a beggarly, beardless scribbler of
poems and prose, but tells you, in his preface, of the
French Catholicism
SKETCHED IN THE CHURCH OF
N. D. DE LOKETTS
MADAME SAND 285
saintete of the sacerdoce litUraire; or a dirty student,
sucking tobacco and beer, and reeling home with a gri-
sette from the chaumiere, who is not convinced of the
necessity of a new " Messianism," and will hiccup, to
such as will listen, chapters of his own drunken Apoca-
lypse. 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.
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 edify-
ing; 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 philoso-
pher — 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 Chris-
tian 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 So-
286 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
crates' character is pretty pure now, in spite of the sen-
tence and the jury of those days.
The Parisian philosophers will attempt to explain to
you the changes through wliich Madame Sand's mind
has passed, — the initiatory trials, labours, 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."
In support of this claim of pity, she writes two vol-
umes of the most exquisite prose. What a tender, suf-
fering creature is Indiana ; how little her husband appre-
ciates 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.
But if one wants to have a question of this, or any
MADAME SAND 287
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 our-
selves, 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 — particu-
larly 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, accord-
ing to the French newspapers, had a stern husband, and
also having, according to the newspapers, sought " sym-
pathy" elsewhere, her arguments may be considered to be
somewhat partial, and received with some little caution.
And tell us who have been the social reformers?— the
haters, that is, of the present 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 re-
former, 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 labour so hotly to set it right.
After " Indiana " (which, we presume, contains the
288 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
lady's notions upon wives and husbands) came " Valen-
tine," 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. " Valen-
tine " was followed by " Lelia," a wonderful book in-
deed, gorgeous in eloquence, and rich in magnificent
poetry: a regular topsyturvyfication of morality, a
thieves' and prostitutes' apotheosis. This book has re-
ceived 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 can only be
mentioned here, not particularized: but of " Spiridion "
we may write a few pages, as it is her religious manifesto.
In this work, the lady asserts her pantheistical doc-
trine, 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 elo-
quence 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 writ-
ings 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.
" 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 a un
MADAME SAND 289
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.
It must be confessed that the controversialists of the
present day have an eminent advantage over their prede-
cessors in the days of folios; it required some learning
then to write a book, and some time, at least — for the
very labour 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 imag-
ination, 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 Protes-
tants have set the example of this kind of prosel}i:ism
— those detestable mixtures of truth, lies, false senti-
ment, 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 fol-
low 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 anec-
dotes of little boys and girls, her notions of church his-
290 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
toiy, church catechism, church doctrine; — as the author
of " Father Clement, a Roman CathoHc Story," demol-
ishes 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 tum-
bles 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 ti*uth — that we need
a new Messiah, and that the Christian religion is no
more! O awful, awful name of God! Light unbear-
able ! Mystery unfathomable ! Vastness immeasurable !
— Who are these who come forward to explain the mys-
tery, 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 !
With regard to the spelling and grammar, our Paris-
ian Pythoness stands, in the goodly fellowship, remark-
able. Her style is a noble, and, as far as a foreigner can
judge, a strange tongue, beautifully rich and pure. She
MADAME SAND 291
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.
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
gi'eater, 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 pre-
sume, 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 monas-
tery 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. Inno-
cent, 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 unknow^n and
terrible crime— bids him never return to the confessional
292 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
until contrition has touched his heart, and the stains
which sully his spirit are, by sincere repentance, washed
away.
" Thus speaking," says Angel, " Father Hegesippus
tore away his robe, which I was holding in my supplicat-
ing 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 hsemorrhage
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."
[Now the wonderful part of the story begins.]
" 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 ap-
proach, 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.
" 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 mv whole attention. At last I heard, distinctly, the
MADAME SAND 293
following sentence:— '/y^j/ni of Truth, raise up these vic-
tims of ignorance and imposture.' ' Father Hegesip-
pus,' said I, in a weak voice, ' is that you who are return-
ing 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 mo-
ments, did not dare to move. Leaning against the door,
I looked round, and endeavoured 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 agi-
tated 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 with-
out thinking of me. But who would be so bold as to
294 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
express such wishes and utter such a prayer as I had just
heard ?
" 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.
" 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 de-
serted, 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 hsemorrhage, and that I had been a prey to some
delusion. I retired to my cell, and remained shut up
there until the next day."
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 shut-
ter swaying to and fro, the fitful light appearing over
the furniture of the room, and giving it an air of strange
MADAME SAND 295
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 gar-
den ; it was deserted, and the mid-day wind was roaming
among the flowers." The dreariness is wonderfully de-
scribed: 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.
r^ 'l> rlv vf^
*' 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 re-
turn 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 compas-
sionate tenderness, that his features have never since then
passed away from my recollection. I stopped, hoping
206 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 bru-
tally to step aside from^ the walk, and pushed me so
rudely as almost to cause me to fall. Not wishing to en-
gage 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 favour, and to call it to bear witness to
my misery ; he turned slowly towards the sanctuary, en-
tered 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."
*****
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 fel-
low of him, and to dress him in the most becoming cos-
tumes possible.
*****
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 per-
MADAME SAND 297
sonage 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 re-
joiced to describe — is her rehgious type, a mystical repre-
sentation 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 con-
victions they may be called — or, at least, the allegory
under which her doubts are represented, is, in parts, very
finel}^ drawn; contains many passages of truth, very
deep and touching, by the side of others so entirely ab-
surd and unreasonable, that the reader's feelings are con-
tinually 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: —
" Peter Hebronius," says our author, " was not origi-
nally so named. His real name was Samuel. He was a
Jew, and born in a little village in the neighbourhood
of Innspriick. His family, which possessed a consider-
able 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 neighbourhood of his birth-
place. He would often sit by the brink of torrents, lis-
tening to the voice of their waters, and endeavouring to
penetrate the meaning which Nature had hidden in those
208 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
sounds. As he advanced in years, his inquiries became
more curious and more grave. It was necessary that he
should receive a soHd 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
ardour was more enlightened and more measured. Pros-
elytism 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 in-
feriority 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 Sam-
MADAME SAND 299
uel to that of Peter. Some time passed, during which he
strengthened and instructed himself in his new rehgion.
Very soon he arrived at the point of searching for objec-
tions to refute, and adversaries to overthrow. Bold and
enterprising, he went at once to the strongest, and Bos-
suet 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 ardour 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, Fenelon, that second Gregory of
Nazianzen, and Bossuet himself. Guided by these mas-
ters, 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 gran-
deur 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,
300 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 neighbour:
Catholicism, in a word, seemed to possess that vast
formula, and that vigorous unity, which Lutheranism
wanted. The latter had, indeed, in its favour, 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 with-
out another. Now, infallibility is nothing but revelation
continued by God, or the Word, in the person of his
vicars.
*****
" At last, after much reflection, Hebronius acknow-
ledged himself entirely and sincerely convinced, and re-
ceived 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."
*,*^ A jj^ jjle,
•I* ^1% ^^* ^1^
A friend of mine, who has just come from Italy, says
that he has there left Messrs. Sp— r, P— 1, and W.
MADAJNIE SAXD 301
Dr — d, who were the hghts of the great church in New-
man 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. JNladame
Sand herself was a Catholic some time since: having
been converted to that faith along with M. N ,
of the Academy of Music ; JNIr. L , the pianoforte
player; and one or two other chosen individuals, by the
famous Abbe de la M . Abbe 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 dme perdue: the man spoke of his brother
clergyman M^ith actual horror; and it certainly appears
that the Abbe's works of conversion have not prospered ;
for Madame Sand, having brought her hero (and her-
self, as we ma}^ 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.
I think the fate of our English Newman Street apos-
tles, 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 specula-
tions; for, in them, as in all others, our fliglity brains
soon lose themselves, and we find our reason speedily ly-
ing prostrated at the mercy of our passions ; and I think
that ^ladame 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-He-
bronius might have remained a Jew from the beginning
302 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
to the end. Wherefore be in such a hurry to set up new
faiths? Wherefore, Madame Sand, try and be so pre-
ternaturally wise? Wherefore be so eagei to jump out
of one rehgion, for the purpose of jumping into an-
other? See what good this philosophical f riskiness has
done you, and on what sort of ground you are come at
last. You are so wonderfully sagacious, that you floun-
der 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, unani-
mously elected prior, gives himself up to further studies,
and leaves his monks to themselves. Industrious and
sober as they were, originally, they grow quickly intem-
perate 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 pru-
dent and calm, he did not wish to accuse himself un-
necessarily, 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 dis-
cover 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 sufl*erings, un-
MADAME SAND 303
known 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 re-
treat and retreat as ever he wished to near it. Lost in
this immense uncertainty, he felt as if attacked by ver-
tigo, and his thoughts whirled within his brain. Then,
fatigued with his vain toils and hopeless endeavours, he
would sink down depressed, unmanned, life-wearied,
only living in the sensation of that silent grief which he
felt and could not comprehend."
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 him-
self either Catholic or Protestant, and implicated others
in errors and follies which might, at least, have been con-
fined to his own bosom, and there have lain compara-
tively harmless. In what a pretty state, for instance,
will Messrs. Dr — d and P — 1 have left their Newman
Street congregation, who are still plunged in their old
superstitions, from which their spiritual pastors and mas-
ters 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 oppor-
tunity, 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
304 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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. How-
ever, the reader will be glad to learn that, after all his
doubts and sorrows, Spiridion does discover the truth
{the ti*uth, 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 be-
ing, 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, with-
out 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 Ca-
tholicism, — 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
MADAME SAND 305
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 trea-
sures in a well, I will not confide mine to the brutal stu-
pidity 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 transforma-
tions, my spirit will enter into immediate communication
with thine ! "
^ ^ ^ ^ ^
Does not the reader long to be at this precious manu-
script, 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
306 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
treasure to light. Trembling and delighted, the pair
read this tremendous manuscript of Spiridion.
Will it be believed, that of all the dull, vague, windy
documents that mortal ever set eyes on, this is the dull-
est? If this be absolute truth, a quoi hon 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:—
" How much have I wept, how much have I suffered,
how much have I prayed, how much have I laboured,
before I understood the cause and the aim of my passage
on this earth! After many incertitudes, after much re-
morse, after many scruples, I have comprehended that
I vcas a martyr!— ^ui why my martyrdom? said I ; what
crime did I commit before I was born, thus to be con-
demned to labour 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?
" At last, by dint of imploring God — by dint of in-
quiry 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 in-
complete 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 gen-
erations 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
MADAME SAND m
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!
" 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 laboured with-
out 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.
" 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 Cath-
olic — 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 austeri-
ties, his labours, his retreat, his prayers?
" 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 mythol-
ogy, 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
308 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 tem-
poral power. Schism, then, raises up against it the stan-
dard of revolt, and preaches the bold and legitimate
princijile 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 dis-
gust. 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 philos-
ophers — who, in preaching tolerance, destroy religious
and social unity— and the last Christians, who, to pre-
serve 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 justifi-
cation, 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 tra-
versed 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.
MADAME SAND 309
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.
" 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 toilers — unknown victims,
who, by our mortal sufferings and unheard-of labours,
have prepared the way before you. Pity me, who hav-
ing 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 endeavouring to
support a ruin, to take refuge in a vault of which the
foundations were worn away." * * *
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! "
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 IVIondes 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
310 • THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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!
When a man leaves our dismal, smoky London at-
mosphere, and breathes, instead of coal-smoke and yel-
low fog, this bright, clear, French air, he is quite intoxi-
cated 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 Eng-
land. Is the intoxication, I wonder, permanent among
the natives ? and may we not account for the ten thousand
frantic freaks of these peoj^le 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 ^ladame 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 lib-
eral 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 consumma-
tion 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
MADAME SAND 311
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 chro-
nology 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 strait-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 mon-
strous, 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 diimkenness, when a man can as
yet walk and speak, when he can call names, and fling-
plates and wine-glasses at his neighbour'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.
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
312 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
for discussing its merits, any more than Mrs. Sand's book
was the place for exposing, forsooth, its errors : our busi-
ness is only with the day and the new novels, and the
clever or silly people w^ho write them. Oh! if they but
knew their places, and would keep to them, and drop
their absurd philosophical jargon ! Xot 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?
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.
" 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 tcill 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 Qhsini—' Let us destroy him!
Let him he destroyed! What does he here among the
dead? Let Mm he delivered hack to torture! Let him
he given again to life! '
" Then a feeble light began to pierce the darkness, and
I perceived that I stood on the lowest step of the stair-
case, 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
MADAME SAXD 313
void with an execration. But, immediately, when I had
uttered the curse, the void began to be filled with forms
and colours, 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 super-
natural stature, delivered to tortures without a name.
Some hung by their feet, and, locked in the coils of mon-
strous 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, rep-
resented 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 un-
clean beings, wearing the human form, but of a loath-
314 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
some ugliness, busied in tearing human corpses to pieces
—in feasting upon their hmbs 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 down-
wards, 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 clamour 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 de-
rision, 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." * * *
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
MADAME SAND 315
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 pro-
duced 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.
THE CASE OF PEYTEL
IN A LETTER TO EDWARD BRIEFLESS^ ESQUIRE, OF
PUMP COURT, TEIVIPLE
Paris, November, 1839.
MY DEAR BRIEFLESS,-Two months since,
when the act of accusation first appeared, con-
taining the sum of the charges against Sebastian
Peytel, all Paris was in a fervour 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 JNlonsieur Peytel, and to occupy ourselves with
TC V£OV. Perhaps jNIonsieur 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 favour, 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.
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
316
THE CASE OF PEYTEL 317
it. He had made his appeal for mercy; his poor sister
coming up all the way from Bom'g (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 Cure of Bourg,
waited on him, and informed him that he had only three
hours to live. At twelve o'clock, Pevtel's head was off
his body: an executioner from Lyons had come over
the night before, to assist the professional throat-cutter
of Bourg.
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 Celebres," 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
318 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 law-
yers 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 hor-
rible ingenuity, and their captivating passionate elo-
quence. It is hard thus to set the skilful and tried
chami3ions 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 pre-
supposed guilt. Thank God that, in England, things
are not managed so.
However, I am not about to entertain you with ig-
norant 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 follow-
ing manner: —
" 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, Felicite 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
THE CASE OF PEYTEL 319
of Belley were suddenly awakened by the arrival of Mon-
sieur Peytel, by his cries, and by the signs which he exhib-
ited of the most lively agitation: he implored the suc-
cours 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.
" At this recital a number of persons assembled, and
what a spectacle was presented to their eyes.
" A young woman lay at the bottom of a carriage, de-
prived of life; her whole body was wet, and seemed as
if it had just been plunged into the water. She ap-
peared to be severely wounded in the face ; and her gar-
ments, 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.
"The entreaties of Peytel were redoubled; he de-
manded fresh succours; 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 ac-
count given by Peytel of the murder of his wife ; his ex-
traordinary movements; and the avowal which he con-
tinued to make, that he had despatched the murderer,
Rey, with strokes of his hammer, excited the attention
of Lieutenant Wolf, commandant of gendarmes: that
320 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 immedi-
ately to seize upon his person.
" 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." * * *
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.
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 ha]3py, just pre-
possession against the prisoner.
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 car-
riage, 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 CASE OF PEYTEL 321
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 liis
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 Novem-
ber; 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 ]\Ion-
sieur Peytel, and that his story about the domestic is all
deception? " or did they go off to the mayor, and regis-
ter 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 sus-
picions, as if they had been facts, positive, patent, star-
ing, that everybody could see and swear to.
Having thus primed his audience, and prepared them
for the testimony of the accused party, " Now," says he,
wdth a fine show of justice, " let us hear ^lonsieur Pey-
tel; " and that worthy's narrative is given as follows: —
" 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
322 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
Bourg at five o'clock in tlie evening; left it at seven, to
sleep at Pont d'Ain, where they did not arrive before
midnight. During the journey, Peytel thought he re-
marked 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 upstairs 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.
"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 re-
marked that his servant was gloomy, and scarcely spoke
at all.
"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.
"At that 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 CASE OF PEYTEL 323
the report of a fire-arm (he had seen the hght of it at
some paces' distance), and INIadame 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 iiinning by the side
of the road.
" 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.
" 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 endeavoured 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 onl}^ wounded, he
324 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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.
" 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 ex-
amined the body, and told Peytel that it was quite dead ;
he and his son took up the corpse, and placed it in the bot-
tom of the carriage, which they all mounted themselves,
and pursued their route to Belley. In order to do so,
they had to pass by Key'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."
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: —
" 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
THE CASE OF PEYTEL 325
her bereaved husband into despair — almost into madness.
Some early differences had marked, it is true, the com-
mencement 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, JNIadame
Peytel bore in her bosom a sweet pledge of future con-
cord between herself and her husband: in three brief
months she was to become a mother.
" In the exercise of his honourable profession, — in
which, to succeed, a man must not only have high talents,
but undoubted probity, — and, gentlemen, Monsieur Pey-
tel did succeed — did inspire respect and confidence, as
you, his neighbours, 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
neighbourhood, and visit some of his many clients.
" He travelled in his own carriage, his young wife be-
side him. Does this look like want of affection, gentle-
men? 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 tem-
per, his great experience, and his high position? In
this manner they travelled, side by side, lovingly to-
gether. 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."
( Suppose, here, a short panegyric upon geology. Al-
lude to the creation of this mighty world, and then,
naturally, to the Creator. Fancy the conversations which
326 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
Peytel, a religious man,^ might have with his young wife
upon the subject.)
" 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 car-
riage ; and remember that the Savoy frontier is within a
league of the spot where the desperate deed was done."
Now, my dear Briefless, ought not Monsieur Pro-
cureur, 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 endeavour
to make Peytel's statements as uninteresting in style as
possible; and then he demolishes them in the following
way: —
" Scarcely was Peytel's statement known, when the
common sense of the public rose against it. Peytel had
' He always went to mass; it is in the evidence.
THE CASE OF PEYTEL 327
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 neighbours— of the per-
sons who, on the day previous only, were his friends. Fi-
nally, he had completed it in his interrogatories, his con-
versations, 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 ap-
pearance, attitude, and talk had worn ever since the
event, there was in his narrative an inexplicable enigma ;
its contradictions and impossibilites w^ere such, that calm
persons were revolted at it, and that even friendship itself
refused to believe it."
Thus jMr. 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 de-
tails of the crime.
" Justice," goes on Mr. Substitute (who answers for
the feelings of everybody), " disturbed by tJie pre-occu-
pations 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,
328 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
the forms affected by him, his calculating silence, and
his answers, coldly insulting, were feeble obstacles; and
justice at length arrived, by its pinidence, and by the dis-
coveries it made, to the most cruel point of certainty."
You see that a man's demeanour 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: —
" 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 man-
ners 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 commandei 3
proved him to be a good and gallant soldier.
" The necessity of creating some resources for himself,
obliged him to quit his friends, and to enter the service
of JNIonsieur de Montrichard, a lieutenant of gendar-
merie, from whom he received fresh testimonials of re-
gard. 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 com-
pensated for by his activity, his intelligence, and the
agreeable manner in which he performed his service. In
THE CASE OF PEYTEL 329
the month of July, 1839, Rey quitted, voluntarily, the
service of M. de JNIontrichard ; and Peytel, about this
period, meeting him at Lyons, did not hesitate to at-
tach him to his service. Whatever may be the pris-
oner's present language, it is certain that up to the
day of Louis's death, he served Peytel with diligence
and fidelity.
" 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 maj^ be said, that these testimo-
nials were general.
" On the very night of the 1st of November, and im-
mediately 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 dissemi-
nates 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
wuth tending the horses after their long journey: mean-
while 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.
"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 break-
330 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
fast. This man, who refused to carry with him a cover-
ing 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 gaiety
—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 natu-
ral, 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 con-
versed familiarly with the master of the port, and spoke
on indifferent subjects.
" All Peytel's insinuations against his servant had
no other end than to show, in every point of Rey's con-
duct, the behaviour of a man who was premeditating
attack. Of what, in fact, does he accuse him? Of wish-
ing to rob him of 7,500 francs, and of having had re-
course 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.
" How many insurmountable obstacles are there in
the way of committing and profiting by crime ! On leav-
ing Belley, Louis Rey, according to Peytel's statement,
knowing that his master would return with money, pro-
vided himself with a holster pistol, which Madame Peytel
had once before perceived among his effects. In Pey-
tel's cabinet there were some balls; four of these were
THE CASE OF PEYTEL 331
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 JMacon, 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.
" 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, carry-
ing 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 vigour,
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!
" And suppose the murderer had succeeded in his crim-
inal 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
332 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 fron-
tier, by the excise officers, who would present an impassa-
ble 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, con-
taining 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!
" 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 disposi-
tion, 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 like-
^ This sentence is taken from another part of the "Acte d'accusation.'*
THE CASE OF PEYTEL 333
wise acquit him, and free him of the odious imputation
which Peytel endeavours to cast upon his memory.
" But justice has removed the veil, with which an
impious hand endeavoured to cover itself. Already, on
the night of the 1st of November, suspicion was awak-
ened 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 cal-
culated 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."
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? Be-
cause 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: —
Personages. Costumes.
Habillement com-
plet de notaire per-
Sebastien Peytel Meurtrier ( fide : figure pale,
barbe noire, che-
veux noirs.
334 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
Personages. Costumes.
Soldat retire, bon,A
brave, franc, jovial, I Costume ordi-
aimant le vin, les 1 naire ; il porte sur
femmes, la gaiete, I ses epaules une cou-
ses maitres surtout ; I verture de cheval.
vrai Fran9ais, enfin. /
{Lieutenant de gen-
darmerie.
Felicite d'Alca-J Femme et victime
ZAR ( de Peytel.
Medecins, Villageois, Filles d'Auberge, Gar^ons d'Ecurie, &c.
&c.
La scene se passe sur le pont d'Andert, entre Macon et Belley.
II est minuit. La pluie tombe: les tonnerres grondent. Le ciel
est convert de nuages, et sillonne d'eclairs.
All these personages are brought into play in the Pro-
cureur's drama; the villagers come in with their chorus;
the old lieutenant of gendarmes with his suspicions;
Key's frankness and gaiety, the romantic circumstances
of his birth, his gallantry and fidehty, 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?
" My servant, Louis Rey, was very sombre and re-
served," 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
THE CASE OF PEYTEL 335
to his master? JNIight he not have neglected to call his
master, and yet have asked whether he was awake?
JNIight he not have said that the inn gates were safe,
out of hearing of the ostler witness? INIr. 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.
" Then," says Mr. Substitute, " how many obstacles
are there to the commission of the crime? And these
are —
" 1. Rey provided himself with one holster pistol, to
kill two people, knowing well that one of them had al-
ways a brace of pistols about him.
" 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.
" 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.
" 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 Pey-
tel as one of his customers, though he could not say he
had sold that particular weapon to Peytel."
Does it follow, from this, that Louis Rey is not the
murderer, much more, that Peytel is? Look at argu-
ment 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 Pey-
336 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
tel easily?— a weak woman, in an excessively delicate sit-
uation, incapable of much energy, at the best of times.
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 mas-
ter 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?
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 INIrs. 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?
And, finally, the gunsmith of Lyons, who knows Pey-
tel quite well, cannot say that he sold the pistol to him;
that is, he did 7iot sell the pistol to him; for you have
only one man's word, in this case (Peytel's), to the
THE CASE OF PEYTEL 337
contrary ; and the testimony, as far as it goes, is in his fa-
vour. 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 won-
derful manner, caused Madame Peytel to take her hus-
band's place, and receive the ball intended for him in her
own head.
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 unfavourable an impression
as possible with regard to Peytel's character; he, there-
fore, must, for contrast's sake, give all sorts of praise
to his victim, and awaken every sympathy in the poor
fellow's favour. Having done this, as far as lies in his
power, having exaggerated every circumstance that can
be unfavourable 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 show-
ing what interested motives he had, and by relat-
ing, after its own fashion, the circumstances of his mar-
riage.
They may be told briefly here. Peytel was of a good
familv, 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 ;
338 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
part of the sum, 15,000 francs, for which he had given
bills, was still due.
Near Belley, Peytel first met Felicite Alcazar, who
was residing with her brother-in-law. Monsieur de Mont-
richard; 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 Felicite's mother,
JMadame 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. Felicite was half
blind, passionate, sarcastic, clumsy in her person and
manners, and ill educated; Peytel, a man of consider-
able intellect and pretensions, Avho 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.
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 Mon-
sieur Broussais and another Demoiselle Alcazar, caused
an alteration to be made in his favour, which gave him
command over his wife's funded property, without fur-
THE CASE OF PEYTEL 339
nishing the guarantees by which the other son-in-law
was bound. And, almost immediately after his mar-
riage, Peytel sold out of the funds a sum of 50,000
francs, that belonged to his wife, and used it for his
own purposes.
About two months after his marriage, Peytel pressed
his wife to make he?' 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 sus-
picion 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 mur-
derous 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'Alca-
zar's friends read the contract before they signed it, and
might have refused it, had they so pleased.
After some disputes, which took place between Peytel
and his wife (there were continual quarrels, and con-
tinual letters passing between them from room to room) ,
the latter was induced to write him a couple of exagger-
ated letters, swearing " by the ashes of her father " that
^ " 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 sev-
eral months afterwards. Peytel and his agent were called upon to explain the
circumstance, but refused, and their silence for a long time interrupted the 'in-
struction ' " (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 ? "
340 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
she would be an obedient wife to him, and entreating him
to comisel and direct her. These letters were seen by-
members of the lady's famil}^ who, in the quarrels be-
tween the couple, always took the husband's part. They
were found in Peytel's cabinet, after he had been ar-
rested 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 sus-
picion against Peytel, that he should have left these
letters of his wife's in a conspicuous situation.
" All these circumstances," says the accusation,
" throw a frightful light upon Peytel's plans. The let-
ters 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.
" What other than Sebastian Peytel could have com-
mitted 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 rob-
bery? 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
Pej^tel and his brother-in-law, is there one single witness
who had seen this weapon in Louis's possession? It is
THE CASE OF PEYTEL 341
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."
Is this justice, or good reason? Just reverse the argu-
ment, 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, in-
deed, 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 supposi-
tions. 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 sur-
vived, instead of Peytel, and had he, as most undoubt-
edly would have been the case, been tried for the
murder.
This argument was shortly put by Peytel's counsel:
—"If Peytel had been hilled hij Bey in the struggle,
would you not have found Rey guilty of the murder of
his master and mistress? " It is such a dreadful di-
lemma, that I wonder how judges and lawyers could
342 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
have dared to persecute Peytel in the manner which they
did.'
After the act of accusation, which lays down all the
suppositions against Peytel as facts, which will not ad-
mit the truth of one of the prisoner's allegations in his
own defence, comes the trial. The judge is quite as im-
partial as the preparer of the indictment, as will be seen
by the following specimens of his interrogatories:—
Judge. " The act of accusation finds in your state-
ment 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."
Prisoner. " My servant was known, and often passed
the frontier without a passport."
Judge. " Your domestic had to assassinate two per-
sons, and had no weapon but a single pistol. He had no
dagger; and the only thing found on him was a knife."
Prisoner. " In the car there were several turner's
implements, which he might have used."
Judge. " But he had not those arms upon him, be-
cause you pursued him immediately. He had, accord-
ing to you, only this old pistol."
Prisoner. " I have nothing to say."
Judge. " Your domestic, instead of flying into woods,
which skirt the road, ran straight forward on the road
itself: this, again, is very unlikely."
Prisoner. " This is a conjecture I could answer by
another conjecture; I can only reason on the facts."
Judge. " How far did you pursue him? "
THE CASE OF PEYTEL 343
Prisoner. " I don't know exactly."
Judge. " You said, 'two hundred paces.' "
No answer from the prisoner.
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.^'
Prisoner. " I can't explain it: I think that Rey had
some defect in one leg. I, for my part, run tolerably
fast."
Judge. " At what distance from him did you fire
your first shot? "
Prisoner. " I can't tell."
Judge. "Perhaps he was not running when you
fired."
Prisoner. " I saw him running."
Judge. " In what position was your wife? "
Prisoner. " She was leaning on my left arm, and the
man was on the right side of the carriage."
Judge. " The shot must have been fired a bout por-
tant, because it burned the eyebrows and lashes entirely.
The assassin must have passed his pistol across your
breast."
Prisoner. "The shot was not fired so close; I am
convinced of it: professional gentlemen will prove
it."
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."
344 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
Prisoner. " The contrary will be shown by the wit-
nesses called for the purpose."
Judge. "It is a very unlucky comhination for you
that these balls, which went, you say, from the same
pistol, should have taken two diiFerent directions."
Prisoner. " I can't dispute about the various com-
binations of fire-arms— professional persons will be
heard."
Judge. " According to your statement, your wife
said to you, ' My poor husband, take your pistols.' "
Prisoner. " She did."
Judge. " In a manner quite distinct? "
Prisoner. " Yes."
Judge. "So distinct that you did not fancy she was
hit? "
Prisoner. " Yes; that is the fact."
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."
Prisoner. " I can only oppose to it quite contrary
opinions from professional men, also: you must hear
them."
Judge. " What did your wife do next? "
*'it ^ ^ ^
'T^ 'J* 'I' I*
Judge. " You deny the statements of the witnesses: "
(they related to Peytel's demeanour and behaviour,
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
THE CASE OE PEYTEL 345
you: it was wet and heavy. An assassin disencumbers
himself of anything that is hkely to impede him, es-
pecially when he is going to struggle with a man as young
as himself."
Prisoner. " ]VIy servant had, I believe, this covering
on his body ; it might be useful to him to keep the prim-
ing of his pistol dry."
The president caused the cloth to be opened, and
showed that there was no hook, or tie, by which it could
he 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 im-
possible.
Prisoner. " These are only conjectures."
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 com-
ing from an impartial judge! The man is worse than
the public accuser.
" 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?
'^'Your servant had to assassinate two persons." This
346 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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?
''Your domestic ran straight forward^, instead of tak-
ing to the woods, hy the side of the road: 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?
" You have to run after an active man, who has the
start of you: to jump out of a carriage; to take your pis-
tols ; 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 Key would be slow in his mo-
tions; and when it suits him, declares that Rey ought
to be quick ; declares ex cathedra, 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 mur-
der, 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-
^ 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.
THE CASE OF PEYTEL 347
cloth? Is it as big as a pocket-handkerchief? Is there
no possibihty 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 ham-
mer: 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 thi*ust
into his breast, and tumbled out as he fell. Cir-
cumstances far more impossible have occurred ere this;
and men have been hanged for them, who were as inno-
cent of the crime laid to their charge as the judge on the
bench, who convicted them.
In like manner, Peytel may not have committed the
crime charged to him; and Mr. Judge, with his argu-
ments as to possibilities and impossibilities, — Mr. Pub-
lic Prosecutor, with his romantic narrative and inflam-
matory 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: —
" Bourg, 28 October, 1839.
" The condemned Peytel has just undergone his pun-
ishment, which took place four days before the anni-
348 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
versary of his crime. The terrible drama of the bridge
of Andert, which cost the Hfe of two persons, has just
terminated on the scaffold. Midday had just sounded
on the clock of the Palais : the same clock tolled midnight
when, on the 30th of August, his sentence was pro-
nounced.
" 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 transpor-
tation was that which he seemed to cherish most. How-
ever, 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 'Chamj) de
Foire' (the fair-field, where the execution was to be
held,) were frequently used by him in conversation.
" Yesterday, the idea that the time had arrived seemed
to be more strongly than ever impressed upon him; es-
pecially after the departure of the cure, who latterly had
been with him every day. The documents connected
with the trial had arrived in the morning. He was ig-
norant 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.
" Yesterday, also, he had written to demand the pres-
ence 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.
" 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
THE CASE OF PEYTEL 349
fail. This was a new, indirect manner of repeating his
ordinary question. As hght, 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.
" This morning, ]\Ionday, 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 cure 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.
" The Greffier now retired, leaving Peytel alone with
the cure, who did not, thenceforth, quit him. Peytel
breakfasted at ten o'clock.
" At eleven, a picquet 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.'
" As twelve o'clock sounded, the prison gates opened,
an aide appeared, followed by Peytel, leaning on the
arm of the cure. 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.
" He looked about at the place and the crowd; he asked
if the carriage would go at a trot; and on being told
350 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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.
" 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.
" Arrived at the foot of the scaffold, Peytel embraced
the cure, 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.
" 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.
" Under the scaffold there had been, ever since the
morning, a coffin. The family had asked for his re-
mains, and had them immediately buried, privately:
and thus the unfortunate man's head escaped the model-
lers in wax, several of whom had arrived to take an
impression of it."
Down goes the axe ; the poor wretch's head rolls gasp-
ing 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, meditat-
THE CASE OF PEYTEL 351
ing 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 INIr.
Macready in the new tragedy, or Mademoiselle Elssler
in her last new ballet and flesh-coloured stockinet panta-
loons, out of a pure love of abstract poetry and beauty;
or from a strong notion that we shall be excited, in dif-
ferent 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 de-
light. It is a fine grim pleasure that we have in seeing a
man killed ; and I make no doubt that the organs of de-
structiveness must begin to throb and swell as we wit-
ness the delightful, savage spectacle.
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, exe-
cuted 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.
352 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
It was carnival time, and the rumour had pretty gen-
erally 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 Elysees; where, besides, were many
other persons floundering, and all bent upon the same
errand. We passed by the Concert of JNIusard, then held
in the Rue St. Honore; 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 for-
wards, 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 Barriere
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 Fieschi and his cortege. We
waited and waited ; but alas ! no fun for us that morning :
no throat-cutting; no august spectacle of satisfied jus-
tice; 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 mounte-
banks and tipsy strumpets who had flocked so far to
witness it, wishing to wind up the delights of their car-
nival by a honne-houche of a murder,
THE CASE OF PEYTEL 353
The other attempt was equally unfortunate. We ar-
rived too late on the ground to be present at the execu-
tion 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 tons
Messieurs et Dames, voyez ici le sang du monstre Lace-
naire, et de son compagnon le traitre 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.
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 mis-
fortunes of others, as the philosopher has told us. Re-
mark 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.
But, for God's sake, if we are to enjoy this, let us do
354 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 Sebas-
tian 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 un-
merited punishment that have been suffered, upon sim-
ilar 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?
FOUR IMITATIONS OF BERANGER
LE ROI D'YVETOT
IL etait un roi d'Yvetot,
Peu connu dans I'histoire;
Se levant tard, se couchant tot,
Dormant fort bien sans gloire,
Et couronne par Jeanneton
D'un simple bonnet de coton,
Dit-on.
Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah!
Quel bon petit roi c'etait la !
II fesait ses quatre repas
Dans son palais de chaume,
Et sur un ane, pas a pa^,
Parcourait son royaume.
Joyeux, simple et croyant le bien,
Pour toute garde il n'avait rien
Qu'un chien.
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! &c.
j-^a, ia>
n n'avait de gout onereux
Qu'une soif un peu vive ;
Mais, en rendant son peuple heureux,
II faut bien qu'un roi vive.
355
356 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
Lui-meme a tabic, et sans suppot,
Sur chaque niuid levait un pot
D'impot.
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! &c.
Aux filles de bonnes maisons
Comme il avait su plaire,
Ses sujets avaient cent raisons
De le nommer leur pere :
D'ailleurs il ne levait de ban
Que pour tircr quatre fois Pan
Au blanc.
Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c.
La, la.
n n'agrandit point ses etats,
Fut un voisin commode,
Et, modele des potentats,
Prit le plaisir pour code.
Ce n'est que lorsqu'il expira.
Que le peuple qui I'enterra
Pleura.
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! &c.
On conserve encor le portrait
De ce digne et bon prince;
C'est I'enseigne d'un cabaret
Fameux dans la province,
Les jours de fete, bien souvent.
La foule s'ecrie en buvant
Devant :
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah !
Quel bon petit roi c'etait la!
x^a, la.
FOUR IMITATIONS OF BERANGER 357
THE KING OF YVETOT
There was a king of Yvetot,
Of whom renown hath little said,
Who let all thoughts of glory go,
And dawdled half his days a-bed ;
And every night, as night came round.
By Jenny, with a nightcap crowned,
Slept very sound:
Sing, ho, ho, ho ! and he, he, he !
That's the kind of king for me.
And every day it came to pass.
That four lusty meals made he;
And, step by step, upon an ass.
Rode abroad, his realms to see;
And wherever he did stir,
What think you was his escort, sir?
Why, an old cur.
Sing, ho, ho, ho ! &c.
If e'er he went into excess,
'Twas from a somewhat lively thirst ;
But he who would his subjects bless.
Odd's fish! — must wet his whistle first;
And so from every cask they got,
Our king did to himself allot.
At least a pot.
Sing, ho, ho ! &c.
To all the ladies of the land,
A courteous king, and kind, was he;
The reason why you'll understand.
They named him Pater Patriae.
358 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
Each year he called his fighting men,
And marched a league from home, and then
Marched back again.
Sing, ho, ho! &c.
Neither by force nor false pretence.
He sought to make his kingdom great.
And made (O princes, learn from hence) —
" Live and let live," his rule of state.
'Twas only when he came to die,
That his people who stood by,
Were known to cry.
Sing, ho, ho! &c.
The portrait of this best of kings
Is extant still, upon a sign
That on a village tavern swings,
Famed in the country for good wine.
The people, in their Sunday trim.
Filling their glasses to the brim,
Look up to him.
Singing, ha, ha, ha ! and he, he, he !
That's the sort of king for me.
THE KING OF BRENTFORD
ANOTHER VERSION
There was a king in Brentford, — of whom no legends tell.
But who, without his glory, — could eat and sleep right well.
His Polly's cotton nightcap, — it was his crown of state,
He slept of evenings early, — and rose of mornings late.
FOUR IMITATIONS OF BERANGER 359
All in a fine mud palace, — each day he took four meals,
And for a guard of honour, — a dog ran at his heels.
Sometimes, to view his kingdoms, — rode forth this monarch good,
And then a prancing jackass — he royally bestrode.
There were no costly habits — with which this king was curst.
Except (and where's the harm on't?) — a somewhat lively thirst;
But people must pay taxes, — and kings must have their sport,
So out of every gallon — His Grace he took a quart.
He pleased the ladies round him, — with manners soft and bland;
With reason good, they named him, — the father of his land.
Each year his mighty armies — marched forth in gallant show;
Their enemies were targets, — their bullets they were tow.
He vexed no quiet neighbour, — no useless conquest made,
But by the laws of pleasure, — his peaceful realm he swayed.
And in the years he reigned, — through all this country wide,
There was no cause for weeping, — save when the good man died.
The faithful men of Brentford, — do still their king deplore.
His portrait yet is swinging, — beside an alehouse door.
And topers, tender-hearted, — regard his honest phiz.
And envy times departed, — that knew a reign like his.
LE GRENIER
Je viens revoir I'asile ou ma jeunesse
De la misere a subi les le9ons.
J'avais vingt ans, une folle maitresse,
De francs amis et I'amour des chansons
Bravant le monde et les sots et les sages,
Sans avenir, riche de mon printemps,
Leste et joyeux je montais six etages.
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans !
360 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
C'est un grenier, point ne veux qu'on I'ignore.
La fut mon lit, bien chetif ct bien dur;
La fut ma table; et je retrouve encore
Trois pieds d'un vers charbonnes sur le mur.
Apparaissez, plaisirs de mon bel age,
Que d'un coup d'aile a fustiges le temps,
Vingt fois pour vous j'ai mis ma montre en gage.
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans !
Lisette ici doit surtout apparaitre,
Vive, jolie, avec un frais chapeau;
Deja sa main a I'etroite fenetre
Suspend son schal, en guise de rideau.
Sa robe aussi va parcr ma couchette ;
Respecte, Amour, ses plis longs et flottans.
J'ai su depuis qui payait sa toilette.
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans !
A table un jour, jour de grande richesse,
De mes amis les voix brillaicnt en choeur,
Quand jusqu'ici monte un cri d'allegresse :
A Marengo Bonaparte est vainqueur.
Le canon gronde; un autre chant commence;
Nous celebrons tant de faits eclatans.
Les rois jamais n'envahiront la France.
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans !
Quittons ce toit ou ma raison s'enivre.
Oh! qu'ils sont loin ces jours si regrettes!
J'echangerais ce qu'il me reste a vivre
Contre un des mois qu'ici Dieu m'a comptes,
Pour rever gloire, amour, plaisir, folic,
Pour depenser sa vie en peu d'instans,
D'un long espoir pour la voir embellie.
Pans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans !
FOUR IMITATIONS OF EERAXGER 361
THE GARRET
With pensive eyes the little room I view,
Where, in my youth, I weathered it so long;
With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two,
And a light heart still breaking into song:
Making a mock of life, and all its cares.
Rich in the glory of my rising sun,
Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs,
In the brave daj's when I was twenty-one.
Yes; 'tis a garret — let him know't who will —
There was my bed — full hard it was and small.
My table there — and I decipher still
Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall.
Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away.
Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun ;
For you I pawned my watch how many a day,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.
And see my little Jessy, first of all;
She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes ;
Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl
Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise;
Now by the bed her petticoat glides down,
And when did woman look the worse in none?
I have heard since who paid for many a gown.
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.
One jolly evening, when my friends and I
Made happy music with our songs and cheers,
A shout of triumph mounted up thus high,
And distant cannon opened on our ears :
362 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
We rise, — we join in the triumphant strain, —
Napoleon conquers — Austerlitz is won —
Tyrants shall never tread us down again,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.
Let us begone — the place is sad and strange —
How far, far off, these happy times appear;
All that I have to live I'd gladly change
For one such month as I have wasted here —
To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power,
From founts of hope that never will outrun,
And drink all life's quintessence in an hour.
Give me the days when I was twenty-one !
ROGER-BONTEMPS
Aux gens atrabilaires
Pour exemple donne,
En un temps de miseres
Roger-Bontemps est ne.
Vivre obscur a sa guise,
Narguer les mecontens ;
Eh gai! c'est la devise
Du gros Roger-Bontemps.
Du chapeau de son pere
Coiffe dans les grands jours,
De roses ou de lierre
Le rajeunir tou jours;
Mettre un manteau de bure,
Vieil ami de vingt ans ;
Eh gai ! c'est la parure
Du gros Roger-Bontemps.
FOUR IMITATIONS OF BERANGER 363
Posseder dans sa hutte
Une table, un vieux lit,
Des cartes, une flute,
Un broc que Dieu remplit ;
Un portrait de maitresse,
Un coffre et rien dedans;
Eh gai ! c'est la richesse
Du gros Roger-Bontemps.
Aux enfans de la ville
Montrer de petits jeux;
Etre fesseur habile
De contes graveleux ;
Ne parler que de danse
Et d'almanachs chantans ;
Eh gai ! c'est la science
Du gros Roger-Bontemps.
Faute de vins d'elite,
Sabler ceux du canton :
Preferer Marguerite
Aux dames du grand ton:
De joie et de tendresse
Remplir tous ses instans;
Eh gai ! c'est la sagesse
Du gros Roger-Bontemps.
Dire au ciel: Je me fie,
Mon pere, a ta bonte;
De ma philosophie
Pardonne le gaite:
Que ma saison derniere
Soit encore un printemps ;
" Eh gai ! c'est la priere
Du gros Roger-Bontemps.
364 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
Vous, pauvres plelns d'envie,
Vous, riches desireux,
Vous, dont le char devie
Apres un cours heureux ;
Vous, qui perdrez peut-etre
Des litres eclatans,
Eh gai ! prenez pour maitre
Le gros Roger-Bontemps.
JOLLY JACK
When fierce poHtical debate
Throughout the isle was storming.
And Rads attacked the throne and state.
And Tories the reforming,
To calm the furious rage of each,
And right the land demented,
Heaven sent us Jolly Jack, to teach
The way to be contented.
FOUR IMITATIOXS OF BERANGER 365
Jack's bed was straw, 'twas warm and soft,
His chair, a three-legged stool ;
His broken jug was emptied oft,
Yet, somehow, always full.
His mistress' portrait decked the wall,
His mirror had a crack;
Yet, gay and glad, though this was all
His wealth, lived Jolly Jack.
To give advice to avarice.
Teach pride its mean condition,
And preach good sense to dull pretence.
Was honest Jack's high mission.
Our simple statesman found his rule
Of moral in the flagon.
And held his philosophic school
Beneath the " George and Dragon."
When village Solons cursed the Lords,
And called the malt-tax sinful,
Jack heeded not their angry words,
But smiled, and drunk his skinful.
And when men wasted health and life,
In search of rank and riches.
Jack marked, aloof, the paltry strife,
And wore his threadbare breeches.
" I enter not the church," he said,
" But I'll not seek to rob it ; "
So worthy Jack Joe INIiller read.
While others studied Cobbett.
His talk it was of feast and fun ;
His guide the Almanack ;
From youth to age thus gaily run
The life of Jolly Jack.
366 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
And when Jack prayed, as oft he would,
He humbly thanked his Maker;
" I am," said he, " O Father good !
Nor Catholic nor Quaker:
Give each his creed, let each proclaim
His catalogue of curses ;
I trust in Thee, and not in them.
In Thee, and in Thy mercies !
" Forgive me if, midst all Thy works,
No hint I see of damning;
And think there's faith among the Turks,
And hope for e'en the Brahmin.
Harmless my mind is, and my mirth,
And kindly is my laughter ;
I cannot see the smiling earth.
And think there's hell hereafter."
Jack died ; he left no legacy,
Save that his story teaches : —
Content to peevish poverty ;
Humility to riches.
Ye scornful great, ye envious small.
Come, follow in his track ;
We all were happier, if we all
Would copy Jolly Jack.
FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS
THERE are three kinds of drama in France, which
you may subdivide as much as you please.
There is the old classical drama, well-nigh dead, and
full time too: old tragedies, in which half-a-dozen char-
acters appear, and spout sonorous Alexandrines for half-
a-dozen hours. The fair Rachel has been trying to re-
vive 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 recon-
cile himself to the roulement of the verses, and the pain-
ful 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.
Then there is the comedy of the day, of which Mon-
sieur Scribe is the father. Good heavens! with what a
number of gay colonels, smart widows, and silly hus-
bands has that gentleman peopled the play -books. How
that unfortunate seventh commandment has been mal-
treated by him and his disciples. You will see four
367
368 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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.
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 command-
ment, 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; Lucrece Borgia, a maternal
monster; JSIary Tudor, a religious monster; Monsieur
Quasimodo, a hump-backed 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 aiFec-
tion. 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 sim-
ple 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.
When I think over the number of crimes that I have
seen Mademoiselle Georges, for instance, commit, I am
FRENCH DRAMAS 369
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
JSIadame 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 excite-
ment 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 warm-hearted, poisonous Lucre-
tia Borgia; above all, what a smart appetite for a cool
supper afterwards, at the Cafe Anglais, when the horrors
of the play act as a piquant sauce to the supper !
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 fic-
titious 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.
Nor are simple society outrages the only sort of crime
in which the spectator of Paris plays has permitted him-
self to indulge; he has recreated himself with a deal of
370 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
blasphemy besides, and has passed many j^leasant even-
ings in beholding religion defiled and ridiculed.
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 Inno-
cents; " " Joseph and his Brethren; " " The Passage of
the Red Sea; " and " The Deluge."
The great Dumas, like Madame Sand before men-
tioned, has brought a vast quantity of religion before the
foot-lights. There was his famous tragedy of " Calig-
ula," 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.
" As for the critics," says he, nobly, " let those who
cried out against the immorality of Antony and Mar-
guerite 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 !
FRENCH DRAMAS 371
" 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."
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 dec-
laration of his own merits,) never ventured to say that
he had received a divine mission, and was uttering five-
act revelations.
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 remem-
bered, 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
372 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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.
Stella {continuant^ Voila
Que je vois s'avancer, sans pilote et sans rames,
Une barque port ant deux hommes et deux femmes,
Et, spectacle inoui' qui me ravit encor,
Tous quatre avaient au front une aureole d'or
D'ou partaient des rayons de si vive lumiere
Que je fus obligee a baisser la paupiere;
Et, lorsque je rouvris les yeux avec effroi,
Les voyageurs divins etaient aupres de moi.
Un jour de chacun d'eux et dans toute sa gloire
Je te raconterai la merveilleuse histoire,
Et tu I'adoreras, j'espere; en ce moment,
Ma mere, il te suffit de savoir seulement
Que tous quatre venaient du fond de la Syrle:
Un edit les avait bannis de leur patrie,
Et, se faisant bourreaux, des hommes irrites,
Sans avirons, sans eau, sans pain et garrottes,
Sur une frele barque echouee au rivage,
Les avaient a la mer pousses dans un orage.
Mais a peine I'esquif eut-il touche les flots
Qu'au cantique chante par les saints matelots,
L'ouragan replia ses ailes fremissantes.
Que la mer aplanit ses vagues mugissantes,
Et qu'un soleil plus pur, reparalssant aux cieux,
Enveloppa I'esquif d'un cercle radieux ! . . .
FRENCH DRAMAS 373
Junta. — Mais c'etait un prodige.
Stella. — Un miracle, ma mere!
Leurs fers tomberent seuls, I'eau cessa d'etre amere,
Et deux fois chaquc jour le bateau fut couvert
D'une manne pareille a celle du desert :
C'est ainsi que, pousses par une main celeste,
Je les vis aborder.
JuNiA. — Oh! dis vitc le reste !
Stella. — A I'aube, trois d'entre eux quitterent la
maison :
Marthe prit le chemin qui mene a Tarascon,
Lazare et Maximin celui de Massilie,
Et celle qui resta .... c'etait la plu^ jolie,
(how truly French!)
Nous faisant appeler vers le milieu du jour,
Demanda si les monts ou les bois d'alentour
Cachaient quclque retraite inconnue et profonde,
Qui la put separer a tout jamais du monde
Aquila se souvint qu'il avait penetre
Dans un antre sauvage et de tous ignore,
Grotte creusee aux flancs de ces Alpes sublimes,
Ou I'aigle fait son aire au-dessus des abimes.
II ofFrit cet asile, et des le lendemain
Tous deux, pour I'y guidcr, nous etions en chemin.
Le soir du second jour nous touchames sa base:
La, tombant a genoux dans une sainte extase,
Elle pria long-temps, puis vers I'antre inconnu,
Denouant sa chaussure, elle marcha pied nu.
Nos prieres, nos cris resterent sans reponses:
Au milieu des cailloux, des epines, des ronces,
Nous la vimes monter, un baton a la main,
Et ce n'est qu'arrivee au terme du chemin,
Qu'enfin elle tomba sans force et sans haleine ....
JuNiA. — Comment la nommait-on, ma fille?
Stella. — Madeleine.
374 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 di-
vine ; their rank, the glorious lot that each bef el, 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 ves-
sel 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.
" JuNiA. — Sure, 'twas a prodigy.
" 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 —
" JuNiA. — My daughter, tell the rest.
" 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 moun-
tains near, there chanced to be some cavern lone and
drear; where she might hide, for ever, from all men. It
FRENCH DRAMAS 375
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 moun-
tain's rugged base. Here the worn traveller, falling on
her knee, did pray awhile in sacred ecstasy; and, draw-
ing 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.
" JuNiA. — What was her name, my daughter?
" Stella. Magdalen."
Here the translator must pause — having no inclina-
tion to enter "the tabernacle," in company with such
a spotless high-priest as Monsieur Dumas.
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 INIary, and little
angels, in blue, swinging censers before her!) —on earth,
under the earth, and in a place still lower, but not men-
tionable 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.
" Don Juan de INIarana " not only resembles his name-
sake, celebrated by Mozart and INIoliere, in his peculiar
376 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
successes among the ladies, but possesses further quali-
ties 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 char-
acter, has depicted his hero's adventures and conversation
with wonderful feeling and truth.
The first act of the play contains a half-dozen of mur-
ders 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 pur-
j)ose 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.
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 : —
Don Sandoval loquitur.
" I am Don Sandoval d'Ojedo. I played against Don
Juan my fortune, the tomb of my fathers, and the heart
FRENCH DRAIMAS
377
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.)
The candle goes out, and an angel descends — a flam-
ing sword in his hand — and asks: " Is there no voice in
favour 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.
When INIartha 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 jNIartha,
recollect that you must die! "
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 JNIarana,
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 ex-
horted 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.
378 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 impohte 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 un-
fortunate angel feels a certain inclination for the Don,
and actually flies up to heaven to ask permission to re-
main with him on earth.
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: —
Le Bon Ange
Vierge, a qui le calice a la liqueur amere
Fut si souvent offert,
Mere, que I'on nomma la douloureuse mere,
Tant vous avez soufFert !
Vous, dont les yeux divins sur la terre des hommes
Ont verse plus de pleurs
Que vos pieds n'ont depuis, dans le ciel ou nous sommes,
Fait eclore de fleurs.
Vase d'election, etoile matinale,
Miroir de purete,
Vous qui priez pour nous, d'une voix virginale,
La supreme bonte;
A mon tour, aujourd'hui, bienheureuse Marie,
Je tombe a vos genoux ;
Daignez done m'ecouter, car c'est vous que je prie,
Vous qui priez pour nous.
FRENCH DRAMAS 379
Which may be thus interpreted:—
O Virgin blest ! by whom the bitter draught
So often has been quaffed,
That, for thy sorrow, thou art named by us
The Mother Dolorous !
Thou, from whose eyes have fallen more tears of woe.
Upon the earth below,
Than 'neath thy footsteps, in this heaven of ours,
Have risen flowers !
O beaming morning star ! O chosen vase !
O mirror of all grace !
Who, with thy virgin voice, dost ever pray
Man's sins away;
Bend down thine ear, and list, O blessed saint !
Unto my sad complaint ;
Mother ! to thee I kneel, on thee I call,
Who hearest all.
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,—
Mais, comme vous savez qu'aux voutes eternelles,
Malgre moi, tend mon vol,
Soufflez sur mon etoile et detachez mes alles.
Four m^encJiainer au sol;
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 !
The reader will require no further explanation, in or-
S80 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
der 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 Gov-
ernment, which has re-established, in a manner, the theat-
rical 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 neighbours across the Channel, and
at the kind of consideration in which they hold their re-
ligion. 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 him-
self 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.
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 Eng-
lish manners. As such, it merits special observation and
praise. In the first act you find a Countess and an Am-
bassadress, 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
FRENCH DRAMAS 381
less a person than the Prince of Wales! who presently
waits on the ladies, and joins in their conversation con-
cerning Kean. " This man," says his Royal Highness,
" is the very pink of fashion. Brumniell 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.
Then we have Kean, at a place called the Trou de
Charhon, 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 Melbournl— 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 enamoured. It need not be
said that Kean arrives at the nick of time, saves the
innocent Me ess 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 Am-
bassador dreadfully jealous. They pursue Kean to his
dressing-room at the theatre ; where, unluckily, the Am-
bassadress herself has taken refuge. Dreadful quarrels
ensue; the tragedian grows suddenly mad upon the
382 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 !
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.
The sacred personage introduced in Dumas' play be-
hind a cloud, figures bodily in the piece of the Massacre
of the l7inocents, represented at Paris last year. She
appears under a different name, but the costume is ex-
actly 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 Precurseur,
who threatens woe to Herod and his race, and is beheaded
by the orders of that sovereign.
In the Festin de Balthazar ^ we are similarly intro-
duced 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 en-
ters, 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
FRENCH DRAMAS 383
pieces; the lower classes delight in them. The famous
Jiiif Errant, at the theatre of the Porte St. INIartin, was
the first of the kind, and its prodigious success, no doubt,
occasioned the number of imitations which the other thea-
tres have produced.
The taste of such exhibitions, of course, every Eng-
lish 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 philan-
thropic 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. "All, le
gredin! " growls an indignant countryman. " Quel mon-
stre!" 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 es-
pecially 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
384 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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, worse degradation of all, drafted into a regi-
ment 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 pm'sued in hun-
dreds, by a handful of French ; to fight against their be-
loved Emperor. Surely there is fine hearty virtue in
this, and pleasant child-like simplicity.
So that while the drama of Victor Hugo, Dumas, and
the enlightened classes, is profoundly immoral and ab-
surd, the drama of the common people is absurd, if you
will, but good and right-hearted. I have made notes pf
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 favourite points of popular moral-
ity. A drama that obtained a vast success at the Porte
Saint Martin, was " La Duchesse de la Vauballiere."
The Duchess is the daughter of a poor farmer, who was
carried oiF in the first place, and then married by M. le
Due de la Vauballiere, a terrible roue, the farmer's land-
lord, and the intimate friend of Philippe d'Orleans, the
Regent of France.
Now the Duke, in running away with the lady, in-
tended 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.
Julie complies; but though she becomes a Duchess,
her heart remains faithful to her old flame, Adrian,
FREXCH DRAMAS 385
the doctor; and she declares that, beyond the ceremony,
no sort of intimacy shall take place between her husband
and herself.
Then the Duke begins to treat her in the most un-
gentlemanlike manner: he abuses her in every possible
way; he introduces improper characters into her house;
and, finally, becomes so disgusted with her, that he de-
termines to make away with her altogether.
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!
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 instru-
mentality of Morisseau, the good lawyer.
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.
Morisseau, in the first instance, produces a deed
(signed by his Holiness the Pope), which annuls the
marriage of the Duke de la Vauballiere; then another
deed, by which it is proved that he was not the eldest son
of old La Vauballiere, the former Duke; then another
deed, by which he shows that old La Vauballiere (who
seems to have been a disreputable old fellow) was a biga-
386 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
mist, and that, in consequence, the present man, styling
himself Duke, is illegitimate; and, finally, JNIorisseau
brings forward another document, which proves that the
regular Duke is no other than Adrian, the doctor !
Thus it is that love, law, and physic combined, triumph
over the horrid machinations of this star-and-gartered
libertine.
" Hermann I'lvrogne " is another piece of the same
order ; and though not very refined, yet possesses consid-
erable 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, has been the cause of his mis-
tress's ruin, the reader can fancy the indignant ferocity
with which he pursues the infdine 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 bird himself to
espouse the unhappj^ JNIarie ; but the Count declares him-
self to be already married, and the student, finding a
duel impossible (for his object was to restore, at all
events, the honour of Marie) , now only thinks of his re-
venge, 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.
I could mention many more plays in which the popular
morality is similarly expressed. The seducer, or rascal
FREXCH DRAMAS 387
of the piece, is always an aristocrat,— a wicked count, or
licentious marquis, who is brought to condign punish-
ment 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 expres-
sion of sympathy with the poor; long, therefore, may
fat epiciers blubber over mimic M'oes, and honest proU-
taires shake their fists, shouting — " Gredin, scelerat,
monstre de marquis! " and such republican cries.
Remark, too, another development of this same pop-
ular 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 preceding 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 INIaudit des Mers." Le ]\Iaudit 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 behold-
ing 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 !
388 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 appear-
ance:—" Treachery," says the spirit, "cannot lessen thy
punishment; — crime will not obtain thy release! — A la
mer! a la mer! " and the poor devil returns to the ocean,
to be lonely, and tempest-tossed, and sea-sick for a hun-
dred years more.
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 celes-
tial vessel, with angels on the decks and " sweet little
cherubs " fluttering about the shrouds and the poop, ap-
pears to receive him.
This piece was acted at Franconi's, where, for once,
an angel-ship was introduced in place of the usual horse-
manship.
One must not forget to mention here, how the English
nation is satirized by our neighbours; who have some
droll traditions regarding us. In one of the little Christ-
mas 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
FRENCH DRAMAS 389
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 ob-
servations which were made in the course of his aerial
tour.
" 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 por-
ter: at Dover, carried several miles in a tide of air, bit-
ter cold, cherry -brandy ; crossed over the Channel safely,
and thought wdth pity of the poor people who were sick-
ening 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 morn-
ing 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."
The joke here is smart enough; but our honest neigh-
bours make many better, when they are quite uncon-
scious of the fun. Let us leave plays, for a moment, for
poetry, and take an instance of French criticism, con-
cerning England, from the works of a famous French
exquisite and man of letters. The hero of the poem ad-
dresses his mistress —
Londres, tu le sals trop, en fait de capitale,
Est-ce que fit le ciel de plus f roid et plus pale,
390 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
C'est la ville du gaz, des marins, du brouillard ;
On s'y couche a minuit, et I'on s'y leve tard ;
Ses raouts tant vantes ne sont qu'une boxade,
Sur ses grands quais jamais echelle ou serenade,
Mais de volumineux bourgeois pris de porter
Qui passent sans lever le front a Westminster ;
Et n'etait sa foret de mats percant la brume,
Sa tour dont a minuit le vieil ceil s'allume,
Et tes deux jeux, Zerline, illumines bien plus,
Je dirais que, ma foi, des romans que j'ai lus,
II n'en est pas un seul, plus lourd, plus lethargique
Que cette nation qu'on nomme Britannique!
The writer of the above lines (which let any man who
can translate) is Monsieur Roger de Beauvoir, a gentle-
man who actually lived many months in England, as an
attache to the embassy of M. de Polignac. He places
the heroine of his tale in a petit reduit jires 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—
Dans un square ecarte, morne et couverte de givre,
Ou se cache un hotel, aux vieux lions de cuivre ;
and the hero of the tale, a young French poet, who is
in London, is truly unhappy in that village.
Arthur desseche et meurt. Dans la ville de Sterne,
Rien qu'en voyant le peuple il a le mal de mer ;
FRENCH DRAMAS 391
II n'aline nl le Pare, gai comme une citerne,
Ni le tir au pigeon, ni le soda-water}
Liston ne le fait plus sourciller ! II rumine
Sur les trottoirs du Strand, droit comme un echiquier,
Contre le peuple anglais, les negres, la vermine,
Et les mille cokneys du peuple boutiquier,
Contre tous les bas-bleus, contre les patissieres,
Les parieurs d'Epsom, le gin, le parlement.
La qiuiterly, le roi, la pluie et les libraires,
Dont il ne touclie plus, helas ! un sou d'argent !
Et chaque gentleman lui dit: L'heureux poete!
" L'heureux poete " 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 French-
man? 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 Shak-
spear, the " grave et vieux prophete," as he calls him,
and never, for an instant, doubts that his description con-
tains anything absurd!
I don't know whether the great Dumas has passed
any time in England; but his plays show a similar inti-
1 The italics are the author's own.
392 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
mate 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 Enghshwomen are introduced (at the
memorable " Coal Hole ") , and they all wear yinafores;
as if the British female were in the invariable habit of
wearing this outer garment, or slobbering her gown with-
out 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
favour. Presently the shouts of the mob were heard
without; from shouting they proceed to pelting;
and pasteboard-brickbats and cabbages came flying
among the representatives of our hereditary legislature.
At this unpleasant juncture, Sir Hardinge, the Sec-
retary-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 !
The description of these scenes is, of course, quite
incapable of conveying any notion of their general ef-
fect. 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 pig-tail, and spangled court coat. The Englishman
of the French theatre has, invariably, a red wig, and al-
most always leather-gaiters, and a long white upper Ben-
jamin: he remains as he was represented in the old
FREXCH DRAMAS
393
caricatures after the peace, when Vernet designed him
somewhat after the following fashion—
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 of-
ficers of which appeared in light blue or green coats
(the lamp-light prevented our distinguishing the colour
accurately), and top-boots!
y^ ^|v ♦' •!• ^T"
Let us not attempt to deaden the force of this tre-
mendous blow by any more remarks. The force of
blundering can go no further. Would a Chinese play-
wright or painter have stranger notions about the bar-
barians than our neighbours, who are separated from us
but by two hours of salt water?
MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES
THE palace of Versailles has been turned into a bric-
a-brac shop of late years, and its time-honoured
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 vis-
itor is now obliged to march through, amidst a crowd of
chattering Paris cockneys, who are never tired of look-
ing at the glories of the Grenadier Fran^ais ; to the chron-
icling of whose deeds this old palace of the old kings is
now altogether devoted. A whizzing, screaming steam-
engine i-ushes hither from Paris, bringing shoals of ba-
dauds 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 obe-
lisks, have frightened them away from the pleasant sta-
tion they used to occupj'^ under the trees of the Champs
Elysees; and though the old coucous were just the most
uncomfortable vehicles that human ingenuity ever con-
structed, 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 railroad 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,
394
MEDITATIOXS AT VERSAILLES 395
for the most part, during the journey; they dare not
look out of window, for fear of being bhnded 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 sud-
denly 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 tw enty miles an hour.
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 Alsatian carabinier, grimly
396 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 jour-
ney! But the age of horseflesh is gone — that of en-
gineers, 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, apropos of a trip to Ver-
sailles, some half a century back?
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.
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 chamber-
maids to lovely Du Barri; and mighty princes rolled
away, in gilt caroches, hot for the honour of lighting his
Majesty to bed, or of presenting his stockings when he
MEDITATIOXS AT VERSAILLES 397
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 be-
smeared 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 pa-
pers, 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.
After pacing for some time through such dismal
streets, we dehoucJier 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. — Honoured 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.
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 Valmv 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 emjDire began. INIilitary 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.
398 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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.
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 labours,
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 gar-
den, 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.
Did ever the sun shine upon such a king before, in
such a palace? — or, rather, did such a king ever shine
MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES 399
upon the sun? When Majesty came out of his chamber,
in the midst of his superhuman splendours, viz. in his
cinnamon-coloured 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 some-
thing in him more than man— something above Fate?
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 con-
descension, " 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.
In the year 1681, then, the great king, with bag and
baggage, — with guards, cooks, chamberlains, mistresses,
Jesuits, gentlemen, lackeys, Fenelons, Molieres, Lau-
zuns, 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
^ It is fine to think that, in the days of his youth, his Majesty Louis XIV.
used to powder his wig with gold-dust.
400 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
record that Louis hastened to receive and console him,
and promised to restore, incontinently, those islands from
which the canaille had tm-ned him. Between brothers
such a gift was a trifle ; and the courtiers said to one an-
other 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 protege of
Pere 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: — !, I'invincible; 2, le sage; 3, le conquerant;
4, la merveille de son siecle ; 5, la terreur de ses ennemis ;
6, I'amour de ses peuples ; 7, I'arbitre de la paix et de la
guerre ; 8, 1'admiration de I'univers ; 9, et digne d'en etre
le maitre; 10, le modele d'un heros acheve; 11, digne de
I'immortalite, et de la veneration de tons les siecles! "
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 terri-
1 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 anec-
dote is related.
MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES 401
fied by his enemies in turn. G. 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' antechambers. 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 IVIaintenon 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 j^ears, he never had but one friend,
and he ruined and left her. Poor La Valliere, 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 dis-
played all the grandeur of royalty; and such was the
splendour 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." Won-
derful! 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 re-
1 They made a Jesuit of him on his death-bed.
402 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
tiring to their provinces to enjoy their plunder; some dis-
graced, and going home to pine away out of the hght
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, ribands, 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
Valliere's amongst them all which had a word of truth
for the dull ears of Louis of Bourbon.
" Quand j'aurai de la peine aux Carmelites," says
unhappy Louise, about to retire from these magnificent
courtiers and their grand Galerie des Glaces, " je me
souviendrai de ce que ces gens la m'ont fait soufl'rir ! "
— 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 suf-
fered, 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
honour 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
^ 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.
MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES 403
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 I 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 de-
serted mistresses; and fair Athenais de Montespan was
to hear it of herself one day. Meantime, while La
Valliere'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 ?
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
M^ar, his ministers the science of government, his wits
taste, his courtiers dress ; ordering deserts to become gar-
dens, turning villages into palaces at a breath; and in-
deed 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
' A pair of diamond ear-rings, given by the King to La Vallifere, caused much
scandal; and some lampoons are extant, which impugn the taste of Louis XIV.
for loving a lady with such an enormous mouth.
404 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
Louis, surely, if in any one, the majesty of kinghood is
represented.
But a king is not every inch a king, for all the poet
may say; and it is curious to see how much precise maj-
esty there is in that majestic figure of Ludovicus Rex.
In the plate opposite, we have endeavoured 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, mag-
nanimity, valour, and enormous heroical stature.
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 honour 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!" Q miracle
«?»
3
8
MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES 405
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.
Out of the window the king's august head was one day
thrust, when old Conde 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 aiFected
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 your-
self, 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 !
What a proper fund of slavishness is there in the com-
position 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 INIagnanimity 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.
That famous adventure, in which the en cas de nuit
was brought into use, for the sake of one Poquelin alias
Moliere:— how often has it been described and admired?
406 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 Moliere the gizzard; put his imperial
legs under the same mahogany (sub iisdem trahibus) .
A man, after such an honour, 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.
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 be-
cause thousands of people had told him so — people only
half liars, too ; who did, in the depths of their slavish re-
spect, 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 am-
bassadors, 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
MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES 407
and Marlborough had stopped his long career of tri-
umphs.
" On n'est plus heureux a notre age," says the old man,
to one of his old generals, welcoming Tallard after his
defeat; and he rewards him with honours, 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 dis-
aster; armies after armies march out to meet fiery Eu-
gene and that dogged, fatal Englishman, and disappear
in the smoke of the enemies' cannon. Even at Versailles
j'^ou may almost hear it roaring at last; but when cour-
tiers, 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 reso-
lutely; and, bidding Villars go and make the last struggle
but one, promises, if his general is defeated, to place him-
self 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 demeanour, at which Elliston, in-
flamed by the popular loyalty (and by some fermented
liquor in which, it is said, he was in the habit of indulg-
ing), burst into tears, and, spreading out his arms, ex-
claimed: " 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.
408 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 con-
sists 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 be-
coming kingly attitude, as a king should.
The king his successor has not left, at Versailles, half
so much occasion for moralizing; perhaps the neighbour-
ing Pare aux Cerfs would afford better illustrations of
his reign. The life of his great grandsire, the Grand
Lama 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 jo-
vial, companionable turn, aspired not beyond manhood.
Only in the matter of ladies did he surpass his prede-
cessor, 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
MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES 409
the national purse had been squeezed out, by Pompadour
and Du Barri and such brilUant 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.
As for the courtiers— the knights and nobles, the un-
bought 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, JLe 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.
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 Cam-
pan 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.
On the 10th May, 1774, the whole court had assembled
410 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
at the chateau; the CEil de Boeuf was full. The Dau-
phin 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. A71 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 Maj-
esties 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 Due de Vil-
lequier 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.
They huddled the king's body into a postchaise ; and in
MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES 411
this deplorable equipage, with an escort of about forty
men, Louis the well-beloved was carried, in the dead of
night, from Versailles to Saint Denis, and then thrown
into the tomb of the kings of France!
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.
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 tenth 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
412 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
his back upon his duty and his kingdom, and has skulked
for safety into the reporters' box, at the National Assem-
bly. 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 su-
preme 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.
He is said to have been such a smart journeyman
blacksmitli, 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
manj^ 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 V eloquence du billet and studying his favour-
ite 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
sillabub, 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 crea-
tures as these were bidden to right it !
A walk to the little Trianon is both pleasing and
moral : no doubt the reader has seen the pretty fantastical
MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES 413
gardens which environ it; the groves and temples; the
streams and caverns (whither, as the guide tells you, dur-
ing the heat of summer, it was the custom of INIarie
Antoinette to retire, with her favourite, JNIadame 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 mas-
queraders 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 JNIonseigneur
the Count d'Artois, who Avas the IVIiller; opposite lived
the Prince de Ccnde, who enacted the part of Game-
keeper (or, indeed, any other role, for it does not signify
much) ; near him was the Prince de Rohan, who was the
Aumonier ; and yonder is the pretty little dairy which was
under the charge of the fair IMarie Antoinette herself.
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 conjur-
ing Cagliostro of the time is introduced among them,
and foretells to them the w^oes that are about to come.
" You, INIonsieur I'Aumonier, 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
^ In the diamond-necklace affair.
414 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
of the Condes, shall live long enough to see your royal
race overthrown, and shall die by the hands of a hang-
man.^ 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."
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 worth-
less 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 re-
turn 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 ty-
rant, but in will only ; and shall have a sceptre, but to see
it robbed from your hand."
" And pray. Sir Conjuror, who shall be the robber? "
asked Monsieur the Count d'Artois.
*I» •!* 'I* *|%
^ He was found hanging in his own bed-room.
2 Among the many lovers that rumour gave to the queen, poor Fersen 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. Fersen 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.
MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES 415
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.
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